Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Goldilocks - Part 1 (Gift for hermionerd)

Title: Goldilocks
Author: tourdefierce
Recipient: hermionerd
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, mentioned canon pairings and Isaac/Multiple Partners
Rating: R
Word Count: 11, 300
Warnings: Explicit language, sexual content, breaking and entering, implied underage sex and age disparity (set post-S2, where Stiles is under 18 and Derek is somewhat older), fluff, scenting, implied sexual promiscuity of Isaac (who may or may not be underage), glorious hand-waving of S3 speculations of plot and mild depictions of violence.
Summary: It may be the wrong fairytale to fit their odd world, but Derek was most definitely Goldilocks, and somehow, Stiles' bed was juuuuuust right.
Author's Notes: I went way out of my comfort zone here to deliver a kink!free story and I hope you enjoy it, hermionerd. I stuck with the following prompts from the original sign-up: Friendships, more plot than porn, UST, introspection, bisexual characters in general, and slow build. (Although, I'd be lying if I said this had much of a plot other than mysterious bed-sharing!) My two betas and cheerleaders, S and A deserve all the thanks for this fic because their patience with me is extrodinary. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

The first time Isaac crawled into Stiles' bed it was two o'clock in the morning, two days before the full moon and Stiles stabbed him with the nearest sharp object—a knitting needle. There was a lot of whispered shouting, although Stiles' dad was working the third shift so the whispering must have just been habit, but eventually a light got turned on and Stiles stopped stabbing Isaac with shiny, purple knitting needles and watched the wounds heal up right before his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles hissed, gesturing wildly with the needle and watching as Isaac blinked, looking confused himself but also wary of the way Stiles was still brandishing his weapon of choice.

When Isaac still didn't answer, Stiles made a noise and asked again, because it bore repeating.

"Isaac, seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?"

Not for the first time, Stiles thought that Beacon Hills werewolves were really lucky they were all so pretty or nobody would put up with their shit. Because even after being awoken in the night, Stiles was still feeling guilty about stabbing Isaac several times. It was the way his eyes seemed to well-up with innocence and some sort of Bambi-like quality that made some sort of internal instinct of his snap. He didn't feel this with Boyd or Erica but they both had different ways to capitalize on their good looks. For Scott, it was the sort of confused and well-meaning look to his face that got him out of awkward encounters with the entirety of the Argent family and more than one conversation with his mother. For Isaac, it was his ability to look like the boy who was three seconds away from being locked into a freezer by his father.

His wayward curls looked soft in the light of Stiles' room and his blue eyes looked impossibly large. Isaac's face always made Stiles forget that Isaac was actually a predator, sort of an asshole and was kind of like Jackson in the way that he definitely used his weird, werewolf sexual mojo to get girls... and boys. Stiles was 90% certain that Isaac was getting some from Chris Argent, Danny, and the twins that run the mechanic shop on the edge of town.

Stiles shook his head and narrowed his eyes, pointing the knitting needles at Isaac's face.

"Are you on werewolf drugs? Because I told you not to take anything that Peter gives you."

Isaac frowned, looked down at the bed and then back to Stiles, "I don't know why I'm here."

"Do you feel the overwhelming urge to snack on my human flesh?"

Isaac shook his head.

"Are you doing recon?"

That earned him a dramatic huff.

"Are you trying to hit on me? Because let me tell you, man, that's super flattering because you're you know," Stiles said gesturing to the whole of Isaac's body and thinking of all the super-hot things Isaac has probably learned from his new found sexual freedom. "But um, I'm not desperate enough? Wait. That's not a question. I'm not interested and whoa, what are you doing?"

Isaac shoved his face into Stiles' neck and took a huge gulp of breath. He panted a few times as Stiles sat very, very still. Allison had pulled him aside once and explained about prey and being still and no sudden movements but Stiles was mostly just shocked into not moving.

Isaac was visibly and audibly smelling him.

Stiles understood that werewolves came with one killer nose but most of the time it was just Scott wrinkling up his nose and commenting on Stiles' jerk-off frequency.

This sort of smelling was new.

"Are you done?" Stiles said, trying to keep the snark in his voice.

Isaac pulled back and was pulling a damn good imitation of Scott's vulnerable-and-confused-about-being-vulnerable face. Which, dammit, that meant that Stiles wasn't going to be raging about the breaking and entering or the inappropriate bed creeping that totally bordered on assault because he was an absolute sucker for that face.

"You smell like Derek," Isaac said. "I came here because you smell like—"

"I'm going to stop you there—" but Stiles didn't get to lodge a complaint because a sudden look of clarity came over Isaac's face.

Then he looked a bit smug.

God. Werewolves. They were infuriating.

"Are you gonna share with the rest of the class? Or maybe just me since you broke into my house and climbed into bed with me in the middle of the night? Did you forget that I'm not one of your many conquests this month, you slut?"

Stiles poked Isaac with the knitting needle but he just shrugged and said, "We're trying something new."

"Who's we?"

"Pack," Isaac said and oh, now he's all tight-lipped.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and felt his face spasm. "Isaac."

He looked uncertain for all of two seconds before he reverted back to aloof and cool, despite still managing to look like a puppy that needed to be rapped on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. They were all badly trained but Isaac seemed to oscillate between apathetic and occasionally sorry about the inconvenience.

"Nesting," Isaac elaborated, breaking eye contact to stare longingly at Stiles' pillow. "We've been trying to work in sleeping in the same bed. Derek says it strengthens our ability to heal, make us stronger and that we'll be able to sense each other's feelings more."

"Like if you're being held hostage and electrocuted?"

Isaac shrugged again. "I guess."

"That suspiciously sounds like Derek is tricking you into cuddling with him," Stiles said. "Does this nesting involve -"

Stiles made a few questionable motions with his hands that he hoped conveyed his meaning.

"Dude, gross," and yeah, when Isaac scrunched up his nose and rolled his eyes like that, Stiles could not take him seriously. He looked like a little boy explaining why he couldn't hold a girl's hand to cross the street because she had cooties and duh, didn't Stiles know that?

Stiles put down the needle and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. The crusties at the corners of his eyes really hurt as he tried to knuckle them out. It was hard enough trying to figure the werewolf weirdness in the light of day. Doing it in the dark, after waking from a dead sleep was near impossible.

"Let me get this straight," he started, watching as Isaac chewed on his lip and continued to glance between Stiles' face and the fluffiest of Stiles' pillows with something suspiciously like longing or like Isaac was thinking about just lying down and pretending Stiles wasn't here with him. "Derek's been seducing you into cuddling with him and the rest of the pack, which screams of the potential for statutory rape or voyeurism in the very least—and don't even get me started on how this is all logistically possible—and somehow that explains why you are here, in my bed, looking like you're about to steal all my pillows?"

Isaac nodded.

Then he yawned.

Stiles tried to remind himself how peacefully he was sleeping before Isaac interrupted. He had to hold onto the anger in the face of that Isaac yawning and fuck, rubbing at his nose like he could get the tired to come off of him if he scrubbed hard enough. Like when Stiles was five and he hysterically scrubbed at his ankle because he couldn't get a dirt spot off with soap only to find out that it was a mole.

"Let's ignore the fact that you people are a bunch of creeps who cuddle together for a moment, but only for a moment because I'll be coming back to that—and get to the thought of anyone cuddling with Jackson without getting tetanus—how does that get you here?"

Isaac looked at him like Stiles was the dumb one.

"You smell like Derek."

"I smell like Derek?"

Isaac rolled his eyes, long legs and arms sort of just flopping about like Stiles was the one holding up the line. "Yeah, you smell like him."

Stiles was trying to process it all. First of all, he hadn't seen Derek in like three weeks and he hadn't even touched him then. It was a quick update on the fact that Gerard Argent's body was missing, the Alphas were most definitely here to cause trouble and everybody was still alive, even Peter (super unfortunately on that last one). There hadn't been any touching between them, not even a friendly 'hello there let me slam you up against this wall so that we can communicate because I'm very strange and seem to need to rub my pectorals on everything, including your chest'. Secondly, when did smelling like Derek become like a beacon for cuddling? Was Jackson going to roll up in his Porche and demand some space too? Admittedly, Stiles didn't know anyone in the world who needed a cuddle more than Jackson, but Stiles was not going to be the one to be giving it to him.

"So," Isaac said, breaking into Stiles' thoughts. "Can I stay?"

Isaac looked down as if he had a choice between making a break for it through the window or crawling underneath Stiles' bed and refusing to come out unless there were cookies involved.

Stiles sighed.

"If you hog the covers, I don't care what Derek says, you are not invited back for sneaky, nonconsensual night-cuddles, do you hear me? And keep your dick to yourself. Just because we're both on the bisexual train—although, I guess I shouldn't assume, I feel like your criteria for a bedmate is probably just breathing. But whatever, it doesn't mean I automatically want to do you."

Isaac wasn't listening. He was already cuddled up underneath the comforter, with it pulled all the way up to his nose as he wiggled out of his jeans and burrowed into Stiles' carefully constructed mound of pillows. Stiles watched for a few moments, taking in the madness, before he clicked off the light and laid back down.

He fell asleep with Isaac's wheezing breath in his face and the knitting needle pressing uncomfortably into his back, wondering what in the actual fuck was going on.


Five days later, Stiles came home from lacrosse practice to find three sleeping werewolves in his bed. Isaac was curled up at the foot of the bed, wrapped up in a blanket like he was burrito—although his feet were sticking out and, man, was he seriously wearing toe-socks because that was mega strange. Boyd was passed out flat on his back and Erica was lying splayed out, snoring loudly and dribbling all over Stiles' sheets.

Despite how freaky wrong it all seemed, Stiles just didn't have the heart to wake them. Although, to be fair, they probably all knew he was there. Scott endlessly complained about how he was such a light sleeper now because sounds and smells and freaky senses were still functioning in hyper-drive. Either way, Stiles didn't kick them out.

He thought about it, but it wasn't like he was using his bed anyway and Boyd kept snuffling and humming in his sleep like a massive teddy bear. It was literally the cutest thing Stiles had seen in a while and he spent a lot of time cuddling cats at the animal hospital waiting for Scott to get off work, okay? Boyd was always too busy being reasonable and bored looking (taking lessons from Derek, Stiles suspected) and this, well, this was certainly a change of pace.

Stiles settled in, flipping open his laptop and getting started on his homework. Three hours later, he took a break to make some dinner and when he came back up, thinking about offering them some, they were gone.

"You left the window open, you assholes!" Stiles yelled, hanging out the window a little. "Ungrateful cuddle punks!"


It didn't happen again for another two weeks but as always, what Stiles came to expect from cuddlehungry werewolves was not what he was going to get.

He was half-assedly watching a documentary on killer bees and raiding dungeons on WoW when his doorbell rang.

It was 2am and Scott was asleep in his room. Stiles had made sure of it himself after the thing with the Chupacabra earlier in the day—hell, Stiles hadn't even let Scott see Allison because getting munched on by something that weird made Scott loopy.

His dad was working and sure as hell didn't ring his own doorbell to come home.

Derek never even used the front door, let alone niceties like announcing his arrival or waiting for permission.

When Stiles peaked through the curtains, he was confronted with a strange sight. So strange that he even put down his baseball bat (Mrs. McCall could never say that he didn't listen to her wise words) and opened the door.

"Um, hi?"

Erica was looking twitchy and mean, arms crossed and within moments of an eyeroll but behind her stood Boyd and Isaac—which, okay whatever. But behind them, lurking over Boyd's hulking shoulder was Jackson's murderous face.

Jackson's face was always murderous since he killed a fuckload of people as Kanima but this time it was, like, actually furious looking—like 'fuck this noise' sort of style.

Silence reigned.

Stiles shifted back and forth on his feet, considering if he should run for his life, pick up his baseball bat and start swinging or if his curiosity was actually enough for him to stay.

Luckily, Boyd cleared his throat and said, "We have something to ask you."

Erica sneered but Boyd poked her in the back until she stopped making any expression at all. Isaac smiled and Stiles was officially beyond freaked.

"We would like to know if we can stay," Boyd offered, when no one else spoke up.


"In your bed," Isaac through in helpfully. "Like the other day."

Stiles bent down and grabbed the bat. "You didn't bother asking before."

"And that was rude of us," Boyd said. "We're asking this time, right Erica?"

She huffed, rolling her eyes and blowing up at her bangs. "Only because you're awful and making us. This is fucking torture. Let's just go."

"No!" Jackson said, clutching at Boyd's hand and Stiles gaped. "Just, come on, let us in."

"Hold on, freaky foursome. Where the hell is Derek?"

They all looked at each other, making various eyebrow and mouth twitching movements before Isaac finally said, "He and Peter went to someone Doc Deaton knows."

"Why does anyone want to travel with that psycho? I mean, seriously, do you guys hang out with him because I have to tell you, I don't let people who hang out with complete psychopaths cuddle in my bed. Regardless of how attractive you are all. Or how I'm still holding out hope that you'll all let me in on all that werewolf junk in your head because, you know, Derek isn't a sharer."

Stiles took a breath. They were all staring.

"Peter's gross," Isaac said, then shrugged. "Can we come in now?"

"Wait, so Derek is out of town and what, you're here because my bed smells like Derek—which, I see that no one is offering up any explanations of that for me, don't think I'm not picking up on that suspiciously absent information—but why are you here? Where do you all usually consummate this cuddle bond?"

"Depot," Isaac said.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Then why are you here?"

"For fuck's sake, Stilinski," Jackson finally broke, literally unable to keep his mouth shut for longer than five minutes. What an ass. He jostled between Boyd and Isaac's shoulders as if they were keeping him from breaking into Stiles' house. If that's what they were counting on, Stiles needed to speak with them about underestimating how big of a brat Jackson was. If he fucking wanted in Stiles' house, he was probably five seconds from willing himself back into Kanima form and slithering over their prone bodies, munching on Stiles on the way up and then napping in Stiles' bed for the rest of time.


"That scent is old," Boyd said, calmly and rational as predicted, bring Stiles back from his Jackson-induced rage-hell. "Can we please just—"

"I don't want to wait anymore. I just want to get some sleep," Erica interrupted then glared at Stiles. "We asked nicely, Stiles. Don't make me knock you unconscious with your own hand just so we can all get healed and well rested."

He let himself take in their appearances again. They were all freshly showered, which, thank god for small favors because he was pretty sure no one had gotten out of the Chupacabra ordeal without a gallon of guts on them. It was clear that Erica and Jackson were losing their patience and probably a little pissed Boyd made them ask anyway, because they were always weird about Stiles being let into any werewolf club secrets. However, it was hard to resist Isaac, who was blinking a lot and looking like he was willing to beg if he could just get some shut eye.

Stupid Isaac and his stupid hair and dammit.

"Fine," Stiles said. "But—"

"Yeah, yeah," Erica interrupted because obviously, she waits for no man and she shoved past him, sprinting up the stairs with Jackson hot on her heels. Isaac followed, less grumpy but no less eager. At least Boyd gave Stiles a nod and said a quick, "Thanks" before disappearing after them.

Stiles didn't know how they were all going to fit in his bed but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. Well, he was curious enough to peek in after another three hours of gaming. He had to pee and grab some pillows from the closet anyway, and he just had to see how they made it work.

In the barely-there sliver of moonlight shining in his window, the four werewolves were pretty much spooning. Erica was on one end being the big spoon to Boyd's little and then Jackson came next, even though his spooning with Isaac was more like a headlock. Jackson's knee was pretty violently mashed up against Isaac's kidney. Wow.

It was, despite the fact that Stiles knew their personalities, ridiculously cute.

He fell asleep trying not to think of all the ways his bed would stink strongly enough of Derek to have his betas come a-calling—each reason more insane than the next.


On Wednesday, a ghoul and a witch completely trashed the Wal-Mart on Jefferson Street, Scott got caught making out with Allison in a walk-in freezer and Derek returned to argue with Stiles, in public, which totally ruined any hope Stiles had of keeping his father from the knowledge that there was even a relationship to scream about.

It was entirely too dramatic, even for Lydia, who spent the majority of the interaction trying to keep Jackson from cheering at the two of them like some sort of fucked up Fight Club and generally just cringing at the sheer unclassy way Derek and Stiles were airing out their dirty laundry.

"You're a fucking dick!" Stiles screamed, hands flexing into fists as he leaned forward into Derek's snarling face. "Scott almost lost his leg! His leg, Derek. I don't care how strong and wonderful you all are—I'm pretty damn sure there will be no regeneration of legs. Am I right or am I fucking right?"

"You're being a child!"

Stiles roared his own frustrated growl. Derek lifted his stupid eyebrows and looked so smug and holier than thou that Stiles was going to strangle him. Right there on Jefferson, ghoul spittle on his face and Scott's blood all of his hands. In front of his father.

And he was going to feel so satisfied too.

"What the hell is wrong with you! You are seriously—"

Derek laughed in Stiles' face. "I'm what, Stiles? Come and enlighten me!"

"You son of a bitch," Stiles said. Then he bit Derek on the jaw.

Just leaned forward, opened his mouth and bit down on Derek's scruffy, sweat covered, jaw of perfection. Because he had lost his motherfucking mind due to prolonged exposure to Alpha Derek stupidity and general werewolf bullshit.

In front of his dad.

To say the least, it was a trying week for all of them.

After forty-five minutes of mulishly enduring a conversation that he had been dreading since it became clear that Derek Hale, falsely accused murder suspect, was a very frustrating (albeit hot) part of his life, Stiles' dad left for the night shift.

Stiles pretended for all of five minutes that his night was going to consist of Casablanca, a tub of ice cream and an embarrassing jerk off session courtesy of having put his mouth on Derek's skin earlier in the week—then he got off his ass and raided the linen closet.

He got extra pillows and tossed them in his room, then set up camp down stairs with his own pillow and blankets. About fifteen minutes in, he paused to give some attention to his dick and didn't even feel embarrassed about the prickle of tears in his eyes when he came because with the week he had? Having a good cry while hate-jerkin' his cock was perfectly dignified compared to devolving into some sort of animal and actually biting someone out of sheer frustration.

"Never again," Stiles said, wiping his dick off with some tissues and shoving them between the couch cushions, swearing he'd remember to throw them away later.

"Never again."

The look on Ingrid's face when he unpaused her clearly said that she wasn't sure if he meant the biting or the jerkin' off.

He didn't blame her.

The movie hadn't even gotten to ideas of martyrdom before Stiles heard Jackson and Isaac fighting in his room. There was a solid bump, which was probably someone's head colliding with Boyd's fist of I will not put up with this shit. Stiles scowled and stayed right where he was. He wanted to be alone. He respected their need to nest or whatever, but he had no desire to be involved in any way, shape or form tonight. He did his part by providing the locale.

At midnight, Erica went to the bathroom and called out a soft, "goodnight" that Stiles pretended not to hear on account of being asleep, even though she could probably hear that he wasn't. He didn't really care. He was so not in the mood to go up there and face them with their trippy, relaxed faces or their judgment that sort of looked like pity when they were all blissed out and cuddling.

So he and Derek had some unresolved issues, some of which were exasperated by Stiles' attraction and surprise at actually caring about whether or not Derek came back from a family vacation with Evil Uncle Peter or from trying to take on a ghoul and a witch alone or that because Derek didn't seem to give a shit about his own life. Stiles found that he and his friends were always in danger of losing Derek to some self-sacrificing bullshit.

And he cared about that.

At least, that's what he thought the biting was all about.

Five minutes after the last yelp of complaint (apparently Jackson had chronic cold toes to go with his chronic bitch face), Derek sat down next to Stiles on the couch. He had heard Derek knock twice before opening the front door but he refused to look away from the tv.

"How's Deputy Davis?"

Derek shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against Stiles'. "Eating a burrito and reading People magazine."

After a few minutes, Stiles gave into the temptation to explain.

"My dad is giving me a police escort for a while," he said. "He doesn't understand what happened but he's not stupid. He's pissed and worried and I'm pissed that he's worried and it's all just pretty much shit. Everything is shit between us right now and I hate it. I hate it and I hate it when you get hurt because I care. That's it. I'm not going to apologize, because Scott almost lost his entire leg and just—I don't know what to say to Dad that isn't just another lie. He's my dad. He's important. He's not going anywhere and neither are you or the pack or apparently Peter and just—it sucks pretty hard, dude."

Stiles didn't look away from the screen.

Ingrid cried for a bit and the music picked up.

"You should tell him," Derek said, credits rolling.

"I know," Stiles said. "I want to stop lying to my dad. But he’s all I got and, man, I do not want him involved. He can't get hurt, Derek. Like, that's a pretty hard line for me, ya know? We can't even keep ourselves from getting our shit rocked on like a nightly basis. But I don't know how to stop lying and keep him safe all at the same time."

Beside him, Derek grunted but didn't say anything more. Stiles sat thinking about the events of the week and the look on his father's face today. He thought about his friends in his bedroom, sleeping in Derek's unexplained scent and, of course, the jizz tissues between the cushions.

Then he watched Derek take the remote, find some sitcom that was running late into the night and let himself fall asleep there, pressed up against Derek. He was warm and safe, despite everything and that was something to celebrate. Or at least sleep on.

When he woke up, Derek was gone and he must have taken his puppies too because Stiles' bed was empty. The only evidence they were there was a neon, plaid sock beside his bed and too many pillows stacked by the headboard.


Suspiciously, the gang of misfit toys showed up for an entire week of school.

Over lunch, the fifth day in the row that included not only violent bickering but one accidental nutsack mangling, Stiles had had enough.

He pointed a fork and said, "Not that I want you all to be high school drop outs or teen moms or anything, but why are you all here?"

Erica pouted at him. "Don't be mean, Stiles. Isaac would never let anyone make him a baby momma."

Jackson sneered prettily and Isaac just shrugged, not even attempting to defend his honor. Typical. As was the way Boyd completely ignored their conversation and menacingly devoured his mac and cheese. Stiles would actually enjoy eating lunch with Boyd if it wasn't for all the tools that came with him. Boyd let him ramble without interruption most of the time and had the whole blank face, Derek-in-training thing going on, so there were minimal bitch faces about Stiles or Stiles and Scott's ridiculousness when it was just Boyd. He kept his thoughts to himself, which mostly made Stiles want to strangle him, however it came in handy during lunch ramblings.

"Huh," Scott said through an entire bag of Cheetos. "Yeah, you guys have been here all week."

"Maybe I like to learn," Erica said.

Stiles snorted. "Maybe you like distracting me," he said and then he leaned back. Isaac was looking particularly tired today and Jackson was so irritable he hadn't even pushed Stiles into a locker the entire week.

"Wait a minute."

Boyd took that time to sit up and pay attention—to flee—without a word. He just nodded to the others, got up with his hulking shoulders, and left the cafeteria.

"Yeah, um, got to go," Isaac said and then the rest of the table cleared out.

The thing of it was: Stiles couldn't ever let anything go. Mysteries were meant to be solved! They were tiny little scraps of information begging to be found, piled together and deduced. It was entirely possible that this was because Stiles read too much Sherlock Holmes stories as a child or some twisted form of hero worship (but let it be said that Stiles' dad totally deserved to be worshipped). Whatever was the case, Stiles had not let anything lie in his entire life. Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy had been the first to go in the Stilinski family. The Easter Bunny followed shortly after. They weren't ousted because Stiles wasn't a dreamer or because he grew up too fast. No, those stories were debunked by Stiles and his master skills of deduction or annoying his parents so much they finally caved to his elaborate crayon storyboard drawings of evidence.

It wasn't just the victory of truth but the thrill of the investigation.

Which was why Stiles was thinking, trying to put together all the strange pieces of their weirdo werewolf interaction and trying to come up with some sort of plausible explanation, while Scott was noisily sucking on the last remnants of his juice box. The betas were all naturally secretive now. It must have been a werewolf gene (that Scott clearly refused to inherit because he was not a secret keeper—Stiles' knowledge about Allison and sexy times is a testament to that) but the rest of the betas held on to information like Stiles would have to pry it from their implausibly dead hands. Even asking them what they all had for dinner frequently turned into a minute of silent communication before someone fessed up some information.

It was ridiculous and Stiles blamed the paranoia on Derek. Hey, it wasn't always paranoia because pretty much everyone was out to get them but Derek could try harder.

"Sneaky werewolves," Stiles said, squinting at the space they had vacated. He was definitely missing something that made all the strange pieces of their behavior click together.

"Dude, I do not get them," Scott added. "I mean, what does Derek even do all day? This is Beacon Hills—"

"You freaking genius," Stiles hollered. "You are totally right. What does he do all day? I mean, he obviously doesn't have a job and if we've been staring at their ugly mugs all week long, then whatever he's doing is something they're not allowed to be involved in."

Scott frowned, looking like a wounded puppy but also concerned that whatever Stiles was thinking about might interfere with his determination to make time to get to second base with Allison. Even though they're still "not really dating" and are complete and totally liars. Whatever, okay? Stiles wasn't going to touch that business unless Scott explicitly asked for his advice.

"Do you think Derek's in trouble?"

"Maybe," Stiles said. "Didn't they all look tired though? Like they weren't getting enough sleep?"

"Um, I dunno, man. They looked fine to me."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Isaac's precious face is fooling you, Scott. But those adorable baby blues will not distract me from the mystery at hand."

When Stiles looked to Scott for a bit more Scooby and Shaggy sort of support, all he got was a shrug and a side-eyeing maneuver of his pudding cup.

"Are you going to eat that?" Scott said and Stiles relented because who could eat pudding at a time like this?


Two days later and Stiles was still stuck.

"I think they might be in some sort of sex cult," Stiles said, virtually ducking underneath a bridge as a helicopter flew overhead. He really needed more ammo. "And Derek is busy during the day taking care of some sort of administrative sex cult business and the betas are sad. I'm not sure how it all links up to the bed sharing thing they've got going on in my bed and frankly, the thought of that much fluid in my bed is kind of grossing me out. Can you smell it? Does it smell like a sex cult?"

Scott blinked.

Then he went and got himself killed.

"Dude! Chopper!"

"Stiles, you can't talk about sex cults and expect me to care about COD," Scot exclaimed, throwing down his controller. "Also, why is sex cult the first conclusion?"

"I dunno! It's frustrating! But I think all the leather and the weird sexual tension everyone has is starting to rot my brain. It could just be blue balls," Stiles said, defensive. "But really, come on! You have to admit it's all a little strange. First with all of them sleeping in my bed and Derek being all cagey lately—which I will cop to some of it because yeah, the biting—but he's also been suspiciously absent around here. I get nervous when he's not lurking and looming."

Scott squinted and shook his head, as if he could dislodge Stiles' ramblings.

"Maybe Derek is busy with Alpha pack stuff."

Stiles shook his head. "I've been doing research for him on that, so it really can't be that. I'm just having trouble linking the weird cuddling going on in my bed and Derek."

"Do you want me to smell your sheets?"

'Yes! Scott! That is brilliant. Please, if you could, use your freaky-deaky nose on my bed. That would be super cool."

Scott sighed, squinted at him as if he was trying to decide if Stiles was kidding, and then lumbered himself out of the beanbag. He leaned over the bed and sniffed.

"Um," he said, looking as uncomfortable as Scott could. Stiles had never met anyone who fit the descriptions of ants in the pants as much as Scott when he's uncomfortable or lying to his mother. "Are you sure Derek hasn't been around?"

"Not up here. Not lately."

"I mean, like today?"

Stiles shook his head. "Impossible. We've been at school. You came home with me!"

"It's just that it smells pretty strongly," Scott continued. He stepped away from it and rubbed his nose. "It smells really fresh."

"What smells fresh?"

Scott's face twisted up into a clearly uncomfortable and upset tangle of normally attractive features.

"It smells... like Derek," he finally said. "But dude, it also smells like pack."

"That has a smell? Is it also the smell of group sex?"

"No! It's just, like, packs have a scent? It's hard to explain. More like, claimed or homey."

Stiles rubbed a hand over his face.

"You know what? I'm tired of not being able to make dog jokes because you freaking werewolves are—" Stiles stopped because Scott was taking off his shoes and getting into his bed. "Scott, what are you doing?"

"Man, I don't even know. I really just want to lie down for a bit? Is that okay? Or is that weird?"

"Are you serious right now?"

Scott shrugged—or at least, Stiles thought he shrugged until he realized that Scott was just snuggling into the pillows and clutching the covers until they wriggled up his torso. Unbelievable.

"Has your bed always been this comfy? I don't remember it being this awesome," Scott mumbled. "I feel like all my dreams have come true."

Stiles sighed. "Whatever. Fine. Take a nap," he said, gesturing. "By all means, have at it. It's not like I can deny you when I whored my bed out to everyone else. Just be warned, you're sleeping on a mattress that has touched Jackson, okay?"

Scott just hummed, snuggling deeper and making himself comfortable. Stiles looked on, not even thinking about anything because yeah, this was weird but it clearly had to be some sort of weird pack thing. His bed smelled like pack—like Derek?

"What does it smell like now?"

"S'nice," Scott said, drowsy. "Smells like Mom's oatmeal cookies and Allison's shampoo—smells like home and pack and safety."

"I thought it smelled like Derek?"

"It does."

Stiles frowned. "How does that make any sense? It can't smell like oatmeal cookies and Allison's soul or whatever always makes you get that goofy look on your face and still smell like Derek. That's impossible. Those things are completely and totally opposite. They are on the other end of the smell spectrum!"

Scott didn't reply. He did, however, let out a little snore.

"Fine," Stiles said, picking up his controller. "But I'm going to remember this moment of your epic failure, Scott. So much fail, dude."


Because Stiles used to have luck before he met a bunch of creepy-ass werewolves, his dad had a meeting four towns over and had to gone for an entire day. He told Stiles about it over dinner two days before and then bitched about Deputy Kyle getting to eat curly fries in the police car, right in front of him.

An idea was born.

It was pathetic how easy it was to fool the Beacon Hills principal’s office into believing that Stiles was his father. They cooed sympathetically over the line, wishing him well even though they've only ever given Stiles blank looks when he's around the office, and just like that, Stiles was called in sick. He pulled on a sweat-shirt of Scott's and watched from the Cripling family's shed. They were on vacation and they never locked their shed, which had a great line of sight for the back door.

At twelve thirty, Derek melted out of the woods.

"Son of a bitch," Stiles whispered, scrambling to pull out his binoculars.

Derek easily jumped the back fence, only looking around once before he slid underneath the back awning. He looked ridiculously attractive, more lively since Peter had yet to show his evil side as of late, and he didn't look at all sallow or pale in the daylight. He was still wearing his stupid leather jacket that ran too long in the arms but Stiles didn't mind so much when he was wearing black jeans that tight.

Stiles wondered how he squeezed his junk into them.

"Stop thinking about Derek's dick," Stiles said to himself, adjusting the binculars and leaning forward. He watched as Derek picked the lock with what he suspected was an elongated claw and slipped comfortably into Stiles' house.

Like he did it all the damn time.

Stiles sat and waited. He ate a sandwich and stared bleary eyed at his own house, acknowledging how strange it was that he was staking out his own home in his neighbor's shed. At three-thirty, Derek reappeared.

Stiles didn't think it was possible for Derek to look more attractive but damn. His usually perfectly sculpted hair was a mess and Stiles would bet his balls that the red, creased print on Derek's cheek came from a pillow. Derek still looked sleepy but pleased with himself and Stiles didn't know what he was angrier about, the fact that Derek looked that good breaking and entering his house for a nap or the fact that Derek’s weird, fucking freakyass napping was the source of all the weirdness in Stiles' life.

At least, Stiles was assuming Derek was just sleeping in there.

It was hard to ignore the urge to make a joke about Derek marking his territory but he really needed to not be hysterically laughing. That would probably tip Derek off. Admittedly, the thought of Derek, Mr. Piss and Vinegar himself, actually pissing on Stiles' bed and then making his betas sleep in it... well, that was delightful.

The fact that it was Stiles' bed wasn't as delightful. Nor was the weird fact that Stiles was still kind of turned on, despite thinking about Derek whipping his dick out and taking a piss.

But Stiles was going to stick with ninja napping and not pissing... or jerking off because if he had to do with either of the latter options, his mind might actually explode with the extreme amount of rage and arousal that would inspire.

He tried not to dwell on that too much.

Or the fact that he skipped school to stake-out his own damn house, which was completely lame and not cool at all. But then again, he had caught Derek Hale sneaking into his house and leaving looking flushed, happy and still a little sleepy around the edges.

For some reason, as Stiles sat with numb fingers and a quickly numbing ass, he wondered if the three hours Derek spent sleeping in Stiles' bed was the only solid sleep Derek got.


He didn't really know what to do with any of it. The next day, he went to school like he normally did but left his webcam on to broadcast with the uplink to his phone. In the morning, he watched the emptiness of his room distract him for most of his classes. Stiles had almost forgotten about it to be honest. Then Mr. Harris was being a complete bag of dicks in chemistry and Stiles had to look at his phone for fear of the little magical power he possessed rallying and sending Harris into spontaneous combustion.

There on the screen was a naked, slumbering werewolf.

"Holy shit," Stiles said.

"For some reason," Harris interrupted. "I doubt that's to do with the sudden realization of what a dumb little shit you are."

Stiles didn't even pretend to be interested. He blinked a few times, grabbed his backpack and squeaked out, "Not feeling well." Then he split.

Upon further inspection, it was hard to tell if Derek was fully naked but he definitely wasn't wearing a shirt. Nor was he wearing any socks.

Stiles stared. Derek's feet were twitching in a way that was way to attractive. One foot was sticking out from underneath the covers and spastically twitching every once in a while. Stiles was struck with the imagine of puppies dreaming and kicking their legs in their sleep—as if that would get them closer to catching whatever they were chasing.


What exactly was Derek chasing?

Part Two


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Dec. 24th, 2012 09:54 pm (UTC)
Oh wow, I haven't even gone on to part two yet, but I had to comment on how wonderful this is so far! All the betas sleeping in Stiles' bed is just precious--Isaac climbing in with Stiles and yawning and Scott falling asleep to the smell of cookies and Allison are especially adorable images. I love your Stiles voice. It's just perfectly irreverent and funny.

Thank you so much, mystery author! Onwards to part two!
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )


TW Holidays: A Teen Wolf Fic Exchange

Latest Month

August 2014


Page Summary

Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Tiffany Chow