Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/889771.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Danny
      Mahealani
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Underage_Sex, Frottage, Dubious_Consent, Pseudo-
      Incest, Adopted_Sibling_Relationship, Claiming, Marking, Creeper_Derek,
      Masturbation, Derek_and_Stiles_are_Mates, Alpha_Derek, POV_Stiles,
      Urination, Weirdness, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, One_Shot,
      Possessive_Derek, Possessive_Behavior, Watersports
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-19 Words: 4915
****** The Love of His Brother ******
by mznaughty01
Summary
     The weekend of his seventeenth birthday, Derek went camping in the
     woods surrounding the burnt out shell of the Hale house to do some
     communing with nature or some such crap. The Derek who came back from
     that trip was still the Derek that Stiles had known and loved and
     shared a bedroom with for the past eight years...but he also wasn't.
     He really, really wasn't.
Notes
     So, I took a day off work and rather than spending it vegging out on
     the couch in front of the tv like planned, I wrote this short story
     instead. This story didn't turn out quite like planned. I actually
     started writing it with the full intention of there being some wolfy
     sex, because this fandom is sadly lacking of fics which feature
     actual wolfy sex, and ended up with a story about adoptive brothers
     instead.
     How I got from pseudo-bestiality to pseudo-incest, I will never know.
     I did, at least, include a scene that I've been wanting to write for
     some time now. You know, the scene where Derek pisses on his
     territory to mark it as his wherein Stiles is the territory in
     question. So, hehe, here, please have some marking by urination!
When Stiles was two years old, his mother died in a head on collision with
another car, leaving his family fractured in the most fundamental of ways.
When Stiles was five years old, just about to turn six, the house out in the
woods where Dad’s closest friends lived, the friends who had been there for him
and had helped him every step of the way since the day of his wife’s death,
caught on fire around two in the morning (“Goddamn faulty wiring,” Dad said
many times since that tragic night, voice always hollow, yet still somehow
simultaneously filled with grief). Smoke inhalation killed everyone inside with
the exception of the one person who’d woken up in time to climb out the window.
When Stiles was barely six years old, the broken Stilinski family gained a
third member who was himself broken, making him perfectly right to make them a
complete unit once more. That was when Derek had come to live with them as Dad
had been named by the Hales as the guardian of their children in their last
will and testament and the courts had found no reason to object to the Sheriff
of Beacon Hills fulfilling that duty.
Last Friday, Stiles now fourteen years old, Derek turned seventeen. After
receiving Dad’s blessing, and an understanding smile, Derek went camping for
the weekend in the woods surrounding the burnt shell of his family’s home. He
went out there by himself as Stiles had been explicitly forbidden to go with
him by Dad, though Derek himself seemed on board when Stiles expressed an
interest in going despite Stiles finding the whole communing with nature thing
a little pretentious. In fact, before Dad made it clear that Stiles would be
spending the weekend washing clothes, doing yard work and cleaning his room
(which, not fair because it was Derek’s room, too!) Derek seemed on the verge
of telling Dad that he actually wanted Stiles to tag along.
Dad sighed, then stated, “It’s still too soon for him, Derek.”
Stiles argued, “Is not! I’m fourteen!”
Derek said, “Yes, sir, but you do, you do understand...?”
“Yeah, son, I understand. And I guess, actually, it’s really just too soon for
me. Just, just let me have these last few days. After that—” Dad shrugged.
Then, after that frustrating, illogical not-conversation, Derek nudged his
shoulder against Stiles’s, climbed into the driver’s seat of the brand spanking
new Camaro he’d purchased just the day before as a b-day gift to himself using
the life insurance payout from the death of his entire family and drove off.
Today, five days later, three days after Derek’s return home, Stiles was
staunchly of the opinion that he should’ve accompanied Derek on his trip.
Because, seriously, Derek was the same, but he wasn’t, which meant something
weird must’ve happened out in those woods.
                                       *
Sleep. Just a few more minutes of the so, so precious commodity, that’s all
Stiles wanted before he was forced out of his bed to face the new day and had
to get ready for school. Normally, Stiles would hit snooze on his phone’s alarm
so he and Derek could get that additional ten minutes, had actually already
done so.
But, today, there would be no more sleeping for Stiles. At least, not until
nighttime arrived and he crawled back into his bed once again, his body nice,
fresh and relaxed after a long, hot shower (Stiles Stilinski’s sacred rule
above all others - showers were always taken right before bed on school nights
to extend sleeping time the next mornings).
And all because Derek was screwing with their routine for the third time that
week, a routine that had taken the better part of their many years of
cohabitation together to perfect. Derek. Was. Up. Ruffling his sheets as he got
off his bed. Causing the subfloor beneath the carpeting to creak as he walked
to—
Stiles’s side of the room?
For real, what the hell, Derek? Why, Derek, why?
Maybe if Stiles just ignored him, just like he’d done on both Monday and
Tuesday when Derek had pulled this same routine bucking shit, Derek would get
the point, again, that Stiles did not, did not, did not want to be conscious
right now, much less conscious and talking. He could continue to stand there
and watch the back of Stiles’s head all he wanted, but Stiles would not be
turning around to engage in active conversation. Much too early for that.
Ugh, what the hell had even happened to Derek out in those woods?
Who even went camping like Derek had, with no packed bags, no supplies packed
at all?
It was the feel of his bedspread being pulled down to reveal his bare back,
bare because all Stiles and Derek both ever slept in were gym shorts, combined
with a very distinctive sound that managed to alert Stiles that maybe today
wouldn’t be the same as the past two days. Stiles knew that sound. He sure did.
There was no mistaking it.
Because what fourteen year old boy alive wouldn’t recognize the sound of a hand
sliding up and down a cock, teasing, tugging, pulling back and forth? Answer:
there wasn’t one. They all were familiar with that particular sound from
personal experience involving one of their own hands (Stiles favored his right,
though he wasn’t stingy so he let his left in on the action from time to time)
jacking off their own cocks.
Stiles flipped around to face Derek. Even if he’d timed it, using the ragged,
unevenness of Derek’s rapid breathing as a gauge, he couldn’t have planned it
out any better to turn over at the worst moment in all the worst moments ever.
He had just enough time to verify that the tight, restrictive elastic band of
Derek’s shorts were pulled down to right below his cock and balls, exposing a
dark thatch of wiry hair, and that Derek did indeed have a firm grip on
himself, his wrist twisting just so when he reached the head of his dick in a
way that Stiles was willing to bet a month’s worth of allowances felt totally
fucking awesome, before Derek was coming.
Right on Stiles’s stomach. In hot, wet spurts that striped Stiles’s skin in
rows of white.
“Stiles,” Derek moaned as his hips snapped forward and he fucked into his fist
one last time. “Jesus, Jesus Christ, Stiles.” He let go of himself, then
flicked his hand, causing the thick string of come hanging from his fingers to
land on Stiles, right next to all the others.
And Stiles’s fascination was broken now. His brain just a little bit, too.
Eyes jerking (and, wow, wrong, wrong choice of word to use) up to meet those of
Derek’s, Stiles’s mouth dropped open. Because this was his adoptive brother
who’d just jacked off over top of him, then came all over him.
His adoptive brother.
That fact was not to be ignored. It was something that Stiles never, ever let
himself ignore. Not since that first time, several years back now, when he had
still been too young really to be touching himself, not that it had stopped
him, especially not after he’d seen Derek doing it himself several times when
he’d thought Stiles was asleep, and had inadvertently discovered what an orgasm
was while staring at Derek’s dark, shadowy form laying in his bed across the
room. The sharp, overpowering sensation of dirtybadwrong, so effing good had
intensified when Derek’s light eyes had opened and watched Stiles, still so
young and so very, very immature in both body and temperament, just as Stiles’s
cock dribbled a small amount of clear liquid onto his stroking hand.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Not that the whole situation wasn’t one, big, giant WTF
as it was, it wasn’t actually what Derek had already done that prompted the
question from Stiles. But, rather, it was caused by Derek rubbing his come into
Stiles’s skin until it was just a translucent sheen covering Stiles from chest
down through the light spattering of hair on his lower belly. “What the actual
fuck?”
This was so freaking hot—whoa, wait, that’s not what Stiles meant. It was
maybe, kinda, sorta hot, but more importantly, and what Stiles had meant, it
was plain wrong. Disturbing.
Also disgusting...
...right?
Yeah, Stiles didn’t have time to debate with himself over it. He needed to get
in the bathroom and cleaned up. Time was ticking and Stiles was probably down
to ten minutes or less until he needed to get out of the house in time to catch
the bus to school. Riding with Derek would give him more time, riding with
Derek was the factor he’d used in setting his alarm clock the night before, but
riding with Derek was also out of the question.
Stiles needed time away from Derek. So he could think. And reflect.
And remember.
Yeah, Spank Bank material for life—whoops, still wrong, wrong, wrong.
Shoving an elbow into Derek’s side, Stiles moved Derek out of his personal
space enough for him to scramble off the bed. He stomped down the hall to the
bathroom and made sure to slam the door shut behind him. After brushing his
teeth and splashing cool water over the heated skin of his face, he soaped up
his washcloth, getting it ready to clean off the mess that Derek had made of
him, convinced what had happened was just Derek being an annoying, disgusting
ass of the worst kind.
Of course, that was when Derek flung the door open and barged into the tiny
space. He stopped right behind Stiles, Stiles examining him in the mirror.
Derek was several inches taller than Stiles, Stiles coming up to just below his
nose, his skin a naturally darker tan to Stiles’s perpetual shade of pale and
his body muscled from the sports he played whereas Stiles hadn’t quite yet
outgrown the round, babyishness of pre-pubescence.
Derek’s hand covered the one that Stiles clutched the washcloth in. He nudged
Stiles’s hand down, away from his chest, to the sink and tugged the cloth out
of Stiles’s grip with a whispered, “Don't.”
So Stiles didn’t.
Instead, he stood there, breath hitched, as Derek nuzzled his face into the
back of his neck. Felt Derek’s chapped lips brush a tingling path that ended
right below Stiles's right ear.
“Never,” Derek commanded, voice gritty. Fierce.
The single word made no sense in that Stiles wanted to do as Derek said, to
always do as he said, but didn’t have the slightest idea what it was that Derek
actually wanted.
Stiles’s eyes fluttered shut when Derek ground his half hard cock against
Stiles’s ass, causing Stiles’s own cock to chub up. But, but this was wrong, so
wrong. This was his fucking brother.
And it was only on remembering that pertinent detail that Stiles’s eyes snapped
open and he found the resolve to introduce his elbow to Derek’s body for a
second time that morning. Derek’s expression darkened, but he let Stiles step
to the side, towards the toilet.
In retrospect, pulling his dick out at that very moment to use the bathroom
probably wasn’t the best of ideas, but it was the only thing Stiles could think
to do to break up this thing—whatever this thing was—between him and Derek. On
the plus side, nothing happened outside of Stiles taking his morning piss and
Derek repeating Stiles’s earlier actions by brushing his teeth and washing his
face.
Once they were both done, they stood there staring at each other for a few,
long, tension filled moments, before Derek said, “Go get dressed.”
“Uh, gotta—” rub one out “—still need to use the restroom, y’know, to um—”
spank the monkey “—go number two?”
“Alright, but you need to hurry up. We’re leaving in twenty.”
“Ummm, yeah,” Stiles mumbled. “Be right out.”
Soon as Derek was gone, door shut behind him and locked this time, Stiles
grabbed up his discarded washcloth and wiped Derek’s come off of him because he
was not going to school still covered in Derek’s spunk. Un-com-for-ta-ble. And,
no matter how much he may have wanted to, he did not jerk off because, well,
because there was no way he was going to be able to get there without the help
of Derek’s face, his voice, the memory of him shooting a load with Stiles as
his intended target.
Wrong, remember?
By the time Stiles made it back to their bedroom, Derek was gone. But he’d left
something behind for Stiles. In the form of an outfit laid out across Stiles’s
bed. Black shirt and black jeans.
Not exactly Stiles’s style. But definitely Derek’s. And that was because they
were his clothes.
No way Stiles was going to wear them. For one, they would be too big on him.
For two, he was almost positive he had seen them on Derek’s bed. The night
before.
Derek had slept with them. Or on them. Maybe had rolled all over them.
Whatever.
What it all came down to was that Stiles had no intentions of putting himself
through the torture of having Derek’s musky scent filling up his nostrils. With
every single breath he took. For the whole, entire day. Stiles was not a
masochist, okay.
So Stiles dressed in his own clothes, grabbed his backpack up off the floor,
then ran down the stairs, past Derek standing in the kitchen, and outside. And,
oh, hey, look at that, just in time to catch the bus to school.
Stiles made his way past his father’s cruiser and Derek’s—hold on a second,
back up.
Dad had been home during everything that had happened this morning? Was Derek
truly that screwed in the head? While the door to their bedroom may have been
closed when Derek painted Stiles’s skin white, the door to the bathroom had not
been when Derek had crowded Stiles up against the sink.
Eyes flicking to the entrance of the house, Stiles didn’t meet Dad’s judging,
disgusted gaze, because he was still inside somewhere, probably up in his room
more than likely, but Derek’s displeased one, because he stood there on the
porch watching Stiles walk past the Camaro and down the street to the corner
where a group of BHHS students were getting on the bus.
Right, bus. Getting on now.
Five minutes later, Scott got on at his stop. He stopped in the middle of the
aisle, obviously surprised to see Stiles.
“Move it, McCall,” someone bitched from behind him, prompting Scott to make his
way over to Stiles and slide in next to him.
“Dude,” he said, face twisted up in confusion, “thought you were riding with
Derek from now on.”
“Yeah, about that, funny story.” But Stiles didn’t elaborate. How did one
elaborate on being attracted to their brother who obviously felt the same exact
thing? How did one make it funny instead of, oh, say, fucked up?
“You guys aren’t fighting or anything right now, are you?”
“No, nope, not even a little.” The fingers of Stiles’s right hand tapped out a
fast, nervous beat on the upper part of his left thigh. “What, uh, makes you
ask?”
“Because, I don’t know, isn’t that your brother right there? He doesn't look
very happy.”
Although he so didn’t want to, Stiles turned his head to look out the window
next to him that Scott was staring out of. “Yeah, Scotty, that does appear to
be Derek.”
With his window rolled down. Staring up at Stiles. And he didn't look very
happy. Not at all.
Stiles waggled his fingers in greeting, then faced Scott again. He breathed out
a sigh of relief on hearing the engine of the Camaro roar off as it pulled
ahead of the bus.
“So, uhhh,” Stiles said weakly on seeing the expression on Scott’s face, which
was beyond confused and well into adorably stupefied, an expression only Scott
could pull off. It was also an expression that was only present to begin with
because Scott could obviously see that there was something very off between
Derek and Stiles and Scott knew that in and of it itself was wrong. “How ‘bout
them Yankees?”
                                       *
The first two periods of the day went by with Stiles never crossing paths with
Derek. It had been due to careful planning on his part to stay well away from
the areas he knew Derek liked to lurk. Honestly, Stiles didn’t know why he was
putting so much effort into avoiding Derek, considering they would be spending
the night in the same room together, same as they had for the past eight years,
with only a few mere feet separating the beds they each slept in.
Hell, it probably made more sense to confront this whole mess, in hushed tones
and while speaking in Pig Latin, when there were others around to make sure
they didn’t, like, reach the erroneous conclusion that the problem could be
fixed if they humped each other’s legs.
Maybe he would seek Derek out on lunch break.
For the moment, though, Stiles was putting Derek out of his mind because Danny
Mahealani had just walked up.
“Stiles,” Danny greeted, smiling wide, dimpling deep, leaning against the
locker next to where Stiles was putting away his books from that morning’s
classes.
That’s all he got out. Because, Jesus Christ, Derek. Was there. Standing right
in between Danny and Stiles.
“No,” Derek said, arms folded across his chest.
“No?” Danny repeated. “But—”
“No.”
“Yeah, okay, man, whatever you say, Hale.” Hands in the air, Danny backed away
slowly for a few steps, then turned around and walked-ran down the hall.
“B-b-but,” Stiles stammered, “dimples.”
Seriously, dimples.
Derek may have been the reason that Stiles had figured out—was figuring
out?—that he was incestuous gay for brother dick, but Danny had been the reason
that Stiles had figured out he was gay period. They’d been light weight
flirting with each other for years, ever since sixth grade, and now Derek had
just screwed it up. With one word.
Just one freaking word.
Backed up with a whole lot of menace.
“Oh, my God.” Stiles threw a punch at Derek’s broad, muscular back. Instantly
regretted his rash decision. “Owowowowow.”
Before Stiles could shake out his hand, Derek turned towards him and had it
cradled in one of his palms. Pressed to his mouth for the briefest of moments.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Then Derek let go of Stiles altogether. He backed up
a step as he looked Stiles up and down. “And that’s not the outfit I picked out
for you.”
“Yeah, about that, funny story.”
Derek’s eyebrows rose, clearly indicating he expected an explanation and it had
better be a damn good one. "Hmmm?"
“It wasn’t exactly my style?”
Derek’s eyebrows drew down together as he sniffed in Stiles’s general
direction. Sniffed. Voice flat, he said, “You washed up.”
“Uh, yeah? Normal people, not that I'm making accusations here, because this
week you have been the furthest thing from normal, tend to do that before
leaving the house for school, work, shopping, wherever?”
Derek nodded, like Stiles’s ridiculous question-answers told him everything he
ever possibly needed to know about what was wrong with the world, then said,
“Probably better like this anyways.”
“Cryptic, much?” The question, unsurprisingly, did not get a response.
Upper arm caught up in Derek’s unshakeable grasp, Stiles found himself dragged
behind Derek out a set of double doors and into the stairwell. Derek shoved him
up against the wall of the out-of-sight alcove created by the rising stairs,
then crowded up against Stiles, just like he’d done that morning in the
bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Stiles hissed only to end up with a finger on his lips to
quiet him.
“Shut up, Stiles. Just, just shut your goddamn mouth for once and let me.”
Answers were pretty damn important at the moment. But what was more important
was not getting caught by any administrators or teachers or students who liked
to snitch for brownie points. Instant suspension if they were discovered.
Plus, oh, yeah, that’s right, add in a dose of significant stigma because
compromising positions and brothers.
The warning bell rang and suddenly the stairwell was filled with the sounds of
students clomping up and down the steps rushing to their next classes. Damn
thing came right on time, too, just as Derek popped open both his and Stiles’s
jeans and pulled out their dicks, wrapping one hand around both. Sure, swift
strokes. The tip of a nail scraping lightly across oversensitive heads.
Fast, inevitable conclusions, Stiles keening high as his orgasm hit, Derek
grunting low.
Holy. Shit.
That twisting motion was totally fucking awesome. It had been—
What. Derek wasn’t—Derek was massaging their combined come into the skin of
Stiles’s stomach and up his chest.
“Better,” Derek said when he was done. “You smell like us now. Like you’re mine
again. Don’t wash it off this time.”
And, with that warning, Derek straightened himself up and was gone, leaving
Stiles by himself, head thumped back against the wall behind him, satisfied
dick still hanging free.
The hell, Derek...just...the hell.
                                       *
If there was one thing Stiles was, it was persistent.
Which was why he was hanging around down the hall from the boy’s locker room.
Lacrosse practice was over and Derek had already exited and headed out to the
student parking lot (Stiles had used his ninja skills to watch him leave from a
safe distance away). But Danny was still in there getting dressed. Stiles
wanted to apologize to him, see if there was any way to salvage their
friendship because, going by the looks Danny had been shooting Stiles since
that earlier confrontation, Stiles was pretty convinced Danny was no longer his
friend or too scared to be his friend or...something.
“Why are you out here?” Derek said from right next to Stiles.
Best laid plans, man, best laid plans.
“Oh, heeey there, brother-mine.” Sunny and bright, Stiles flashed a smile at
Derek. “You’re still here. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, not be? Thought you’d
be halfway home by now.”
“Why? Are you out here?” And that was two questions that time, not one. Stiles
could actually hear the question marks.
“Because I’m waiting for someone.”
Eyebrows up.
“And because you’re an ass.”
Eyebrows down. “You’re waiting for Danny.”
Stiles rubbed a hand over his head, scratched his fingers through his buzz cut.
“Maybe? It’s just that you were kind of a dick to him earlier. And—”
“You want to apologize to him.” Eyebrows way down, dangerously down, about to
party with the scruff on Derek’s jaws down. “I don’t need you apologizing to
anyone for or because of me, Stiles.”
“Well, someone has to, 'cause it’s not like you’re going to man up and do it
yourself,” Stiles protested, arms flailing out from his sides.
“If I’d wanted to apologize to Danny, then I would have,” Derek snarled before
stomping off down the hall and—(please walk past) (please walk past)—entering
the locker room.
Thirty seconds later, Danny left. Doing his same walk-run from earlier. Right
past Stiles. Without a glance.
Derek was now back in the hall, so Stiles used the opportunity to tell him,
“Oh, my God, you are the worst.”
Out the building, through the parking lot and into the woods Danny cut through
every day to walk home, Stiles chased after Danny. But Danny was freaking fast,
and showing no signs of slowing, so Stiles wasn’t able to catch up. He was
about twenty feet behind Danny, when he got tackled from behind and pushed off
the beaten path and into the woods.
Since he knew who his assailant was—Derek, who else?—Stiles didn’t bother with
any theatrics. Well, none besides, “You d-bag! The absolute worst, do you hear
me?”
Derek ignored Stiles in favor of looming over him instead and pinning Stiles’s
hands down to the ground on either side of his body. He used his face to push
Stiles’s shirt up, nuzzling into Stiles’s belly. Pulling back, he growled,
“Stiles.”
“What? Dude, I had to wash it off, else it would’ve dried up in my already
nonexistent happy trail and pulled out the few treasured hairs I have down
there.”
“You don’t—” Derek stopped. Breathed deep. “Christ, you don’t understand. You
have to—I need you to, to smell like—screw it.” Derek stood, then pulled out
his dick.
“Are you serious?” Stiles asked, sitting up. “Again?”
“No, this is different,” Derek said, teeth gritted. “I really wished you’d worn
the outfit I chose for you today. In two seconds, you’re going to wish you had,
too.”
Under. Statement.
Derek started to piss, fucking piss, on Stiles. He began with the bottom of
Stiles’s legs and worked his way up. He was in the process of drenching
Stiles’s crotch, which he spent an excessive amount of time peeing on, when the
shock wore off and Stiles’s brain finally kicked into gear and he tried to roll
out the way, tried being the key word there.
Because, really, the only thing Stiles succeeded in actually doing was ending
up on his stomach with a wet back and a soaked ass to show for his troubles.
Feeling murderous, there was some serious brother killing about to take place,
Stiles jumped to his feet. But Derek had already stopped and had his dick
tucked safely back into his jeans.
“I’m sorry,” he said, both the seriousness of his voice and the somberness of
his expression reflecting just how truthful he was being. He turned around and
headed back towards the school.
“If you were truly sorry, then you wouldn’t have pissed on me to begin with!”
Stiles bellowed after him, because he had to say something.
And, now, Stiles knew for certain that weird things really had happened to
Derek while he’d been out romping in the woods for his birthday weekend.
He kicked the trunk of the nearest tree once Derek was out of sight. “Fuck you,
Mother Nature, fuck you!”
                                       *
When Stiles arrived home, wet, cold and reeking of ammonia, it was to discover
his Dad and Derek eating dinner. Pizza, going by the Domino’s box.
It was all so...normal.
Derek with his stupid, perfectly styled hair. And his stupid, perfectly
handsome face. And his—
He’d fucking pissed on Stiles. His brother-stalker-creeper wasgoing down.
Launching himself at Derek, Stiles let his fists flying. His attack was stopped
with ease, Derek corralling his flailing limbs and pulling him down to his lap
and tucking Stiles head under his chin. Stiles stopped fighting, tired,
confused, and because it did feel right to be where he was at.
Despite the fact that where he was at was currently cradled on his adoptive
brother’s lap. Sitting across the dining room table from Dad. Who did not look
shocked in the slightest.
“I’m sorry,” Derek repeated his words from earlier, voice pitched low so only
Stiles could hear.
Dad's nose wrinkled. “Christ, Derek, did you pee on him to mark him as your
territory?”
“He didn’t smell like me.” Derek sounded sullen yet defiant. “He kept—he
just—he smelled wrong.”
“What is going on?" Stiles demanded. "I need someone to start talking, like,
yesterday.”
“Derek, I’ll leave this explanation to you. I trust you can handle it.” Dad
gathered up the pizza box and the dirty plates and cups, then beat a hasty
retreat to the kitchen.
That was how Stiles came to learn about the existence of werewolves, complete
with a visual demonstration.
Because Derek was, “From a family of weres.” He’d been human for most of his
life and the transformation actually hadn’t happened until, “Midnight of my
seventeenth birthday as is customary for my line.” Stiles was, “My mate.” Which
everyone in both of their families had known for years, including, “Your
father.”
It was also the reason Derek had flipping lost his mind that whole week, which
had reached a breaking point and culminated in today’s disasters. If Stiles
wanted Derek to stop rubbing his come into his skin and to never, ever, ever
piss on him ever again, then Stiles would have to accept their bond and allow
Derek into his body so Derek could satisfy his wolf by claiming his mate and
marking him from the inside out. And it had to happen while Derek was in his
Alpha form. And, yes, Alpha form literally meant big, black wolf with a pink
dick dropped out of its sheath, a knot and a crap ton of come. Also, it would
have to happen often.
Beat the hell out of going to school every day covered in dried come or urine.
The night was full of many firsts for Stiles. Some shocking. Some disturbing.
But those were not tales for today or for any other day for that matter. Those
were tales that Stiles planned to carry with him to his grave. Not even Scott
would ever be allowed to find out. Because, Stiles loved Derek and could adapt
to this new form of them with a little effort eased on by years and years worth
of therapy sessions, especially since Dad knew and accepted, had always known
and accepted, but for fuck's sake, a lifetime of being fucked by a doggie dick,
seriously?
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