A/N:

It would be wise to read the first part before this one - it's titled The Trials and Hardships of a Sarcastic Gay Teenage Emissary. It sets up the setting nicely and helps with the continuity in this piece. As dark as the content of this one may be, I tried to make it equally as funny - I was aiming for a good balance between the two. I really appreciate reviews, whether they be compliments or critiques. I'm always looking to improve.

Please note that I don't have a beta reader/proofreader. I do all of that stuff myself (I'm pompous and I take pride in my linguistic abilities).

I am hereby announcing a trigger warning that will apply to chapter 5. The most I will say - so as to not spoil the tiny bit of plot that I have worked in there - is that it alludes to self-harm. I tried to keep away from graphic imagery as best as I could, only using descriptive means in a few sentences to keep the reader in the loop. Please let me know if you have any comments/concerns on the matter and I will try to rectify the problem. I realize that this can be a painful subject to a lot of people, including myself, so I do take it very seriously.

This is not a WIP. There are 9 chapters in total.

Enjoy!

Stiles hops in his Jeep and sighs into the steering wheel as he turns the ignition. Phew. He (mostly) escaped the awkward conversation this morning over breakfast with his father - you know, the obligatory conversation every teenage boy has with their father at some point in their youth: So yeah, I fucked a studly twenty-something last night in my twin-sized bed on top of my Star Wars comforter, and we didn't use any protection. Oh, and did I mention he's a werewolf - one who's been accused of murder more than once? Yup! You guessed it, dad. I fucked Derek Hale.

On his way to school, memories flood back into his mind - you know, the little things you don't immediately remember when you first wake up in the morning: the way his muscles tensed and relaxed, the way his ass cheeks fit perfectly in Stiles' cupped hands, the way his eyebrows scrunched up when he was concentrating, the way his scruff felt on the insides of Stiles' thighs, the way he literally howled when he...

Just the thought of being plowed by Derek is enough to almost make Stiles come in his pants - almost. Stiles thinks about his training with Deaton and the meditative breathing he taught him, which is enough to calm Stiles down. His erection is still nice and prominent against the steering wheel, slightly tenting his khakis and bobbing along with the rumble of the shoddy Jeep. Stiles would have relieved himself, had he brought another pair of pants to school.

Stiles' day is mostly uneventful. He fails a chemistry test (even without Harris, Stiles still apparently sucks in that subject) and give a rather brilliant off-the-cuff answer to his English teacher, who questions him about the previous night's reading - which he neglected to do. It's sparked by his lack of attention in English when he gets a text from Derek's contact ("Sourwolf") saying, "Sorry I left so early last night. Didn't want your dad to catch us. I'll be back again soon - we need to talk."

Stiles grins wildly and sends a quick reply. "Looking forward to it.(;"

"Mr. Stilinski!" Stiles shoots his head up. It's the teacher yelling at him for not paying attention, with every other eye in the room centered on him. This new teacher, the replacement for the darach-slash-Julia-slash-psycho-bitch, is actually less tolerable than 'Ms. Blake.' He has an ego so large that it probably has its own gravitational pull (Stiles wouldn't know - he's never been close enough to tell for sure). It's funny that most of the students think he's so cool and interesting, but he's kind of just an ass. If you're so god damn intelligent, maybe you should teach something a bit more demanding than a high-school level English class.

"Huh?"

"I asked, what did you make of the reading from The Stranger last night?"

Come on, Stiles. Say something witty. Say something that the token free-thinker in an 80's movie would say. Make it sound well thought-out. Big words, Stiles. Use your bottomless vocabulary. "Personally, and don't take this the wrong way, I can't stand the way the book is written. I mean, yeah, I think Camus has it right about existentialism and humanism and whatnot. He's a...smart dude... But like, we get it: Meursault has no depth in his thought, and Camus tries to show us that through a purely observational narrative. I know the lack of depth is supposed to make it all seem that much more profound, but damn..." He clears his throat. "I-I mean, it's a little gratuitous, if you ask me."

Pure silence: that is all that can be heard in the classroom. Several of the students' mouths hang agape, some looking unimpressed, some sleeping. The look on the teacher's face is priceless beyond any measure, though: a mixture between fury, annoyance, disgust, and defeat. Gotta give it to the guy, though - that many expressions in one face is pretty hard to execute. "I can respect that opinion, so long as you have a detailed two-page essay on my desk by tomorrow expanding on that subject." Stiles smirks sarcastically at the guy. "That goes for all of you. If you don't like it, I want to know why. If you can back it up, I won't make you read it." What's funny is that Stiles only read three pages of the book during lunch yesterday, and he could pull that out of his ass.

Damn, Stiles' ass hurts...

At lunch time, Stiles tries to scribble out the two-page essay on notebook paper while the thoughts are still in his head and the Adderall from this morning is still in his system. He's at the table first, shoving a granola bar in his mouth to sate the twinge of hunger that's been biting at him since he woke up.

The table soon fills up with the faces of Scott, Allison, Isaac, Lydia, Danny, and Ethan. Ethan hung around after the whole scrap with the Alpha pack. He's not a bad guy - hell, he risked his status and his relationship with his brother to stay and be with Danny. Ethan wasn't in Derek's pack, but he was a close ally, which added a lot of security to the pack's dynamic.

"Stiles...helloooooooo," Scott coos while thumping a pencil against Stiles' temple. "Anybody in there?"

"Come on, dude. Chill."

"What's up with you? Your heart beat's all erratic and you smell like balls, dude."

"Erratic...that's a pretty big word for you. Kudos."

"Yeah, Allison's been tutoring me." Scott's face lights up in excitement from being able to use his new word. His face quickly shifts and the smile is wiped off his face. "But dude, you didn't answer my question."

"Nothing. I overslept and didn't get to shower this morning, and ended up taking my Adderall halfway through second period because I forgot to when I woke up, okay?"

"Yeah, that explains pretty much everything except for the nasty bruise on your neck." Stiles' heart leaps. His face turns a splotchy red and he freezes. He realizes how suspicious he must look. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but before he can get out a response, Scott adds, "Are you getting beat up again? Because I'll kick their ass, dude. You know I will."

"I...okay, I'll confess. I was trying to be all cool tossing a ball around in my room with the lacrosse stick, and I ended up thwacking myself in the collarbone with the stick. Is that a good enough explanation for you, or would you like me to go more in depth?" Catastrophe successfully averted.

Isaac interjects. "Wait, one question - please tell me you were dressed when you were 'tossing the ball around.'"

Stiles laughs sarcastically at him and the rest of the group as they all erupt with laughter. "Really funny, guys. Stiles, the fragile human bag of bones, whose number one enemy is himself." No one can tell if he's trying to be funny or is genuinely upset. Stiles just returns to his essay and prays that the end of the day will come quickly, so he can go home and nap and ice his battle wounds - namely, his asshole.

A/N:

I'd like to make clear that I am actually a huge fan of Camus and his works, my all-time favorite being L'Etranger. I thought it would be best to talk about a book I know well enough that I can argue both its relevance and its nauseatingly trite structure.

The English teacher actually refers to one I had in high school. The guy was brilliant and interesting, and I could listen to him talk for hours on end, but he was just so egotistical and pompous that trying to express my opinions to him in a verbal debate made me sick. He refused to acknowledge intelligence in anyone but himself.

I really appreciate reviews, and thank you for reading!