Chapter 3

"Look," Scott says, grabbing Stiles by the back of his shirt as he's still yanking books out of his bag. "New girl."

Stiles looks up, scanning the room. Kids are still getting to their seats, and the room is full of the noise and movement characteristic of the moments before class starts. They've been on a steady rotation of substitutes for English since the last one 'mysteriously disappeared', today they're finally getting a permanent teacher. The school board definitely needs to screen their teachers better, so Stiles doesn't begrudge them the time.

"There."

Stiles looks where Scott's pointing. He didn't notice her before, as if his eyes just skipped over that desk. "God. Is she even a junior? She's like, tiny."

The girl turns and looks at him. Stiles jerks and swivels around in his chair. "Oh my god. Did she hear me?"

Scott grins. "I dunno. Maybe she's a werewolf."

Stiles risks another look. The girl has turned back, and she has her head down, scribbling on the cover of a pristine notebook. "She's so little," Stiles says under his breath.

"Cute, though," Scott says.

"I don't believe something that small could be called anything but cute," Stiles says. "Unless they're evil. Which is a distinct possibility."

"Call it."

Stiles considers. She looks like a normal kid. Small, yeah, but not too young to be a junior. Straight dark hair falls to just below her shoulders, and as Stiles watches, she brushes a lock of it behind her ear. Which is just as small and cute and tiny as the rest of her. He shakes his head. "Not evil."

The new teacher walks in, and a hush settles over the classroom. He's young enough that he looks barely out of college. He holds his head high, though, glaring down at the stragglers like he's got something to prove.

"Call it," Scott says.

"Evil. Definitely evil. Harris-class evil."

A shuddering noise of distaste comes from Scott's desk.

.

They're dismissed five minutes after the bell's rung. Stiles leaps to his feet, gathering his books into his bag. "Didn't I say he was evil?" he says.

"You called it," Scott says. He stops, a book halfway into his bag. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?" He looks up. He knows that look on Scott's face, it's all noble concern. He looks back down and closes his bag, swings it onto his shoulder and wishes he could just walk away, leave his friend behind.

Scott grabs him by the sleeve before he can disappear. "Stiles. I heard it again. Just now."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm fine, okay? I told you I was fine, can't you just—"

"You've gotta see someone about it. There might be something seriously wrong with you."

Stiles sighs. "I did. And I'm fine."

"What, a doctor?"

"Yes." Deaton counts. He's not lying.

Scott narrows his eyes. "Okay. Well, if you want to talk about it?"

"Not yet," Stiles says. "I'll tell you, but not yet." He's not ready, not even for his best friend to know, and he's got at least a few more months before he won't be able to hide it any longer.

.

"Oh god." Stiles stared at the ceiling, fingers twisting into the blanket as he tried to hold on. "I'm gonna come if you do that."

"Good," Derek whispered, his voice low and husky. He lay between Stiles' spread legs, his breath cooling the growing pool of precome on Stiles' stomach. "It'll take the edge off." He lowered his head, and his tongue swiped through the patch of fluid, warm and rough, dragging against the tip of Stiles' cock.

"Oh, my god." Stiles lifted his head, looking down as Derek glanced up. His eyes were scrunched at the corners, and his mouth curved into a smile as his lips closed over the tip of Stiles' dick. "Do it," Stiles said. "Holy crap, Derek, fucking do it or I swear to god—"

Derek slid his mouth down over the length of Stiles' cock, tongue pressing against the underside, cheeks slightly hollowed as he applied just a little bit of suction.

Stiles' eyes rolled back into his head, and his shoulders fell back onto the mattress.

.

Stiles is warm in his bed, surrounded by darkness and blankets. His left hand lies on his belly and his eyes are open as he stares up at the ceiling.

It was never truly flat, Stiles' stomach. Always had a slight roundness to it. In the last few years it's gotten firmer as what little baby fat Stiles once had gave way to lean muscle, but he's sure it wasn't like this.

It's tight, now. It's not a lot bigger, he's sure of that, not that anyone would notice just from looking, but the skin is stretched taut over whatever is inside. Stiles wonders where it is, what it's attached itself to. He's not stupid, he knows this is more likely to kill him than not, at least by the standards of the real world, the world without werewolves and all the other supernatural bullshit he's seen in the last year.

Right now he's trusting the supernatural to save his ass, and he's putting all that trust in Deaton.

Still, he's bitter. He has every right to tell Deaton to get rid of it, to take it out. He said yes to Derek, thinking Derek would stay, because Stiles is desperate for someone else to share this with, someone to talk to about it, someone other than Deaton, who, despite all he's done for them, still keeps everything just a little too close to his chest.

But Derek left, and Stiles feels very alone.

That anger is what makes him reach out for his phone and send the text that is his first contact with Derek since he left town. I'm going to die for you. he taps out, then hits send.

Five minutes later, there's still no reply, and Stiles gives up.

With his left hand still resting on his belly, he slides his right under the waistband of his pajama pants.

Stiles can't help but associate the thought of Derek, his name, his face, the memory of his voice, with the only sex he's ever had with another person. Even just thinking about what's inside him makes him think of the man who put it there, and how he did it.

Stiles pushes the thought of that away, of being physically tied to Derek, of the fear and bliss that went with it, and goes with the memory of Derek's mouth on him. He pulls his hand out of his pants, slides his middle finger between his lips, wetting it, before wriggling his pants down to his knees and kicking them off. He lifts his knees, making a tent under his blankets, and then drags his spit-wet finger around the head of his cock.

His breath shudders and his feet press more firmly against the mattress. He closes his eyes and drags his thumb across the tip of his cock, smearing a bead of precome over the head. "Do it," he breathes, very softly as he sinks into his fantasy. "Please."

Stopping long enough to squirt some lube into his hand, he jerks it over his cock fast, until it's warm, then closes his eyes, sinks back into the pillow and starts to move his hand slow, gripping tight as he slides it from base, to tip, then down again. "God," he whispers. "Yeah. So fucking good."

He's so lost in his fantasy, in his memories, that when his phone vibrates, he thinks it's a text message. But it keeps buzzing, the harsh sound against the wood breaking his concentration. His hand still on his dick, he reaches out with his left, but still leaves a wet smear of lube on the screen as he swipes to answer the call.

"Where are you?" Derek asks. "What's going on?"

Even with the panicked tone, the sound of Derek's voice has Stiles giving his dick an involuntary squeeze. "At home? Trying to sleep." He hopes Derek can't hear his heartbeat over the phone, because it's racing, and his breath is quick and shallow.

Derek grunts, the sound of confusion. "You're not sleeping, Stiles. Where are you? What's happening?"

"I'm in my bed," Stiles says. "The place where I sleep."

There's silence on the other end, long moments that tick away while Stiles can't help but stroke himself slowly.

"Your heart's racing, Stiles." The sound of Derek inhaling, exhaling. "Your text... I thought you were in trouble."

"Duh."

"In danger, Stiles. I thought you were in danger."

"Also duh. You honestly think I'm going to survive this?" That even through his anger, his cock stays hard, probably says something about him. Maybe it's Derek's voice, with Stiles already thinking of the time they had sex, it's natural that hearing it would have that effect. He slides his hand up and down his cock, slow, aware that the slightest squelch might carry through the phone line. "Science, Derek. Real world science, not all this supernatural stuff. It's possible, what's happened to me, more or less. You know why they don't do it, even though they could?"

"Because the guy wouldn't survive the delivery," Derek says, his voice suddenly quiet. "I know. I know, Stiles, but I'm not going to let that happen, I swear. I'm doing everything I can to make sure you both come out okay."

Stiles' hand stills, but he tightens his grip. He tries to hold his breath, to control his breathing, but it just makes it worse when he lets it go.

"I'm not going to let you die, Stiles." Derek's quiet for several seconds. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Freaking out."

"No. Yeah, I know you're worried, but..." There's a small huff of laughter. "I've heard you breathe like that before, Stiles."

"Fuck you." Stiles' grip on his dick loosens. He should hang up the phone, but he doesn't.

"Are you with someone?" There's heavy tension in those few words.

"No." His grip tightens again. He pumps his fist, slow. "You're still the only one with standards low enough to go there."

"I don't have low standards, Stiles, just bad judgment." Derek's voice is suddenly softer, smoother. "I think we proved that. What are you doing? Are you...?" Derek's breath comes quick, still soft, but Stiles can hear it. "God, Stiles. What are you...?" There's static, as if Derek is moving the phone to the other hand, or holding it between his ear and his shoulder. "Can I hear you come? I need to— Please, Stiles."

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes, and he shifts his hand over his cock, a couple of quick jerks before he slows again.

"Please. I can't get it out of my head, the way you sound, the look on your face, the way you tighten up all over when you come."

Stiles is gasping now, sucking in great lungfuls of air, his hand flying over his dick, the lube making wet, slick, smacking sounds.

"You're so close, I can tell. Were you close when I called? Have you been doing it the whole time?"

"Fuck. Yes." Stiles' hand cramps, his pulls become erratic, but it's too late. His back arches off the bed and he lets out a low, guttural moan as he spills over his hand and all over his stomach. "Oh my god."

"Stiles, Jesus." Derek's breath is shaky and quick, huffing into the receiver, scratchy and loud in Stiles' ear. "I'm sorry."

"What?" He's still groggy, his head still clearing, and his focus more on what to do about the mess than what Derek's going on about.

"I shouldn't have done that." Derek's still panting, and Stiles wonders if he's had his hand down his own pants, if it's still there. "I should go. I just needed to make sure you were okay. I didn't... Not for this. I should go."

Stiles groans and pulls himself up into a sitting position, reaching for the tissues. "Gonna die if this thing stays in me, but if you have to run off so badly—"

"Trust me, Stiles." Derek's breathing is slower now, more controlled. "I'm gonna find a way. Don't do anything final. I know Deaton's probably telling you—"

"He's telling me that I'm dead if he doesn't take it out now, Derek."

Derek stops breathing altogether. "I need more time."

Stiles listens to the sound of silence for at least a minute before he hangs up on the call.