Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf.

A/N: Second person narration ahead. And language. And my apologies to my creative writing teacher, because she taught me better than this, and if she read this she would fail my ass all the way back to kindergarten.

The Very Thought of You

You can't sleep.

You never could. Even when you were little you remember being awake way past your bedtime, eyes forcefully shut as if you could will your tiny body to go into hibernation. Of course that didn't work. Inevitably you'd find your way into your sister's room, clutching your blanket as you tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She'd jerk awake, call you a scaredy cat (which, as a wolf, was the highest of insults) but then make room for you in her bed, letting you grip her tightly as you drifted off to sleep, knowing all the while that she'd drift off after you, waiting like a sentinel until you were at rest before she could find it, too.

Now it's different. There's no one's bed to creep into, no sister to cuddle with, no mom to call out to for comfort, no dad to beg to read you just one more story, one more page, if only to keep the light on a little longer. It's not necessarily the dark you're afraid of now. It's the void it lives in, the emptiness, the loneliness, the nothing that creeps up around you and nearly suffocates you with cold air and shadows. You've always hated it. Growing up in a house filled with people, aunts, uncles, so many cousins that you had to make a cheat sheet just to remember their names, it's kind of like you're going deaf now, because the silence is so real, it's almost alive.

You step out of bed; or, what used to be your bed. It's been charred and roasted beyond recognition, but the blackened posts and general area you remember it being in says it's your bed. Still, you remember it being more comfortable than it is now. Granted, it had a mattress before, and you could use a new one now because sleeping on 2x4's planked across the remnants of the box spring is economical but not exactly lower back supportive. Not that it matters, the support on your lower back. You can't remember the last time it ached; or anything ached, for that matter. In fact, since you hit puberty, the only thing that aches on your body lies between your legs, and when it hurts it rises to attention, letting you know when it's in pain and needs relief.

Not that that's what's keeping you up. You're twenty three now, you've gotten pretty good at controlling your…urges. No, it's…damn it, you don't even want to say it in your head.

Stiles.

You don't know how you let that kid get under your skin, but he is, and you hate yourself for it. You hate how incredibly irritating he is, how he can push your buttons with just a word, or how he can make you want to drag your claws up your arms every time he rolls his eyes after you say something. You didn't know that trying to save Scott from himself and his new abilities was a package deal. Buy one sullen, angsty, lovesick teenager, get a talkative, curious, intrusive one for free.

Seriously, he never shuts up. And not that you have much in the way of valuable things, but you're sure if you had a Fabergé egg Stiles would be the one to send it toppling to the floor, hands raised above his head as he stood, wide-eyed and innocent over the broken pieces, saying, "I didn't do it." You can practically hear him in your head.

Which scares you. You shouldn't be able to hear his voice in your head.

You walk down the rickety staircase, bypassing the holes and rotted wood that can barely support their own weight, let alone your one hundred and eighty pound frame. Barefoot, you feel debris and blackened wood sticking to your feet; to a lesser mortal it would irritate them, possibly injure them from a splinter piercing their skin. It doesn't bother you, though. You have a thick skin.

You go to the kitchen, the waning moonlight streaming in through…well, through the large hole in the wall. There used to be a window there. Stiles made a crack about that earlier. What was it…? Oh yeah, it went something like, "Hey Derek, is this your idea of a sunroof? Because if it is, dude, you've got your directions all messed up," he said as he stuck his head through it, his body firmly planted outside the house. He looked around, his inquisitive eyes darting around the kitchen before they finally landed on you. "Don't worry, I can fix it. Or not. Why not just leave it as is? It would make a really good emergency exit, like for emergencies. Like wolfy emergencies. Like, if a hunter came crashing through your incredibly thin walls, you could just dart out here and be like, in the woods and away from Hawkeye and Katniss and…um….Scott, what's another fictional character who's really good with a bow and arrow?"

"Uh, Pocahontas?" Scott called out from behind Stiles.

"Wow, way to play up the stereotype," Stiles sighed. "Not all Native Americans were proficient with bows and arrows. Or were they?" he asked, furrowing his brow. "Siri, add 'Native American weaponry' and 'history of the bow and arrow' to my 'Things to Research Because Apparently No One Else Knows How To Use Google' list," he commanded, holding his phone up to the outside wall and hoping his voice would carry through.

"Okay," his phone affirmed, the robotic voice sounding stilted and foreign to your sensitive ears. You never were tech savvy, but it seems ever since the fire you've allowed yourself to fall into a social black hole, barely keeping up with current events and technological breakthroughs since more important things, like keeping yourself and your teenaged pack alive, took precedence. Or, as Stiles so eloquently put it, "Dude, you are so old."

"Stiles, get your head out of the wall," you'd said, the smallest hint of a growl creeping up in your voice as you grew impatient with Stiles' shenanigans. Oh God, don't let him hear that alliteration; he'd probably trademark it and turn it into some kind of a kiddie amusement park, 'Stiles Shenanigans!', complete with bright neon lights and an eerie picture of a grinning Stiles giving the thumbs up on the billboards advertising the place every mile on the freeway.

"Relax," Stiles said, rolling his eyes as he normally did, not even pretending to be afraid of you anymore. You don't know when he realized your threats were empty and you'd never actually rip his heart out through his mouth, but you really wish it was back to when he was scared of you, so scared that he flinched whenever you walked into a room. Now when you walk into a room he practically hugs you and tousles your hair, asking what kind of supernatural doom awaits everyone this week, as it does every Monday at 10pm, 9 central. After you smack him across the head and tell him this isn't some TV show but real life, he scoffs and tells you to learn how to take a joke and then proceeds to pester you until he gets bored, which he never does, or until you actually talk to him. Only then will he sit enraptured, eyes never leaving your face while you describe the new threat to your tiny little town. And then he talks. And talks. And talks some more.

And you try not to get lost in his eyes, which flicker between gold and brown, and shine so brightly, like twin suns, especially to your keen werewolf eyes. And you don't draw imaginary constellations across his face, using his moles as stars. And you don't draw it with your tongue. And you don't kiss him, finally finding out what his mouth tastes like: cherry Chapstick, and cookie dough, and summer nights and yearning and desperation and youth and recklessness, and loss, as he pulls away to stare at you, wondering what the fuck took you so long before he mashes his face into yours again.

You don't imagine this because you're in the hollow remnants of your family kitchen, the night air cool on your shirtless frame, the smell of the woods calling out to you to run through them, free and uninhibited. You're still fixated on the hole in your kitchen, remembering how after you told Stiles to get out of there he got stuck, and you stood laughing, Isaac and then Lydia coming in to laugh, too. Jackson jogged in after everyone, wanting to know what was so funny. He laughed, and you felt a little pride at your lowest Beta finally letting his walls down and showing an actual emotion for once, chuckling as he took a picture with his phone. Stiles freaked out and nearly had a panic attack, while Scott was outside, trying to tug him out without popping his head off or pulling him in half with his super strength. When you thought you saw tears, actual tears, in Stiles' eyes, you figured the boy'd had enough and so you stalked over to the wall, gripped him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him out one-handedly, Scott tumbling in through the Stiles-sized wall you'd just created. You held him up with one hand, looking at him as he glared at you. You asked if he's all right and call him Pooh Bear before setting him down, the others still giggling as Stiles crossed his arms and refused to talk to anyone. Lydia went up and told him to stop being a baby, before wrapping an arm around him and leading him out of the kitchen, Jackson following because his girlfriend is touching someone else and he's none too thrilled about it. Then again, neither are you.

You turn to see Isaac cocking an eyebrow at you, biting his lips to keep from smiling as he looks to you and then to Stiles' retreating figure. You want to ask him what he's staring out, but you know, and so you leave it. Even Scott, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans, stares wordlessly at you, sensing something a lot like sexual tension between you and Stiles, but not having the eloquence to put it into words he simply stares, mouth gaping open as realization dawns on him. You glare at the both of them, stalking out of the room and going for a run.

Because you always run. You were always good at that. When things got tough, you ran, tail tucked firmly between your legs. After Kate broke your heart, after the fire, after your life unwound like a thread coming loose off the spool, you ran. You let Laura stay and look after Peter and pick up the burnt pieces of your family, happy to move south, to sunshine and beaches and college, to places where you believed the full moon couldn't touch you.

And then you sensed she was in trouble, and you came running up again. And like always, you were too late. And you only found half of the girl who so selflessly let you sleep in her bed all those nights ago, who once slashed the tires of the captain of the football team's car because he just wouldn't stop hassling you for being smaller than all the other guys on varsity, who always took your side whenever you fought with mom and dad, who always made sure you had extra lunch money and the biggest piece of cake on her birthday, whose call you ignored three days before the stench of her blood drifted all those hundreds of miles to your nose, making you drop your stupid Kinesiology textbook and skip baseball practice and run, actually physically run all the way back to the one place you'd promised you'd never set foot in again.

And you found her, eyes wide and staring at the sky, her body torn in half. You turned her on her side and then she was staring at you, accusing, blaming. "If only you were here, Derek," she said, making your eyes water and the sobs come choking out of your throat, lost somewhere between a howl and a whimper. "Where were you?" You feel the tears, hot and wet, falling down your cheeks as you cradle half, half of your older sister's body. You wrap her in a sack, because lifting her in your arms is too surreal, too much to handle, because you should tuck her knees over your hands, but she doesn't have any knees, or legs, or feet.

As you dig her grave you think how it was never supposed to be this way. She was always supposed to outlive you, and bury you, and be the one all teary-eyed and emotional at your funeral, which is supposed to be decades and decades away. Instead you're knee deep in dirt, shovel in hand as you carefully lower her body down into the naked ground, no coffin, no ceremony, no 'Amazing Grace' or broken rosary to throw in after. You want to die, too. You want to crawl down next to her and end it all, because no one's left, and no one will notice. But somehow you gather up the strength to shovel the dirt back over her, no tears this time, only regret, knowing that she deserved better than this, that your sister, the last blood tie you have on this earth besides your burnt, catatonic uncle, doesn't deserve half of her body to be buried in an unmarked grave. The only comfort you get from this, and really it's not much comfort at all, is the fact that you're burying her next to your childhood home, next to the graves of all your relatives and Mom and Dad; although you know they have no graves. Their ashes are scattered to the wind. But at least Laura's with those ashes, surrounded by them, maybe at peace now, no longer consumed with finding out who started the fire. That's your burden to bear now.

You hate yourself for doing it, for not trusting your sister to stay dead, but you spiral the wolfsbane around her grave, circling it just like you remember your dad teaching you how, reciting the Caim the whole time, hoping Laura stays at rest and that she won't rise, no matter how much you want her to, if only to hear her voice one more time, see her face, her wicked smile or her deep scowl, which everyone said proved irrefutably that she and you were siblings.

After the run you came back home, everyone gone, the sun quickly setting in the west as you watched it descend, wondering how many sunsets you'd get to see before what happens to Laura inevitably happens to you. You know the lifespan of a werewolf is short, and even shorter for that of an Alpha. They're always defending their territory and managing their pack, fighting off other Alphas or even their own Betas when they jockeyed for power. A long life just isn't in the cards for you.

And after you went to grab something to eat you came back to your house, cold and dark and empty, Peter having gone off somewhere and having promised beforehand that he wasn't going to maim or kill anyone without calling first. And then you tried to sleep, but you couldn't. And then you walked through your house, your feet leading you to your kitchen, knowing why you were there.

And you wished you didn't know why, but you do. Because after all those thoughts of Laura and the fire, you kept asking yourself what's the point of going on and fighting this never ending battle if there was nothing worth fighting for. And then you realized you did have something worth fighting for. And that something had sent you into a fit of laughter after he got his head stuck in the hole in the wall where the kitchen window used to be.

But then you shrug it off. Because no. Stiles? No.

He's just…he's no good for you. He's sixteen. Sixteen. And you're twenty three, which is like a senior dating a fifth grader. And just, no.

Plus he's the Sheriff's son, and you're already having a hard enough time trying to keep off his radar without defiling his only child.

And you're just…you're no good for him. You swallow that thought down like medicine, grimacing but knowing it's for the best. What would life be like for Stiles if everyone knew he was with you? They'd attack him, knowing he was your weak spot. And Stiles, human, breakable, meat sack Stiles, just couldn't hold up under supernatural punishment like werewolves could.

But the constant life-threatening danger aside, do you really think he wants you? Honestly? Because you've thrown him into a wall so many times you should really be paying for a chiropractor. And you bashed his head against his steering wheel. And you practically threaten him with bodily harm every minute he's around you. And you always, always find a way to shoot down whatever plan he has, not because it's stupid or foolish, which they sometimes are, but because they usually involve Stiles acting as bait, which you will never, ever let him do. Because deep down you care for him. And you would hate yourself if anything happened to him. Too many bad things happened to people you love already. Not that you love Stiles. Or maybe you do. You've only ever told yourself you've been in love once, and that ended with the fiery murder of your family so maybe that wasn't really love. Maybe it was a sixteen year old guy getting it on with a hot older lady and you let your dick tell you it was love.

Which should just shut down all arguments right there. The fact that this could mirror that relationship does not bode well for your sleepless nights. The similarities alone make you want to rip your eyes out. Sixteen. Older partners. You can almost feel your eyes turn red at the rage of it all. Because life is unfair, and you've come to realize this, especially after all the shit you've gone through in your young life, but it's no use getting angry about it, or crying, or ripping someone's throat out. So your breathing relaxes, your shoulders sag, you calm down, the wolf inside you whimpers and growls at being caged again but you know it's for the best. Letting him out would feel good for awhile, but it'd be an empty kind of pleasure, like finding solace in the bed of a stranger whose name you can't remember in the morning.

You stalk back through your house, wondering why you stay here when all it does is stir up memories you want to box up and never open again. You bypass the family room, the den, what used to be your father's office, the gaping hole in the back that leads to the yard. You instead sit down on the lowest step on the stairs, running your hands through your hair, your leg jittering nervously, trying not to get existential and philosophical at this late hour, but you can't help it. You feel the doubt creeping up on you, wondering if turning a bunch of kids and taking them into your pack was really the best idea. And you want to bash your head in as all the doubts swirl around you, mocking you, pulling you into despair. You were never supposed to bear this burden, you were never supposed to be Alpha. It was always your father, and then Laura because she's the oldest, and then it would have passed on to her cubs, and completely bypassed you. And you were okay with that, with not having to make the tough decisions, the big choices that affect everyone around you. And you can almost feel the anger coming on again, the unfairness of it all, before you hear something.

Your ears prick up, and it takes a second, less than a second, before you're darting out of your house, jumping down the steps of the patio, into the woods, barefoot and shirtless, whipping past trees, their branches scratching at your skin. You fly through the night, leaves kicking up behind you as you run, run, run, the bright lights of your hometown calling out to you, hurdling over speeding cars, sprinting past bystanders and pedestrians, never stopping to take a breath. Finally you reach a row of houses, familiar, all of it, the smells and feelings it brings rising to the surface. You crouch down on your haunches and then spring back up, somersaulting to the second story, jumping through the open window, ears ringing and heart pumping as you respond to the distress call you heard all the way at your house.

He's tangled up in blankets. He's squirming, like he's in pain. You hear a gasp, a sudden intake of breath, and you want to run over and rip the blankets off him and comfort him, wondering if he's having a panic attack, or being possessed by some invisible demon. You realize you've been standing there too long, formulating a plan, when his bright brown eyes lock onto yours, and soon he's screaming, wrapping the blankets tighter around himself as he rolls off the bed in shock.

"Der – what the hell, man?!" he cries, pulling the blankets around himself like a dress, running a hand over his face as his pale chest gleams in the moonlight, and you don't stare at all, but he stares at you angrily. "Right through the window? Seriously? And you were just watching me! Like, voyeuristic much?"

"I thought you were in trouble," you say gruffly, still hearing his heartbeat in your ears, but now it's calmed down to a steady plateau. His blood is still racing a little, and you can hear that, too, pulsing through his jugular and arteries, traveling all around his body, but it seems headed toward one place, straight down to between his…oh. Oh.

"Who the hell told you I was in trouble?" Stiles sighs, pulling the blanket tighter, sure he's thinking that you can stare right through it to his nakedness underneath.

"No one," you say, shifting uneasily. "I heard it. You were moaning, and your heart was pounding. And then…"

"Dude," Stiles says, facepalming as his ears tinge red, which you don't necessarily see but you can practically feel the heat redistribute itself from across the room.

"…And then you were saying my name," you say, your hands itching and your claws almost coming out as you remember the way he'd gasped it. All it took was the possibility that he could be in trouble and suddenly you're seeing red again.

"Derek," he says, sitting on the bed as you smell something familiar. You've never really smelt it on him before, but your remember smelling it yourself, back in college. The dorm rooms were practically dripping with it, all those young hormonal post-adolescents rooming together, unsupervised, experimenting, touching, lying together in bed.

"You were thinking of me," you blurt out, because you've never been good at thinking before speaking, something he and you have in common, though you're old enough to know better now, while he is still in the throes of youth, and can't keep his mouth shut if you paid him.

"NO!" he exclaims, loudly and innocently and suddenly his heart's racing again and you know he's lying. "I wasn't! I was…I don't know what you heard, but - ."

" – Stiles," you say, interrupting him because you know his explanation can go on for hours if you let him. "It's all right."

"Huh?" he says, dumbfounded, his perfect mouth going slack as he stares at you. "You…you're like, okay with the fact that I was basically jerking it to you?"

"Everyone masturbates," you reason, shrugging. "And it's none of my business what you were thinking about. And you're right. I shouldn't have come barging in here."

"Yeah," he says, nodding along lightly. "You shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry," you grumble, because you've never really been good at apologies. You give him one last look before you turn to depart.

"Wait," he calls out, and however eager you are, you easily mask it in reluctance as you turn around. "Do you – dude, were you like just waiting outside my window, listening in and like, keeping watch over me?"

"No," you say, eyebrow quirking up as you wonder what he's getting out.

"I didn't think so," he says, looking you up and down. "Cause you're basically in your pj's. So…"

"I was at home when I…heard," you say, lifting your feet as you realize you're barefoot and shirtless, the flimsy jersey shorts you're wearing thankfully not having fallen off on your run over, because they could have and you would've kept on running, because you thought he was in danger and nothing would have stopped you.

"You don't have to go all the way back," he mutters, almost silently, and even with your keen hearing you can barely hear him. "I mean, you're already here, and my dad's working all night and probably won't get off until like well into the morning, and I'm all alone and you've already freaked me out enough that I won't be able to sleep for awhile, so you can just like crash here…if you want. Plus I've seen that thing you call a bed, and come on, even the Flintstones have better beds, and they sleep on rocks, Derek, like real stalagmite, mineral, precursor to the modern boulder rocks."

"I…shouldn't," you stutter, eyebrows knotting together as you realize what he's getting at, and you try not to get too excited or get your hopes up, because nothing is ever this easy for you, you never get anything on a silver platter. But here he is, practically dressed up like a Christmas present just waiting for you to unwrap.

"Come on," he says in that obnoxiously happy tone of his. "You came all this way. Yeah, sure, you ruined my alone time, but I jerk off too much anyway," he says lightheartedly. You want to, you're practically moving closer to his bed anyway, but you can't, because you just don't trust yourself around him. You can't be that close, with barely any clothing between you two, without the wolf bursting out and devouring Stiles all in one gulp.

"Derek, get in the bed," he commands, reaching out to pull your reluctant hand, and suddenly you're wrapped up in Stiles scent, surrounded by it, consumed, suffocating, but relishing it all the same. He smells like sweat and meadows and naiveté and you want to run your tongue all over his body, but for now it's just enough to be close to him.

"Hold on, let me just," he says, pulling his briefs up from the floor and slipping into them, the blanket, that fucking stupid blanket, blocking your view. He then turns and smiles as he offers you some of the blanket, and you surprise yourself with the speed with which you accept his offering. Suddenly the two of you are underneath it, and you wonder how you went from being all alone at home, feeling so utterly lonely and pathetic, to being wrapped up with the one boy who makes all those suicidal thoughts and despairs float away.

"Comfy?" he asks, fluffing your pillow under your head, and he raises his arms and you can smell his deodorant, and it's a little abhorrent because it masks his smell, his natural smell, and you want to pull him in the shower and wash off all the stupid body spray shit he covers himself with, and then pull him out and get him nice and sweaty so you can really, truly smell him.

"Yes," you reply sullenly when you see he turns his back on you and cuddles into himself.

" 'Night," he says, and you're mad. Because this is not how it's supposed to go. He invited you in, and you're both basically naked, and now he's actually going to sleep. You stir in your anger for awhile, before he shifts, and turns to you, and suddenly he's spooning you, his face resting on your pec, his hand draped over your stomach.

And you stiffen. Everywhere. Everywhere.

And there's no way he can't feel it, because his leg is draped over yours and his knee is basically nudging it and you panic and want to dart right out his window, but you don't, because deep down you're a masochist who enjoys the pain of being with the boy but not being able to touch him.

And then he's looking up at you, and you thought he was asleep and he just moved around in his slumber, but he's boring his eyes into yours, and you gulp, and your mouth is dry, and you don't know how this kid, this little ball of energy who constantly risks his life for his friends and Jackson, because he doesn't really think of Jackson as his friend even though they obviously are, works up the courage before you. But he does. He's speeding towards you and suddenly your lips are colliding.

And it's everything you've ever imagined it to be.

It's fireworks and marching bands and parades and confetti explosions and mushroom clouds and tidal waves and the wolf is basically out of the cage now because you're gripping his head and mashing your lips together and he's moaning and whimpering and you try not to cum because he's rubbing up against you and you think you're dreaming, you really do, because nothing should feel this perfect or right, not for you, but before you know it he's above you and grinding on top of you and it feels too real to be a dream because dreams usually end around this point but he's still there and smiling and suddenly you're smiling, too.

"I knew it!" he exclaims excitedly, practically throwing his hands up in victory. "I knew you were totally into me! Dude, why did it take you so long? And I had to kiss you! I kissed you! The big, strong Alpha couldn't even initiate the kiss and - ."

"Stiles," you growl, your chest heaving, enjoying the flushed look on his face, sure you look just as red and breathy, "shut up." He looks affronted for all of a second before you're pulling him down, and your lips are together again, and you practically want to glue them together because they feel so right like this, and your grasping at him, and you finally drag your nails down his back, and cup his ass, which is just as fleshy and tight as you imagined it to be, and he's rubbing your chest, and fuck if his hands aren't magic.

And the self-doubt creeps up on you, right around the time he slips his tongue into your mouth. And your rational side tells you to push him away before he falls hard and gets hurt, but the wolf is growling and foaming at the mouth, saying he will rip your soul to shreds if you let this boy slip through your fingers. And you're torn. And you pull away. And you carefully roll Stiles off of you. And he looks excited, like this could lead somewhere new, like, to new body parts new. But then you're not touching him anymore. And you look sullen and guilty, and he looks like he could cry.

"Stiles," you say, nearly choking on the words as you sit up. "We…we can't do this. You can't be with me. This won't end well. You'll get hurt, and I swear to fucking Christ I will never be able to live myself if I let something happen to you. I just…I can't lose you."

"Derek," he says, practically slamming you back onto the bed. "SHUT UP." He attacks you with kisses, and you're still stiff (again, everywhere) but you loosen up and you're melting into him. And you're a little insulted, because he's never told you to shut up before and if that's how it feels to get shut down you promise never to say that to him again.

And then he's touching you all over, and the doubts and guilt drift away, and you're a puddle that he's happily splashing in, and you realize this kid has you wrapped around his finger, basically has since you met, and you don't care. You just don't fucking care anymore.

Because all the shit you carry around, the survivor's guilt and the leadership decisions and the lives of all those kids that look up to you, don't weight so heavy anymore. They're not gone, just resting somewhere else for awhile, lightening your shoulders, letting you breathe a little easier. And now your mind is clear and focused as Stiles, whose virginity you're seriously doubting because no virgin is that good with their tongue, attacks you and draws you in and lies with you as you try desperately not to rip off his underwear and fuck him senseless.

"Derek," he whimpers, making the same sound he did when you came running for him, when he was touching himself while thinking of you. "Derek," he says again, and you're rock hard now, and rutting against him, feeling his hardness, too. "Derek."

You cradle his head, feeling as he bites along your jaw, down your throat, and then you're kissing again, and everything just feels so right. So right.

So you don't pull away again. You don't tell him this is a bad idea, that he could get hurt or that you don't want to lose him. That can all wait for the morning, when the sunlight is blinding and you look at him anew, and your head is clear and you can make rational, logical choices with your wolf carefully and obediently caged up. But now it's night, and in the moonlight you let your wolf run free.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I've never done second-person narration, and it was sooo confusing to me, but I still hope you liked it. Ugh, I love angst. But now I think I have to write something fluffy to make up for it.

*Oh, and the story picture has like nothing to do with this fic. I just wanted a reason to have Hoechlin's nipples on one of my stories. You're welcome.