An idea I've been messing around with for a while now. It might offend a few of you, but hell, it offended me and I'm the author. I don't think any other characters will be seen in this story.

Disclaimer. (this thing is boring as fuck.) Jeff Davis is the executive producer of Mtv's Teen Wolf and, therefore, owns all rights to this show and it's characters. I don't claim ownership and am not making any profit from this story. Please don't sue me, I'm a poor highschooler.

Rating. Sexual situations, provocative language, perverse conversation topics, and all around naughtiness.

It was dark. That was the first thing Stiles noticed. He looked around, stumbling blindly with his hands out, trying to figure out where he was. The dim lightly suggested somewhere underground. Stiles took three steps forward but fell to the ground after smashing his shin into something hard. A low clang told him he ran into something hollow and metal. He turned to look at what he had hit. As his eyes adjusted, he could made out a cylinder about as tall as he was. The more he focused, he made out that it was a water heater. He looked around once more and realized he was in the basement of his father's old house.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked once. The water heater had a note on it. "Stiles, please fix the water heater. There's a lighter on top if you need to relight it or need any extra light or anything of the sort. I threw the breaker so you wouldn't shock yourself. I'm ordering pizza for dinner, Dad."

Okay…? Water heater, water heater, how the hell does one fix a water heater? Stiles got up, being sure not to bear much weight on his left leg, but to his surprise, it didn't hurt. He shrugged it off and decided to walk upstairs to find a manual, but the further he walked from the broken appliance, the darker it got. The stairs seemed to have disappeared into the blackness. The man turned back and started toward the water heater. When he got to the appliance, he started to look for the lighter. It was no where to be found. "Okay, what the holy hell is going on here?!"

A small click echoed through the basement. Stiles turned on heel and looked for the source of the noise. A faint light was flickering a small ways away from where he stood. It shone at about face level, illuminating a dark face. It was a man with a stubbly chin and deep hazel eyes. He held Stiles' gaze in the most intense way the man had ever been looked at. The gaze was calculating and judgmental.

"Hello?"

A loud snarl tore itself from the mysterious man's throat, baring sharp white fangs. Stiles jumped and stumbled back a few steps as a strong wind picked up, putting out all the lights. The last thing Stiles saw was the man being swallowed by total and utter darkness before his vision tunneled to nothingness.

"Ahhh!"

Stiles jolted awake, sitting straight up in his bed. He looked around. He was in his apartment, Jessica lying next to him. She groggily woke up and glared over at him. "Another nightmare?"

"No," he said, running a hand through his short cropped hair. "It's the same one. It's always the same one…"

She sighed and reached over the nightstand to flick on the lamp. Everything was illuminated, making the room seem a little less menacing. The girl sat up and wrapped an arm around the shaking man's shoulders. "I'm sorry, babe…"

"It's okay…" Stiles whispered, closing his eyes. He rubbed his face a few times and looked over at the alarm clock. "Fuck…"

"3:03… are you going to come back to bed, or stay up again?"

Stiles stood up, blankets falling to the bed. He grabbed a tank top from the dresser and pulled it over his head. "I'm gonna stay up."

"Stiles, you're only human, you know. You're gonna need more than three hours of sleep a night eventually…"

"You think I don't know that?!" Stiles yelled, turning on his friend.

"There's no need to blowup at me, asshole!"

Stiles stormed out of the room, slamming the door. Jessica just stared at the doorframe, tears clouding her vision.

Stiles stomped into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge, pulling out the milk carton. In a moment of defiance, he drank straight from the carton, some spilling out of his mouth. He wiped at his lips, catching the spilled liquid. He threw the jug back into the fridge and slammed the door, but it bounced back open. He grabbed the handle and shoved the door closed. "Just stay fucking closed, bitch…"

There was the slight creak of floorboards. "Stiles?"

He looked up to see Jessica standing in an oversized t-shirt that she had thrown over her underwear. "What?"

"I'm sorry…"

Stiles just glared at the girl, but couldn't convince himself to stay mad at her. He walked over and wrapped his arms around her tiny frame, resting his cheek on the top of her brunette head. "Don't apologize, honey. I'm sorry. It's just been stressful, with these dreams, and work, and my dad…"

"Babe, if you need more time, talk to David."

Stiles scoffed. "Like David would give a flying fuck about me…"

Jessica pulled away and walked over to the sink. She got a clean glass from the drying rack and filled it with tap water. She gave it to Stiles. "Then quit."

"Jessica, I can't."

"Stiles, I will take care of things for a bit, don't worry about that! I really want you to quit…"

"Jess, no," Stiles said in the 'drop it' tone that meant the conversation was over and never to be brought up again.

.~rattlingcages~.

Later that day, around 9:30pm, Stiles sprinted as fast as he could to his job, which he was half an hour late for. "Motherfucking fucker!" Stiles whispered harshly to himself as he ran through the unlocked back door. Stanley let him in without checking his ID.

"Better hurry, kid! You're gonna miss it!"

Stiles ran into his personal room and changed as fast as he could, lacing up the last of his boots as he ran backstage. He looked over at Jack, desperation evident in his eyes.

"Sorry, Stiles."

"Fuck!" he whispered again.

The music onstage faded as thunderous applause filled the smoky air. "Stiles!"

Stiles internally swore as he turned around, fake sir plastered on his face. A tall, big boned man with thinning black hair and a missing front tooth gestured for him. Stiles clicked over in his heeled boots. "Yes, Mr. Davidson?"

"What the fuck was that?"

Stiles feigned innocence but knew it was pointless. He was caught. "What, sir? Am I in the wrong outfit?"

The man coughed thickly then spat on the floor. "You know what I'm talking about, you little worthless shit. You missed your cue."

"Sir, I can explain-"

"My office," the man said, walking away. He expected Stiles to follow his heels like a loyal little dog.

Stiles looked over to his co-worker for help, but Jack just shrugged. The man followed the path his boss had taken to a heavy set oak door labeled 'The Boss.' The door creaked slightly as Stiles swung it open, stepping into the room. He shut the door behind him and gulped quietly, avoiding the heavy set man's piercing gaze.

"Now, Stiles, you're a good employee. So… pretty…" Stiles flushed bright red as Mr. Davidson ran a calloused hand across his smooth cheek. "But, tardiness must be punished… What ever will I do with you…?"

Stiles started with "Sir, I've only been late once-" but was promptly quieted as a strong hand flew across his face.

"Insubordinate behavior will not be tolerated, Stiles."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Stiles' boss chuckled and wrapped a hand around the back of Stiles' neck. He pulled the young boy close to him and smiled wickedly down on him. "If you begged prettily enough, I recon I could be persuaded to forgive you…"

.~rattlingcages~.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles stumbled as he was pushed by the scruff of his neck out of his boss's office. He wiped the remainder of what had happened away from his swollen lips and cried quietly to himself.

"And don't let it happen again!" Mr. Davidson yelled gruffly, slamming the door on the broken boy.

Stiles ran to the personnel bathroom, shoving his way through coworkers who were changing costumes. Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, eyes red and puffy. He stared in the mirror and debating punching his reflection, but decided against it. He had trouble popping bubble wrap at times, let alone breaking a glass mirror with nothing but his flimsy fists. The man glared at himself and snarled halfheartedly. "You're a beast, Stiles" he said, trying to pump himself back up. "You're a sexy beast."

The man worked his way through crowds, occasionally stopping to talk to random men. Every once in a while, he'd get lucky and meet someone his own age. Most of the clientele, however, were well over 26. Stiles' gaze grazed the crowd quickly, looking for anyone better than the middle aged man who was trying to pull him closer by his suspenders. That's when he saw him.

The man was at the bar, grabbing four beer bottles by their necks. He walked with such a sense of being that Stiles wasn't sure if he was cocky or just confident. The man had stubble that was perfectly managed, not 16-year-old trying to grow a beard for the first time, but not to the point of looking unkempt. His hair, though, stuck in a million different directions like someone had ruffled his hair just a bit too roughly. He sauntered over to a table where three other men sat and handed each a beer, keeping on for himself. He smiled over at a man with a bright pink feather boa around his neck and clinked their drinks together. His eyes lit up with sheer happiness, coupled with a smile full of pearly whites to die for. And his arms. God, could the guy lift a fucking bus?! Holy Sweet Baby Jesus, his abs, which his tight v-neck just clung deliciously to, could double as a washboard for a river family.

Stiles kept admiring the mystery man until he heard someone clear his throat. He turned around and was met with a drink in his face. "Sorry, sir. Can't drink while I'm on my shift…" he quickly lied. Mr. Davidson actually encouraged them to drink, because it caused them to make poor decisions, which lead to happy customers. "I've actually gotta go…" He walked away, leaving the man all alone. Tom would pick it up for him. Tom wasn't just a dancer. He was a slut. He even admitted it. "I like to be fucked. There's nothing wrong with that… right?"

Stiles nonchalantly walked over to the table and leaned over, addressing the four men. "What's crack-a-lackin'?" Stiles asked, trying to be friendly.

One of the boaed guys, who was obviously trashed, wrapped an arm around the man in the pink boa and kissed his cheek sloppily. "This lil' fucker's getting hitched tomorrow!"

The groom-to-be blushed and pushed his friend off him and smiled. "Yeah, I'd never been to a … a bar like this… So Derek suggested it and Jake wouldn't stop e-mailing me until I agreed."

"And is this 'Derek' fella here?" Stiles smiled, winking at the groom. Someone tapped him on the hip and the groom pointed to Stiles' left. He looked over and swore. It was the guy. The guy guy. The man guy.

"That'd be me." God, his voice was gruff and tough.

"Uh… oh. You…'re Derek…" Stiles stammered, straightening up off the table. He pulled his shirt down and wished he didn't look… well, like a dancer. "Yeah, good name. Strong name."

"Ohhh!" the drunken friend yelled out. "He totally wants to fuck you!

"Zach, shut up," Derek ordered in an extremely authoritative voice. Jesus, if you weren't scared by a tone like that, you were deaf. "Sorry about him," Derek quickly apologized. "We were gonna leave him… for obvious reasons… but he overheard us talking at work."

"No," Stiles quickly said, arms flailing. "It's okay. I hear way worse, so it's really fine."

"Can I at least pay you for your trouble?" Derek offered.

"Good god, no. I mean, we're supposed to earn our cash… but if you're not comfortable with that…" Stiles was rambling now. He had to end this on a semi-smooth note. "I'm just gonna… I've gotta pee." He couldn't have gotten out of there faster if the place was on fire.

.~rattlingcages~.

Four hours later, the bar was clear of customers and Stiles was having a drink at the bar with Stanley, their 'big, black body guard.' He sipped on his beer and smashed his head into his arms. "God, Stan, I met the hottest guy ever today…" he mumbled. "And I blew him off with the ole 'gotta pee' routine…"

"Really?" Stanley asked, feigning interest.

"Yes, really, you jerk. Gosh, he was just a stubbly Greek god…"

"Yeah, I remember him. I checked his ID. With a couple guys in boas?"

"Uh-huh."

"What was up with that?"

"Bachelor party for a gay guy."

"Oh…"

"Yup." That was usually how their conversations went, but Stanley must've been feeling extra chatty today, because he said "Yeah, he gave me his number."

Stiles' head shot up like a bullet. "What?"

"Yeah…" Stanley said, pulling out a business card. When Stiles nearly jumped into his lap trying to grab the card, Stanley just held it out at arm's length and pressed a strong hand against the weak boy's chest. "He said for me to give it to someone… but I can't remember who…"

"It was me!" Stiles yelled as he tried and failed to grab the one way ticket to happiness.

"He gave me a name…" Stanley teased, thinking. "It began with an 's'…"

"'Stiles', it was 'Stiles'! Now give me the card, fucker!"

"No… Maybe it was 'Seth'?"

"Seth's a dink; now give me the god damn card before I claw your stupid face off!"

"Oh!" Stanley exclaimed. "It was 'Stiles'!" He handed the card over to his skinny friend, who grabbed at it like it was the last life vest on the Titanic.

"Four-oh-seven, fifty-five fifty-five…" Stiles whispered, reading the card. "Derek Hale…"

Sorry if that's your phone number. Whoops. I was gonna use "Jenny's number" (867-5309) but the goofiness of that song would ruin any hope for drama that this story (probably doesn't) have.

I'm too tired to make this funny. This is gonna be my longest fic to date, but this is all I have written. I have it mapped out, but that's extremely vague. Unless magic rainbow armadillos shit a good story into my computer, you're gonna have to be patient with me.

Oh, and Jessica and Stiles aren't dating. They're just really close roommates. Her brother died and she kinda uses Stiles as a psuedo-brother while she's his psuedo-mom.