Rating: M for graphic descriptions of violence and sex

Pairing: "Stiles" Stilinski / Derek Hale

Spoilers: None

Timeframe: Arbitrary, but written after the first two seasons of Teen Wolf.

Summary: Stiles receives a strange threatening phone call from a psychotically perverted Derek Hale which leads him to believe he's under siege in his own home. Ten-and-a-half inches. Enough said. Warnings: Dirty talk and rape-fantasy. Descriptions of violent and graphic gay sex. Implied under-age sex.

The Call

"What are you wearing?"

The voice on the other end of Stiles' cell phone is low, slightly ragged, and somehow familiar. It sounds like somebody he knows, purposely disguising his voice.

"Scott? Is that you?" Stiles asks, annoyed. "This is so very I-Know-What-You-Did-Last-Summer. I mean, seriously, fifth grade level prank call. I expected better from you."

A sound comes through the phone, so crisp and clear, like it's from a land line in a quite house. It's the sound of a laugh. Smooth and slow and devious, like it's being transmit directly from the depths of Hell into the mobile device. Damn, AT&T gets good cell service, Stiles thinks to himself as a shiver runs down his spine.

"Dude, cut it out. That's so unfair to use your wolfy autotune bullcrap to try to scare me. I had the T-Pain app on my phone to do that, but I accidentally deleted it." Stiles sits at his computer desk and opens the video chat interface on his laptop. He clicks on Scott's username from the pathetically short list of friends and waits for a response.

"Are you alone?" the voice asks, drawling maliciously.

Stiles snorts, feigning bravado, and exaggerates, "No, I'm here with my dad, who happens to be the sheriff, and his entire squad. They're just downstairs on a coffee break, but they're armed. Armed and caffeinated. You don't want to fu-" Stiles' last word gets cut off when he realizes something.

Scott's image has come up on the video chat interface. He's eating pizza and his mouth is full. He's definitely not on the phone.

"Ffffuck," says Stiles, completing the word that had stalled on his tongue, rolling his chair back from the desk to check the window. Because that's what you do in horror movies when a perverted killer calls your house. It's dark outside, darker than usual, since the porch lamp is broken.

The voice coming through his phone is speaking at the same time Scott is talking through the computer.

"What's up?" says Scott with a mouth full of pizza. "Did you finish the Econ take-home test yet?"

But Scott's casual and friendly questions don't quite register in Stiles' head because the voice through the phone is saying, "You're alone. I know you are. Your dad's car isn't in the driveway."

"Uh… let me get back to you in a minute," says Stile's distractedly to Scott, as he locks the bedroom window. "If I don't poke you in like five minutes, poke me. Like, literally, check if I'm still alive."

He clicks off the video chat screen and runs down the stairs frantically to turn the deadbolt in the front door, peeking through the little windows to see a thankfully empty porch, but a terrifyingly empty driveway.

"I'm totally not alone. My dad's car is in the shop. Yeah. And he's right here. And he has a gun. Did I mention before that he's the sheriff? Armed and dangerous. And I took 5 years of karate."

The voice on the other end of the phone laughs breathily like he's amused, but not amused enough to refrain from killing Stiles. "You're right. You're not alone. But your dad's not there. And I don't like being lied to."

Stiles laughs nervously. "Really none of us are alone in the grand scheme of things. What, with 7.5 billion people on the planet or something." He's scrambling around the first floor of the house locking all the windows. "And if you're, like, religious and stuff, you're never alone because Jesus is always on your side, or Mohamed, or Buddha, or Yoda, or-"

"You're not alone, Stiles," the voice cuts him off. It sounds exceedingly more frightening now that Stiles is aware the caller knows his name, and he's saying it like it's a bead of saliva flicking off a devilishly forked tongue. It's not just a random creepy stalker call. It's targeted toward Stiles.

Stiles is in the living room. He sits down on the couch where he has a good vantage point of the front door and the windows that over-look the porch. What the caller says next makes him leap right back up.

"I'm here with you, Stiles." The caller speaks in a calm and reassuring way, as if comforting a lonely boy who has lost his way. "You're wearing a red sweatshirt, and you're chewing on the drawstring of the hood."

Stiles spits the drawstring out of his mouth and sits perfectly still, though his eyes are darting around every possible point of ambush. "No, I'm not."

The caller laughs again and dead-pans sarcastically, "You're cute."

Stiles' heart is racing. All of his own sarcasm has bled out of him, along with the color in his cheeks. The voice sounds more familiar now - the phrase, something he's heard that voice say before. "Who is this? What do you want from me?"

"I'm the Big Bad Wolf and I've come to eat you all up, Little Red," the voice growls softly.

Stiles' swallows hard. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. He's sweating profusely. Suddenly, his clothes feel like they're constricting him. "Derek?"

The caller doesn't answer. He just keeps on talking. And Stiles knows that voice now. The low and menacing voice of Derek Hale, intoning smoothly, like a seductive psychopath. "You look so tasty in that color. I could just swallow you whole."

"Dude, this is seriously fucked up. What do you want from me? I'm on your side. Well, sort of. But you have no reason to hurt me. I've done nothing but help you despite my better judgment and you should be thanking me, not threatening to… to…"

Derek finishes Stiles' sentence for him, whispering maniacally, "To put your pretty little throat in my mouth and sink my teeth into you."

Stiles shudders at the thought. "Is this like a weird misdirected bloodlust thing? Because I can think of about ten other people who deserve their throats being ripped out with your teeth way more than me… Did you just say my throat is pretty?" Stiles can't help being distracted from a life-threatening situation by that one remark. He hasn't taken his Adderall yet tonight.

Derek doesn't sound quite like himself. He sounds like he's acting on pure instinct and primal hunger. "So gorgeous and pale and," he gives a small, desirous moan through the phone that Stiles thinks is downright obscene. "I just want to lick your jugular vein and feel your life pulsing in my mouth."

Derek's words feel like a malicious caress down his neck.

Stiles is carefully padding through the living room to the kitchen. "Derek, tell me where you are and I'll try to help you through whatever lunar-induced craziness you're experiencing with a minimal of bodily harm to myself, okay? Well, really, no bodily harm inflicted would be optimal, but if you have to hurt me, maybe just, like, the extremities or something because internal bleeding could potentially be-" Stiles is babbling again. He does this when he's nervous. He's anxious that a werewolf is going to jump out of a dark corner at any moment to the sound of staccato attack strings.

"The full moon isn't for another two weeks," Derek informs him. "I just want to tear you apart because you're such a delicious little morsel of uncorrupted flesh." Stiles honestly has never heard Derek speak so much at one time and he's amazed how much malevolence can increase the man's vocabulary.

Stiles nervously rubs circles into the short-cropped hair on his head. "Oh god. I'm going to die. I'm going to die a virgin."

"No you won't," says Derek.

Stiles heaves a sigh of relief as he tilts his head back. "I'm not going to die. Good. That's good. Awesome."

"You're not going to die a virgin," Derek specifies.

And Stiles feels his knees give out on him. He pastes his back against the wall and slides along it, because that's what you're supposed to do in the movies when an unseen killer is in your house at night. His free hand is splayed on the wall as he moves through the dark hallway back to the stairs.

"Derek. Where are you? Why are you saying these things? This is batshit crazy talk." Stiles is sliding his way along the wall as he goes up the stairs, knocking down a picture frame or two, jumping out of his skin at the clattering sound.

Derek doesn't answer Stiles' questions. He just keeps talking in that brooding, quiet, tone, making threats that sound like deadly promises. And if Stiles isn't mistaken, Derek sounds like he's breathing heavily, like the man is getting himself all worked up and excited.

"When I find you, I'm going to pin you down with my hand on the back of your neck and tear off your pants with my claws. Then I'm going to lick your virgin hole until you're wet for me."

Breathlessly, Stiles squeaks, "Really? How thoughtful that you'd take the time to lubricate before you, uhm, rape me."

Derek keeps talking as if Stiles isn't even interrupting him. "I'm going to spread you wide open and slip my hard cock inside your slick, tight ass. I'll drive it in, balls deep, and you'll take it all like a good boy. All ten and a half inches, stretching you mercilessly."

Stiles makes a choked, high-pitched sound in his throat. "Ten?"

"And a half," Derek corrects pointedly.

Stiles feels like all the muscles in his legs have softened into Jell-O. He collapses at the top of the stairs and sits on the step, his back resting on the wall as he pants. Stiles is sure that, wherever Derek is, the werewolf can hear his heart pounding in his chest swiftly.

Stiles panics. "Oh god. Can we, uhm, negotiate? I really don't want to be violated by a monstrous werewolf dick, but maybe we could compromise? I hear intercrural sex is a thing."

Derek insists, "No, I'm going to put it in your ass, Stiles. I'm going to fuck you hard and fast. You will bleed. You will scream. You won't even beg for mercy because you'll be begging for death."

Stiles can't even talk anymore. He manages a terrified whisper. "Where are you?"

"I'm so close. I can smell you, Stiles," Derek says rapturously, "I can smell the fresh-cut grass that you walked through today. Smell the sweat and teenage boy hormones seeping from your pores. I can smell the smear of come on your boxers from when you jerked-off after school and the dried blood at the corner of your mouth from when you bit your lip. And, mmm, I can almost taste you. So hot and tender in my mouth."

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering, slow exhale. "Fuck… Derek…" He stutters, chest heaving with each ragged breath, "I-I- I can't do this anymore. Where the fuck are you? I need you. Now. Like, right fucking now."

"Bedroom."

Stiles drops the phone, not even bothering to end the call, and rushes into his room. Derek is lounging on Stiles' bed, one hand on his mobile phone, the other curled around his raging ten-inch hard-on. Correction, his ten-and-a-half-inch hard-on. He's still wearing all his clothes, even that leather jacket that Stiles loves so much.

Stiles yanks the phone out of Derek's hand and tosses it to the floor. He pulls off his red hoodie and pushes down his track pants in a very uncoordinated and not very attractive attempt to divest himself of his clothes. Derek looks like he's biting back a laugh. Stiles straddles Derek's lap and groans softly. "You're dirty," he declares with a pleased grin, grinding down slowly on Derek's massive hardness.

"You love it," says Derek with a smirk.

Stiles drapes his lanky arms on Derek's broad shoulders. Their bodies are so different, but somehow they fit perfectly. "You're a bad actor, though." He presses a soft kiss to Derek's deviously smiling lips. God, he loves that smile.

Derek gently nips Stiles' bottom lip. "I wasn't going for an Oscar."

Stiles mocks the words Derek had spoken earlier. "I'm the Big Bad Wolf and I've come to eat you all up, Little Red? Come on. That's like, worse than the worst porn movie dialogue. And believe me, I've seen a lot."

Derek comes back with his own criticism. "I hear intercrural sex is a thing? You'd seriously let your would-be rapist fuck your thighs rather than fight back or run away?"

"What? I was improvising. The rest of it was pretty damn good though, right?" Stiles nuzzles his face into Derek's neck, inhaling the familiar masculine scent of wolf and leather and sweat.

"Yeah, you're great at playing the scared little bitch." Derek chuckles softly. The sound is warm and comforting, and Stiles knows that he's one of the few people who've been blessed enough to hear Derek genuinely laughing.

Stiles playfully bites Derek on the throat in retaliation. "Shut up and fuck me."