"You've got to be shitting me. My life can't be real. It's like something from a really bad B movie. No, not even that, like a C or a D movie. It's one of those movies that when you're aimlessly lookin' through Netflix have one star. And you sit there wondering why someone even watched it, because seriously, did they not read the description or take a good look at that crappy-ass cover art?"
Derek and Scott stared blankly at Stiles, even after he finished his rant and the Jeep fell silent.
Eventually, Derek cleared his throat and asked "You done?" as if the effort to make words pained him.
"Why are you both so fucking calm?" Stiles asked, flailing his arms and scraping his knuckles against the hood of the Jeep. "Why do neither of you see how stupid this is? There is a lamia working as a goddamn fashion designer, and he just so happens to want to set up his next shoot in Beacon fucking Hills? Really? Did Peter's resurrection four years ago open some kind of demonic portal to Hell? Does the 'Beacon' of Beacon Hills now mean 'beacon for all weird-ass supernatural shit within a hundred mile radius,' because seriously what. The. Fuck."
Scott turned his eyes towards Derek, still facing his best friend. "I don't think he's done, no."
"What's worse is that this is supposed to be my spring break, man. I'm supposed to be heading to the beaches now. Checking out hotties. Getting lotioned up by said hotties. Getting a refreshing break from idiotic dorm mates and professors that would put Binns to shame. But, no, instead I'm stuck back here, helping you guys again, because evidently werewolves are super strong and fast but suck at handling other supernatural monsters without the help of humans named Stiles."
"Either you start the car and drive towards the studio now, or I will knock you out and drive us myself," snarled Derek, only it wasn't really that effective on Stiles anymore. He'd long outgrown being intimidated by the Big Bad Alpha. Probably around the fiftieth time he and Derek saved each other's lives.
"Go fuck yourself, Derek. Seriously. You are more than welcome to get out and drive your own damn car to the studio. Then I can just go on my spring break."
"Stiles," Scott whined, pouting like the adorable creature he was. It was totally unfair, and Stiles glowered at his friend for pulling out the big guns. "Don't be like that. Everyone else is out of state, and you know we can't do this on our own. We need you."
Stiles glared and huffed, but started his car and pulled out into the street. He really needed to work on his willpower. One puppy look from Scott or, well, any look from Derek and Stiles was ready to do whatever they wanted. Sometimes he really hated his friends.
The studio was one of those industrial chic setups, obviously constructed within the gutted remains of an old factory. A hot young woman with rainbow hair manned the steel and glass desk in the reception area, and she arched one thinly drawn-on eyebrow at them when they wandered in. "Comp cards?" she asked expectantly, holding out a hand with long, black nails that shimmered with fine iridescent glitter under the bald lighting.
Stiles and Scott exchanged confused glances, but Derek stepped forward and offered her one of his dazzling smiles. "We were wondering if this studio could be hired out to make some, actually. My friends and I have been wanting to try our hands at modeling, but Beacon Hills isn't exactly bursting with talented photographers."
Fingers curling inward like spider legs, the woman retracted her hand and popped the gum she was slowly chewing. She stared at them for a long, awkwardly silent moment, before slowly moving to press a button on the landline phone at her desk. "Mr. Dorian? There are three pretty boys out here that are entirely unprofessional and lacking comp cards, but all the same I think they're just what you were looking for." When she lifted her finger off the button, she smirked at them, eyes sparkling behind her thick lashes.
"Send them in," commanded a smooth male voice.
Apollo Dorian was like a god of sex carved from polished obsidian. Even the totally ridiculously snakeskin-patterned pants couldn't ruin the effect that was Dorian's saturated sex appeal. His smile was perfect and blindingly white, and his eyes were a striking shade of sunset gold. The man beside him with a camera around his neck was also a bit of alright, and any other time Stiles would be all over that, but the photographer seemed positively plain compared to Dorian.
"Fuck me," Stiles exclaimed under his breath, unconsciously licking his lips.
Derek shoved him none-too-gently with his shoulder and whispered a reprimanding, "Shut up, or he'll think that's an offer."
The smirk that brought to Stiles' face was wide. "So you're saying I should speak up, so he'll think it's an offer. Got it." He laughed in the face of Derek's dark glower of fiery anger.
"I see what Morgan was saying. Hello, gentlemen. I'm Apollo Dorian, and this is my head photographer, Todd Wilkins." Dorian walked right up to Stiles and took his hand for a firm, lingering handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Stiles grinned up at him, which showed just how tall Dorian was, considering Stiles had had a rather significant growth spurt at the tail end of high school. "I'm Richard Styles. This sour flower beside me is Drake Bale, and the adorable one you want to take home and keep is Mike Scotts." It was around a year and a half ago that Stiles learned the significance of names, and exactly why you didn't go about giving yours to every Tom, Dick, and Scary. That had been one shitaculous misadventure, where Stiles was the only one left to save the day, since no one ever knew his real name.
Dorian's hand lingered a bit in Stiles', his smile more than a little inviting. "Well, Richard, why don't we start with you? Nothing too complicated. That shirt you have on should be fine. Just add this." The designer strode over to a long rack of clothes, his gait smooth with a fluid grace. When he turned back to the boys, he was holding a stylish wool jacket.
Slipping it on, Stiles admired the cut and feel, even as he marveled over how it fit him perfectly. When he did a little twirl for Dorian, he was pleased to see the approval on the attractive older man's face. "Very nice," crooned Dorian, even as he snapped his fingers for Wilkins to jump to attention and start the shoot.
Wilkins herded Stiles over to an area with bright lights and things like umbrellas, a large white cloth pinned up along the wall. "Stand over near the wall and face me," he commanded with an Australian accent that won him a few more hot points in Stiles' opinion, even if Wilkins wasn't as stunning as Dorian. "Yeah, just like that. Relax your shoulders a bit. Now, turn just slightly. Yes. Perfect." Stiles struggled to follow the directions while trying to appear not to be struggling. All he could see were the bright lights amplified by the umbrella things, everyone else just vague shapes beyond.
"Alright, now unzip it dramatically. And try to look like you want to fuck me while you do it."
Stiles boggled for a second, unsure how to "dramatically" unzip a jacket. He did his best guess, and at least hoped the smouldering expression would be enough to distract from the awkward arm angles. Over Wilkins' shoulder, he thought he saw the Scott blur quickly step away from the Derek blur with a hissed "That's Stiles. Stop." Whatever that was supposed to mean. Also, Stiles was incredibly glad he'd made his alias' surname sound the same as his nickname. Scott was a wonderful person, but shit at espionage.
"I think we have enough for now," said Wilkins, stepping away and clicking back through the photos on his camera's small screen. "Who's next?"
"Mr. Bale, I think," said Dorian with a smirk as he held out a different jacket. "This one has more of a James Dean cut to it, for a man who looks like a rebel without a cause."
Derek snatched the jacket from Dorian's long-fingered hand, smiling in a way that would make a lesser person than Dorian weak in the knees. All it earned was a widening of the smirk. Stiles snorted from where he was replacing his own jacket back onto the rack.
In no time Wilkins was cooing and commanding as he snapped away, and Stiles couldn't help but enjoy the view provided to him. Scott cast him a disgusted look, rolled his eyes, and wandered over towards a wall of photos while grumbling about how everyone's gone insane.
"He looks delicious, doesn't he?" purred Dorian, suddenly way into Stiles' personal space, to the point that he was practically pressed against Stiles' back and whispering into his ear. "Of course, he's got nothing on you" One of Dorian's hands lifted to slowly trail the tip of one shockingly long, sharp nail up along Stiles' arm. "You truly look good enough to eat."
There was startled cursing from Wilkins, which was quickly drowned out by a vicious snarl. Then lights and fixtures were clattering everywhere and Derek was landing in a fighting crouch in front of Dorian and Stiles, his face turning lupine before their eyes. "Let him go," Derek snarled. In a blink, Scott was joining in with a growl from behind Dorian. Stiles was so proud that his friend had remembered all those lessons about flanking an enemy and gaining advantage.
Dorian started chuckling darkly, and Stiles knew he was about to get grabbed and used as a human shield or hostage or maybe even just a light snack before the fight (lamiae were notorious gluttons, known for their insatiable appetites). So, he whirled out of range and to the side. It had him turned facing the lamia, and he choked when he saw the transformation that had come over Dorian when he hadn't been looking. The snakeskin pants were replaced by a long, slithering tail of actual snakeskin. The pupils of his striking eyes were vertical slits, and his once muscular body now looked stretched-out and emaciated.
"Lamiae are actually quite hideous and not at all sexy," Stiles remarked, edging back a few more cautious steps. "Duly noted."
All at once the werewolves pounced, but the lamia was strong and wriggly, and it was obvious that they were quickly losing any advantage they'd had. Stiles scrambled back towards one of the corners of the studio, barely glancing over his shoulder and keeping most of his focus on the writhing mass of snake demon and werewolves. Dorian broke free of the struggle and surged towards Stiles, mouth gaping open wider and wider, just like a snake unhinging its jaw to devour its prey. Eyes wide in panicked fear, Stiles huddled backwards against the wall, arms going behind him to catch himself against the hard brick.
Just before the lamia reached him, however, Stiles' expression changed to one of smug satisfaction, and he was whipping his arms back around to shove a fire extinguisher down Dorian's throat. "Let's see if you're up to code, fucker," Stiles cried out with a laugh as he darted away, ducking to tug up the left leg of his pants and draw the gun he had strapped to the inside of his calf. When he spun around to face Dorian, Stiles lined up his shot and pulled the trigger in one smooth motion.
Scott whined when they were suddenly covered in extinguisher foam and bloody lamia bits.
"Oh, don't even, Scott. That was fucking awesome, and you know it." Stiles headed over towards the rack of clothes as he spoke, but paused beside his friend to hold out his hand for a fist bump.
For a moment, Scott just stared around at the mess, and the now headless lamia still jerking on the ground, before his pout morphed into a grin and he returned the bump. "Yeah, okay, that was pretty sweet."
Derek was staring at Stiles with a human face and eyes that were mostly hazel with a lingering tinge of red. His expression actually made Stiles think of the lamia and its intense hunger. Realization crept up on Stiles with that, dragging his mouth into a wide smile. Pulling random clothing from the rack and using them to wipe himself down, Stiles started mapping out a few plans.
"Scott, call Argent and update him on the situation. We'll likely need him and his crew to come handle clean-up. I'll text my dad, so he'll be able to handle the legal end of things. Hopefully one of them will know what we do with the humans." A glance over towards the photography area showed Wilkins sprawled out on the ground unconscious. "They could be accomplices, hapless victims under the lamia's thrall, or totally ignorant to everything that's happened. Either way, not our problem." Once he was clean enough, Stiles put his gun away and pulled out his phone to do as he'd said.
"Here you are, chief," Stiles proclaimed as he parked the Jeep in front of the rebuilt Hale house and flashed a cheeky grin at Derek. "Now get, so I can go home and clean all this shit off me."
Derek stared out the window at his house, but made no move to unfasten his seatbelt, let alone get out of the Jeep. "You could take a shower here," he said, not even looking at Stiles while he offered.
Stiles licked his lips and bit on them to hide his smirk, but it peeked through as he replied, "Nah, man; I'll just use my shower back at my dad's place."
It was entertaining to watch Derek huff and muster his courage. "What do you want me to ask, instead? Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee? Would you care to join me inside for a drink? Or how about: How do you like your eggs, so I know how to cook them when I make you breakfast tomorrow morning?"
Tilting his head back, Stiles laughed, but his hand went from the gear shift to Derek's thigh. "Sunnyside up. Fucker." He gave the thigh a squeeze and slid out of the vehicle to stroll up to the front door, Derek hot on his heels.
They showered simultaneously, but in separate bathrooms. As delectable as the thought of showering with Derek was, washing congealed lamia blood off of each other would not exactly be the sexiest of experiences.
Once he was as clean as humanly possible, Stiles dried off and eyed his now likely ruined clothes. He looked at the towel, wondering if he should wrap it around his waist for modesty's sake. Considering why he was there, however, he thought that idea to be a bit unnecessary and ridiculous. He made his way down the hall to Derek's room, feeling himself getting hard at the thought of what they were about to do. Derek Hale was a fine specimen of the male form, and Stiles was totally on board with tapping that. Granted, it could potentially complicate the pack dynamics, but he figured that Derek wouldn't have offered if he wasn't able to handle this sort of casual fucking like a big boy. Stiles knew he certainly was capable. Ever since going to college, he'd had plenty of casual encounters, and a few friends who liked to fall into bed with him on occasion, no strings attached. Tonight would be no different, he was sure.
Derek was just leaving his en suite, towel around his hips, when Stiles opened the bedroom door without knocking. The younger man stood in the doorway, admiring the sight that was Derek fresh from the shower and mostly naked. He reached down to idly stroke himself while he watched Derek take in his nakedness. Stiles could see Derek's throat working when the man swallowed, and it made his cock jump in his slowly-pumping hand.
Eyes locked on Stiles, Derek sidestepped to the bed and sat on the edge, letting his towel fall open. Stiles made an appreciative little moan at finally getting to see all of Derek, and he stalked towards the bed with tunnel vision purpose. Their mouths clashed and Stiles was crawling onto Derek's lap, kneeling and tilting the older man's head back to kiss deep and hard and hungry. Strong hands grabbed at Stiles' ass and squeezed and pulled.
They shifted as one animal, moving until Derek was lying fully on the bed and Stiles was slithering along him as he nipped and kissed. Lube was requested in a harsh, breathless whisper against Derek's nipple, and then a cool bottle was being shoved into Stiles' hand. Stiles moved to kneel so that he straddled Derek's head, thumbing open the man's mouth and slipping his dick inside. His eyes rolled back in his head while Derek sucked him with pleased groans and a wet, eager mouth. Slicking his fingers, Stiles reached behind himself and started to get prepared for the main event. Soon fingers that weren't his own were moving his aside to press up into him, working him wider and deeper than he was capable at such an awkward angle. It was all far too good, and he gripped Derek's hair too tightly as he shuddered and came down the man's throat.
With heavy breaths, Stiles pulled away, letting his still hard dick slip from Derek's glistening lips. Fingers were still pressed deep inside him, and Stiles shuddered again as they shifted with his movements. A tiny trickle of cum pulsed out of his slit and down Derek's lips and chin. "Fuck," Stiles cursed, staring down at the sight and knowing he wasn't nearly done with this man. "Tell me we can do this bareback, because I want to feel it sliding down my thighs like that." Stiles reached out to scoop up the bit of spunk with his thumb, then licked it off while locking eyes with Derek.
Inside Stiles, Derek's fingers twitched and prodded deeper. "Yes. Werewolf, remember. Can't get sick."
Stiles grinned wide and predatory, feeling his second wind already sweeping over him. "Then get your fingers out of my ass, so I can replace them with your dick. Dick."
Derek did as he was told, but gave Stiles' ass a little smack as he withdrew. "You're the one who's evidently named Richard. Thus making you the Dick, here."
Laughing around his continued grinning, Stiles slid back down Derek's body to rub his ass against Derek's poor, neglected cock. "Tell me I didn't own tonight's little escapade."
Eyes falling closed, and head lolling back on the pillow as Stiles impaled himself on his dick, Derek gasped out a relenting, "You totally owned it." He rocked his hips up to press deeper, and Stiles ground down to meet him.
They worked in tandem, Stiles riding him with abandon, fingers scrabbling at Derek's perfect fucking chest and Derek gripping Stiles' hips so firmly there would be bruises. There were no declarations, no questions of "how long have you wanted this?" It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. It was just fucking. Just two men working out the adrenaline that had built up from the events that day. That was all.
But something was trying to be heard deep inside Stiles, something that had been buried and left for dead. He ignored it, focusing on the amazing pleasure of Derek hitting that spot just right, and of having Derek sprawled out and at his mercy. His mercy.
There was a look in Derek's eyes whenever Stiles could obtain enough control to crack his open and look down. It made that left-for-dead thing cry out louder, scrabbling with claws to break out of its crypt and see the sun. Derek stared at him as if Stiles was the fucking Messiah, as if he was something amazing and beautiful and worthy of worship. There was a pain lingering in the edges of such regard, like Derek already knew that this was all he would get from Stiles.
Derek removed his hands from Stiles' hips, letting the younger man take over and control his own pace, contenting himself with running his hands along Stiles' flexing torso and wrapping smooth fingers around his bobbing cock. It was too much, more than the over-stimulation of getting fingered and blown in equally mind blowing proportions.
"Fuck. Derek," Stiles hissed, curling his hands against Derek's chest and leaving scratches that faded as quickly as they formed. Then he was coming for a second time, this one blindsiding him and choking him with the vividness of its intensity.
He opened his eyes just enough to watch Derek break, watch that chiseled face crumble in something that looked like pain even as he grunted and came so hard he was trembling. Derek closed his eyes after that, his lips parted and his chest rising and falling in short, panting breaths. Stiles, conversely, could not close his eyes, could not look away from the man beneath him. Slowly, Derek grew soft enough to slip out, and Stiles got his wish as he felt Derek's release slipping wetly down one thigh. It made him finally able to close his own eyes, to focus on that feeling in an attempt to ground him and his wayward flights of fancy. This wasn't anything but sex.
Pulling away, Stiles stood on shaky legs and made his way towards Derek's dresser.
"What are you doing?" Derek's voice was thick and raw, and it made Stiles want to crawl back on top of him and take more than was his to have. He looked over his shoulder at the bed, at Derek still stretched out on his back, light eyes watching Stiles with lazy confusion.
"Stealing some of your clothes, so I can get home. The law frowns on people walking around naked, even if they're as hot as I am."
That had Derek sitting up, twisting to fully face Stiles, a frown hardening features that had gone soft in post-coital bliss. "You're leaving." It wasn't a question, but there was a question wrapped up inside it, asking Why?
Stiles closed one of the drawers with more force than necessary, and stared at the woodgrain instead of looking back at Derek. "Staying the night implies more than what this is, Derek. I really hate awkward morning afters, don't you?"
"You said you liked your eggs sunnyside up."
He had. Fuck, but he had said that. Had already promised to stay the night, in his own teasing way.
"You could stay." Something in the way those words were said implied more than one night.
Giving up, Stiles turned around to face Derek and his piercing eyes and his hopeful look poorly-masked behind faulty steel. "You know I go back to school in five days. And that I still have two years of undergrad left, plus four to six years for my doctorate. I can't stay."
Derek was silent for a moment, studying Stiles and probably thinking he was giving nothing away. But, this was Stiles he was dealing with, and the human had long ago cracked every code in Derek's book. "So you stay here when you come back. Summers, breaks, maybe a few weekends when you aren't bogged down with work."
That stupid, should-be-dead thing deep, deep down was cheering, flailing its arms and banging around and making Stiles ache. "Derek, don't be stupid."
He watched those words sting like a whip, cutting into Derek deep and fast. "Fuck you."
"You just did," Stiles couldn't help but quip back, but then he cringed and rubbed his hand over his face. "Shit. Look, Derek, I'm sorry. I thought this was just... I thought. I mean, fuck, man, it's not like we've been madly in love with each other for years or some bullshit."
Derek's features closed off entirely, his posture pulling away and tensing, and Stiles felt a goddamn lance pass through his stomach. "No," spat Derek, "you're right. We never treated each other differently than we treated everyone else. This was just sex."
"Derek, wait," Stiles tried, suddenly feeling like he'd been on a cliff, and the ground had crumbled out from under him.
Derek wasn't listening anymore, already getting out of bed and storming out of the room and down the hall. Stiles stood there, trying to lock his muscles so they would stop shaking. That thing inside him was wailing, tearing at his walls and crying out in pain. Closing his eyes, he tried to kill it, to put it out of its misery. It was for the best.
Suddenly Derek was back in the room, tossing clothes at Stiles and staring at him with such unsettling blankness. "Here. You left these from one of the times you crashed here before. Now get the fuck out."
Stiles looked down at the jeans and shirt and hoodie in his hands. He must have left those at least three years ago, when he'd had to board with Derek to keep a stalkerish strigoi from following him back home and put his father at risk. "Derek," he said quietly but firmly, dropping the clothes at his feet. "Derek, don't do this."
Eyes blazing and anger now clearly overcoming his attempt at stony calm, Derek looked between the clothing and Stiles. "Did I fucking stutter? Get. Out."
"Why would I think you'd want me?" Stiles yelled, not with anger but just in an attempt to break through to Derek, to be heard past all the barriers being thrown up. When Derek gaped at him, Stiles continued on at normal volume. "In all this time, Derek, why would I think that you wanted more from me than this." He waved at the bed, at his naked form. "What indication was ever given that there was more? That I could have more? Oh, I saw how you'd look at me, especially once I grew into myself a little more. Saw the way your eyes would track me as I trained and fought and even just crossed a fucking room. But lust is not the same as--as what you seem to be implying by your sudden shit fit. So, go on, be fucking pissed at me. But it's not like I'm a goddamn mind reader. So fucking excuse me if I had to bury the idea that you would ever want something else, that I could ever have something else. I've been expecting you to jump my bones for a while now, but not for you to suddenly want me to be your one and only."
Derek continued to stare at him, even after he'd fallen silent. Then, slowly, he took a cautious step closer to Stiles. "You think I throw myself between you and danger because I want to jump your bones? You seriously never noticed how you were the first one I started letting my guard down with? The first one I started treating like a friend?" Derek reached out as if to touch Stiles, but then curled his fingers into fists and pulled away. "And I'm also not the one who fucks around like it's going out of style." That last bit surprised Stiles, and when his eyes widened, Derek gave a little nod. "I smell them on you. I hear you brag to Scott."
"It's all just causal," Stiles started, but Derek spoke over him with a bitter "I know."
They stared at each other, Stiles stunned and Derek stone-faced once more. "You've got a choice right now," said Derek eventually, eyes flicking over Stiles' face as if they couldn't help but take him all in. "Either you put those clothes on and walk out, and this is the first and last time we will ever fuck. Or, you get back in that bed, let me make you breakfast, and I graciously forgive you for being a Grade A Dick that could seriously rival Jackson."
Breakfast was delicious, even if Derek broke the yoke and overcooked the bacon.