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No. Fuck no. This was not happening. It’s just-- Okay, he had to get it under control. He wasn’t fucking thirteen anymore. This was ridiculous. And over Stiles? No. Not happening.
It was happening. Fuck. Fuck Stiles. Fuck Lydia. Fuck everything.
Laura used to tease him about it.
He could practically see her now, in his memory. Vivid as the day it happened, smirking at him across the room, lounging on the puffed-up cushions of Dad’s arm chair, legs crossed at the ankles. She’d been flicking through some teen magazine, nonchalantly turning the pages as she cleared her throat.
“Your body starts going through changes,” she’d recited, reading from the Your Problems page.
Some Dear Abby bullshit, meant to reassure pubescent girls that they were normal. That everything happening to them happened to everyone else. It’s not like they published one for werewolves. That would just be asking too much.
“As you grow older, you start to notice the opposite sex - or sometimes the same sex, depending on your preferences - in new and interesting ways. Your body will react to it, preparing to act on these urges when and if you’re ready. It’s a part of becoming a grown-up.”
She looked up at him with a gleam in her eye, and Derek had flushed, his face hot and uncomfortable and he wondered why the fuck he had to put up with this bullshit. It wasn’t like there were many secrets he could keep as it was - his family tended to sniff out everything one way or another - but this was just humiliating
“Shut up,” he’d bitten back, hammering the controller and dying in a haze of pixellated bullets.
“Just doin’ some reading, little brother,” she’d teased. “Really interesting stuff in here. Maybe you should borrow it.”
God, he hated that he was almost tempted. He really was getting desperate.
Becoming, um... interested as the girl’s track team limbered up (before a meet, no less, so the bleachers were fucking crowded) would go down as the single most humiliating experience of his life, up to that point.
And Laura had seen it all.
It just wasn’t fair. Most guys his age were complaining about ruined sheets and getting a random semi in Math class that meant they couldn’t move from behind the desk until it was gone. He’d heard the locker-room talk. It was almost a bonding rite.
Derek would have taken all of that over his particular problem, any fucking day of the week.
It was awful.
Accidentally landing on a sex-scene when channel-surfing. Pop.
Porn-y Internet spam. Pop.
Hot, co-ed lifeguard down at the pool? Pop.
He couldn't even fucking hide it with a strategically placed cushion or, like, bending a certain way. No, he’d had to slink off to the bathrooms with his hand over his fucking mouth and think about Uncle Peter in his bicycle shorts or that mole Grandma had on her neck.
There would probably be rumours of some fatal illness or eating disorder within the week.
“Laura,” his mother had said, warningly. She was two rooms away, but of course she’d heard. There was no freakin’ privacy in this house. She came into view, pausing at the doorway and fixing her daughter with a look. “Leave him alone. It happens to boys his age sometimes, and it’s not fair to tease him about it.”
“But Mom,” she’d replied, failing to stifle a laugh. “Come on, what kind of sister would I be if I didn’t give him shit for it?”
“A decent one?” he’d whined, and now his mom was smiling too, fuck his life. Laura just ignored him.
“He had a boner, Mom. On his face.”
He wasn’t able to stand it. He got up, flinging the controller back on to the couch and huffed towards the door, while two identical sets of mirth-filled green eyes had watched, tight-lipped and spluttering.
“Oh sweetie,” his mom had relented. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s part of being a were. And you know you can talk to your father or Uncle Peter if you have any questions about it.”
There was no scenario on Earth where that would be happening. Fuck that noise.
He’d rolled his eyes, stalking past them and out the door, praying that was the end of it.
“Probably shouldn’t send you to the dentist for a while, though,” his mom mused, because of course that wasn’t the end of it. “He’s young, and handsome. Could get inappropriate.”
He’d tossed a glare over his shoulder, making for the stairs to the sounds of their breaking laughter.
“I hate you both. So much.”
This was just about the worst - alright, maybe being a little dramatic, but it was pretty fucking awful. Who invited them here, anyway? When did his house become the meeting point for everyone?
Maybe when he rebuilt it, and they all started calling it The Den... and Isaac and Boyd moved in... but still. There was no god-damn reason in the world for Stiles to have shown up here, looking like some perfectly wrapped under-age gift and it wasn’t even fucking Christmas.
It was senior prom.
It was kind of a miracle that they’d all made it this far, really. There had been dramatic showdowns (Alpha Pack), numerous wolfsbane poisonings (more hunters, of course), that time Scott got kidnapped by a water nymph (Allison could be pretty territorial when she wanted; it looked like they were finally working things out, since she’d riddled the competition with arrows), and separations (Erica was back for the weekend, keeping her promise to be Boyd’s date), but they were all here, together, almost grown-ups.
And Stiles was weeks away from turning eighteen. He reminded Derek of this almost daily now.
He wasn’t sure when the flirting started. Some time between the last life-or-death rescue and being left alone to clean up after a pizza-and-movie night there had come innuendos, barely-there touches and knowing smirks. Stiles had grown into those awkward, too-long limbs, filled out in all the best ways and become someone who knew what he wanted, and made it perfectly clear that what he wanted was Derek.
Derek, well, he just struggled with keeping his distance. Stiles was still a kid, in the eyes of the law - and his father - and it took a lot of willpower for the adult of the situation to catch himself before falling into that trap. Stiles could flirt and joke and pout and look infuriatingly tempting all he wanted, but Derek wasn’t giving him an inch.
But tonight... fuck.
Lydia and Danny had convinced Stiles to go with them, as friends. Nobody seemed to quite stick for her after Jackson left town, and Danny had fallen into their world by way of an unfortunate rescue and the need for his hacking skills too many times. It was just easier now that he knew why he was breaking the law on a regular basis.
Boyd and Erica had somehow made the long-distance thing work, and Erica seemed happy in Los Angeles. It was a better fit for her, and she was part of a pack with other female wolves. Something Derek hadn’t really spared a thought for, but he knew he should have.
Scott and Allison were going together, finally deciding that her father’s opinion didn’t matter much when she was leaving for college in a few months, and she could see Scott all she wanted then anyway.
And Lydia, of course, felt she couldn’t trust Stiles to quite dress himself well enough to be seen on her arm. Derek hadn’t really thought anything of it until the Jeep pulled up as he was welcoming Erica back and... shit.
He wasn’t wearing a suit - something about the jacket being too constricting when he wanted to ‘shake his groove thang’; fuck Derek’s life - ’ but he was wearing a crisp white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and fitted perfectly to his lean torso, hinting at the toned muscles honed from high school sports and high-tailing it through the woods in the dead of night. There was a black skinny tie hung loosely around his neck; his grown-out hair dishevelled artfully to give a look of being ravaged, and that was before the pants.
Holy fuck. The pants.
They must have been tailored or really expensive, or painted on because they hugged every inch of him in ways that shouldn’t be legal.
He isn’t legal, his brain helpfully supplied. Yeah, thanks.
It was all bad enough, until Stiles ran the rest of the way to the porch to greet Erica, grin splitting his face and a yelp of excitement ringing out, and he leaned forward for a hug, and--
Fucking fuck. Did his ass always look like--
Shit. No. This wasn’t happening.
He felt the twin pin-pricks on his bottom lip before he could even come back to coherent thought.
Derek’s hand shot to his mouth, but one look at Erica over Stiles’ shoulder was enough to tell him it was too late - she’d seen it. She subtly scented the air and fucking grinned.
Shit.
“Damn, Stiles,” she purred, pulling back to look at him, holding him at arms-length. “You know I’ve always been a fan, but you grew up nice.”
Stiles’ hand flew to the back of his neck, the tinge of a bashful flattery in his scent before he played it off.
“Yeah, well, you miss all the good stuff when you become a big abandoner who abandons,” he jibed, standing back and seeming to take in Derek for the first time. He smiled. “Hey, Derek.”
“Stiles,” he replied tightly, muffled behind his hand, and Stiles frowned.
No, don’t notice. Don’t ask . Don’t--
“Hmm, I would have thought twice if I’d known your butt would end up being this cute,” Erica teased, reaching a hand out and giving it a little pat. Stiles flinched and gave her a scandalised look.
Derek tried not to growl. He really tried.
“Excuse you, ma’am,” Stiles countered, shooting Derek a glance. “Hands off the merch. I’m pure as the driven snow and refuse to be corrupted.”
Erica smirked and Derek hated everything.
She found him in the library, twenty minutes later, feigning interest in a book on faery charms when she leaned in the doorway.
“This place is ridiculous, you know that, right?” she said, breaking the silence and taking in the expanse of the room. “I remember when you slept in a train car on a mattress and a bunch of old coats. No wonder you weren’t getting laid.”
Derek’s eyes snapped up. “There were no-- That wasn’t the reason I-- ” he stammered, caught off by the direct conversation. “Why did I bite you again?” he muttered.
“A whole wealth of bad reasons,” she snarked. “Speaking of ridiculous - you really haven’t tapped that yet?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Tapped what?” Ugh, he was talking like them now. Fucking teenagers.
“Don’t play coy with me, Derek,” she smiled. “Even if I couldn’t smell it on you, the little fang-boner you sprouted once you laid eyes on Stiles is kind of a give-away. Not that I blame you. Kid’s fucking edible.”
He bristled possessively. “He’s not-- There’s nothing going on with me and Stiles.”
“I know that,” she said, rolling her eyes. The silk of her prom dress rustled as she made her way further into the room. “I just can’t think why. He smells like a fucking Roman orgy any time he’s around you. How can you stand it?”
Derek averted his eyes, swallowing. “It’s not an issue.”
She patted his face condescendingly. “Sure it isn’t. Just like I’m sure you won’t care about him heading to prom looking like that and everyone there seeing just what you’re too pussy to have.”
She turned on her heel and Derek cursed the day he ever walked into her hospital room.
They were-- This was happening. Was this happening?
"Fuuu-uck."
Stiles panted into his ear as Derek sucked a bruise into the skin below his shirt-collar. Fucking shirt. Fucking Lydia.
“So tell me,” he breathed, taking in gulps of air and the rabbit-beat of his heart was doing stupid things to the rhythm of Derek’s. “What do we call this thing with your teeth?”
Derek cringed, burying his face into cotton and squeezed the firm flesh and thick fabric of Stiles' pants beneath his palms, struggling to find his own air. His damn scent was everywhere. It was coiling in his chest and fluttering through his veins and everything was heat. Fucking pants. Fucking Stiles and those fucking pants.
“It’s not--” he began to reply, but Stiles was nosing at the short hairs of Derek’s temple and his lips were warm and wet and he felt his whole body shudder. “I can’t help... it’s like--”
“Shit,” Stiles breathed, pleasantly awed.
His head tilted back, hitting the wall Derek had pressed him against a whole-- it was a while ago, okay?
“Erica was totally right. It’s a fang-boner. You have a fang-on for me.” He ground his hips into Derek’s, punctuating the revelation with a groan and his own evidence of interest in the situation. “That is so fucking hot.”
“Stiles,” Derek gritted out, slapping a hand to the wall by the other guy’s head for purchase. It was getting harder and harder (hah) to hold them both up, and Derek couldn’t lift his head because he could feel it happening again.
“Don’t get all shy now,” Stiles prodded, carding a hand through the hair at the base of Derek’s skull. He felt like purring. “We passed embarrassment once you fucking tackled me into my own Jeep and agreed to be my prom date.” The note of triumph was emphasised as he fingered the stupid corsage he had secured to Derek’s wrist. Asshole.
“You were sprawled over the centre console,” Derek protested, because he had intended to talk. At some point.
“I was looking for a camera. Just because my ass happened to be in your line of vision doesn’t make it an open invitation, dude. Sexy new pants or no.”
“Could you not?” Derek said, lifting his head at last, embarrassed and vulnerable. The completely self-satisfied look on Stiles face told him he could not, but he would not. His eyes dipped to Derek’s mouth curiously and he raised a brow.
"So does this happen, like, all the time? Or just when the sexy is too much," he enquired, gesturing to himself vaguely. Derek huffed, rolling his eyes.
"Happened a lot when I was, uh, a teenager," he relented, when it became clear that Stiles was actually expecting an answer. He could feel his ears turning pink already. "Not really, anymore. Until..."
Now it was his turn to gesture towards Stiles, who looked absolutely delighted with the confession. Crap.
"Seriously?" Stiles urged, eyes bright. "No little dental stiffies until I brought sexy back?"
Derek simply raised his eyebrows and let out a calming breath through his nose.
"Did you get confused at meal times?"
Derek frowned.
"Did you have to watch porn with a mouth-guard in?"
Derek glared.
"Did you have to jerk off before going to the dentist?"
Really? Was this happening?
"Am I calling it the wrong thing?" he asked, suddenly serious, eyes narrowing. "Is it a Fanger? A Toother?"
“Stiles.”
“A Derek-tion?”
“Stiles.”
The interrogation broke, and one corner of that perfect mouth curled up in a wry grin. Fuck Derek's life.
“You know you’re just going to have to kiss me to shut me up.”
Derek gritted his teeth, hard, until the tell-tale prick of canine went away, and that’s exactly what he did.