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In Fashion

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It is not love at first sight.

Derek actually grimaces as they shake hands, eyes flicking disdainfully over Stiles’ worn jeans and dark green plaid shirt, half covering a tee that declares him a fan of Tea trees with a large tree and lots of mugs hanging from the branches adorned across it. He doesn’t look impressed, steps away and flicks imaginary lint off his dark cashmere sweater like the sun isn’t even a match for his ridiculous hotness, and he needs it to keep warm. It’s June.  Don’t even get Stiles started on the neatly pressed grey pants that cling to everything and still have that stupid line down the middle, like who even manages to keep that past midday? Hasn’t Derek sat down yet? Or, accidentally dropped something on himself, or walked into someone holding an ice cream. In a handful of seconds he’s managed to change Stiles’ mind about neat clothes being boring, and that he suddenly finds the look aggressively attractive.

“Hey,” Stiles manages after a minute of openly staring at Derek, “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m never happy,” Derek says flatly, turning to look at Jackson expectantly, “You want me to work with him?”

“We’ve already hired you,” Jackson drawls lazily from the corner where he’s texting from two different phones. “Don’t pitch a shit-fit, Hale, he’s a work in progress.”

“Was there a compliment in there somewhere?” Stiles asks brightly, grinning at Jackson, “Because I feel like there was.”

“Nope, just trynna keep Derek from losing his eyebrows in distress,” Jackson gives him a shit eating smile from around a pen, starts scribbling something on a piece of paper as a third phone begins vibrating on the lobby table.

“I’m not distressed,” Derek argues, folding his arms as he appraises Stiles, “I’m honestly just shocked you’re as broad as you are. You wear far too many layers and in photographs it makes you look weedy.”

“Weedy?! Excuse me, I’m lithe. And the layers keep my poor, frail body warm,” Stiles retorts.

Derek smirks, “I doubt it’s that frail considering you’ve just made a movie where you and your friend Scott McCall throw yourselves into walls and down streets in shopping carts.” They do that in one scene.

“We figured it was time for a Jackass Five,” Stiles sniffs.

“Lucky America.”

“Sounds like you two are gonna get on just fine,” Jackson points at Stiles as he’s collecting up files, “Don’t have sex in the lobby, you’ve got a perfectly good room upstairs.”

“We’re not—”

“Don’t care.”

Jackson’s disappeared towards the pool before Stiles can finish protesting. He turns back to Derek, who is still staring at Stiles’ outfit with open distaste.

“Oh, stop it; I’m wearing good clothes today.”

“You call those good?” Derek scoffs, “We differ on our definition of that word.”

We differ on our definition,” Stiles mimics, pulling a face at him, “Don’t just stand there glaring at me, then, fix me! Where’s the eighties music and the montage of amazing clothes? Do I get a total makeover and fall in love at the end? Will my whole life be made complete because I get a haircut?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Derek says easily, turning away and heading for the hotel exit.

“Hey—wait—” Stiles jogs after him, “Am I supposed to follow? Are you the Michael Caine to my Sandra Bullock? Do I get an endearing nickname?”

“I don’t know, do you shut up long enough for me to think of one?”

Stiles laughs, equally startled and delighted at Derek’s ability to keep up with him at all, walks into the glass door of the hotel.

His face is still feeling a little tender when Derek leads him into an up market boutique several minutes later. Stiles didn’t even know prices for clothes went up this high. Somewhere in the back of his mind, rationally, he knew they had to, but still.

“Seventeen thousand dollars for a scarf?”

“I have that one in fuchsia,” Derek says airily.

Stiles does a double take before he catches the smirk at the corner of Derek’s mouth. Oh, shit, he’s sarcastic, too. Stiles is doomed.

“Well, you’re definitely a man that can pull off pink,” he shoots back, and Derek’s cheeks go a very fetching shade of pink, before he pushes Stiles towards the dressing room.

“Wait, I didn’t choose any clothes!”

“Trust me,” Derek smiles widely at him, and it is not a trustworthy smile, “I’ll find you something pretty.”

“Nothing tight,” Stiles warns, ignoring Derek’s taunt, “I won’t wear it.”

“You will if I tell you to,” Derek looks at him expectantly, “Are you planning on trying new clothes on, on top of the clothes you’re wearing already?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open, and he can’t even begin to process Derek’s gaze falling to it because he’s supposed to get naked in front of him? Before they’ve even exchanged enough decent banter to be called a lazy first date and made it to the front door?

“I’m not that kind of guy,” he says primly, folding his arms over his chest, “I’ll wait until you leave, thank you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, pulls at Stiles’ shirt, “Unless you’ve got a tattoo of Peyton Manning under there, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Yo, no,” Stiles dodges away from him, “No, bad Derek!” He pauses from ducking Derek’s hands, pulls a face, “Peyton Manning?”

Derek shrugs, “I know someone who has Eli on their arm.”

“Do I strike you as the type to have a footballer inked to my chest?”

“Maybe,” Derek gives him a slow once over, slightly less disinterested than the one in the lobby and Stiles feels hot under the collar all of a sudden. There’s no air in this dressing room at all.

“Then again, you seem to buy all your clothes from thrift shops, so, perhaps you’re not creative enough for that kind of ink,” Derek says dismissively. And wow, way to cut Stiles’ ego down to size, and wilt his decent attempt at a boner under Derek’s scrutiny at the same time. This guy has a gift.

“I hear from the radio thrift shops are in,” Stiles snarks hotly, “And shut up, one; I could have a tattoo if I wanted, two; I’m totally your boss in this situation, and three; get out of my dressing room!”

“One,” Derek steps slightly closer, and Stiles sucks in a breath, “I read in an interview you’re afraid of needles so I doubt you’ve got anything under there other than pale skin and bone.”

“Ha, closet me fan, I knew it,” Stiles manages.

Derek smirks, “I like to research my clients before I agree to take them on, which leads me nicely to point two, which is that technically Jackson is the one who hired me, and therefore I answer to him first. And three, I don’t care about whatever hang up it is that you have; this is my job, Stiles. I’m not going to be unpleasant, or make jokes, and if I make you uncomfortable, just say.”

“Fine,” Stiles huffs, “But the ground rule about you trynna take my clothes off before I tell you to stays in place, no matter how pretty you are.”

Derek snorts, and disappears, throws one of the very expensive scarves over the curtain and somehow manages to get Stiles right in the face with it.

Stiles has a very stern talk with his dick whilst Derek goes to harangue the shop assistant into bringing him a long line of clothes Stiles will never, ever wear.

No matter how good Derek looks, or smells, or seems to keep up with Stiles even when he’s talking a mile a minute, he’s not playing Derek’s dress up doll for the day.

He has principals, ok?

They buy three shirts, a pair of pants Stiles can barely move in, and a ridiculous pair of distressed boots that make him look homeless. Stiles gets a glimmer of approval from Derek’s expression and feels stupidly pleased about it.

Traitorous dick.


Meet and greets, shaking lots of hands, smiling until his cheeks hurt, Stiles does not like this sudden, huge amount of fame he and his friends have accidentally fallen into. He made a stupid movie that someone leapt on, and demanded five more of. He didn’t mean to say yes to all of this, too. Sure, it’s fun when they’re riding a tour bus through San Diego, and it’s cool when a Starbucks barista knows his name and writes it on his cup with a little smiley face before he even says anything. But, shit, the amount of times he’s signed pictures of his own face. Don’t people want pictures of cool stuff?

“Like the Grand Canyon,” he says to Derek as Derek flutters around him, yanking at the bottom of his jacket and dusting over Stiles’ shoulders. “Why would people savour a picture of me?”

“Because you’re an inspiration to mankind?”

“Shut up,” Stiles says absently, “And, watch the merchandise, dude! That’s my ass you’re about to grope.”

Derek rolls his eyes in a way Stiles has become accustomed to in their short time together. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he deadpans, “You draw me like a moth to a flame.”

“Knew it,” Stiles crows, trying to ignore the butterflies he gets every time Derek plays along with him. “Wanna touch the butt, now?”

“I can restrain myself, thank you.”

“No, seriously, touch the butt.”

“You need to stop watching Pixar movies with Scott at four in the morning and go to bed earlier,” Derek gestures to the obvious bags under Stiles’ eyes whilst Stiles is too busy delighting in the fact Derek even got the reference.

“How do you know Finding Nemo, man? Are you secretly a Disney fan?”

“My niece likes me to watch them with her, there are often scary parts she demands I be there for,” Derek shrugs, “She’s three.”

Stiles’ mind is blown. Derek has a niece he watches cute kids movies with. He literally cannot process this information. He needs pictures. He needs to be the one that lounges next to Derek on the couch and recites Toy Story from heart with. He needs—some air, Jesus, he can’t breathe.

“What the hell, did you make this collar even tighter?” He tugs at the treacherously tight collar, groaning.

“Leave it alone,” Derek admonishes, steps in front of him and nods once, “You’ll do.”

“Gee,” Stiles says flatly, “Enamour me, baby.”

“You’ll get enough of that later,” Derek assures him, stepping away and sliding on his own jacket. “Erica and I will be watching,” he points at his teeth looking far too smug, “Don’t forget to keep smiling.”

“I loathe you,” Stiles yells after him as he disappears out of the room, “Loathe!”

“So, you two are getting along swimmingly,” Lydia says from the couch in the corner of his room.

Stiles jumps out of his skin because he’d completely forgotten they’d come up to the room together for Stiles to change—Lydia’s wearing Elie Saab—apparently that means she doesn’t need to change.

“Yeah, for a tyrannical stylist and his helpless dupe, we’re doing just fine.”

Lydia smirks, snaps her purse shut. “If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t have stayed a day. Derek could be working for anyone who’s anyone, right now.”

“Lydia, light of my life,” Stiles clutches his chest, “Please don’t encourage the crush, ok?”

“I think it’s nice,” she says simply, “He’s spoken to you more in a week than I spoke to you right through high school.”

“I just wasn’t on your radar,” Stiles insists.

“No, you were,” she shrugs, “I just wasn’t interested in your fumbling attempts at flirting. Derek, though,” she kinks an eyebrow, “He is.”

“Lydia, stop.”

“Fine,” she says sweetly, stepping forward to retighten his collar. “What are you going to say if they ask about the sequel, tonight?”

“That I’m very excited,” Stiles chokes out.

“And if they ask about Scott and Allison?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at her, “Are we allowed to say it’s been a thing since we were all thirteen, or do we have to make them think there’s some sort of drama holding them back? Baby on the way? She has a boyfriend tucked away and he’s pining?”

Lydia rolls her eyes, “We’re allowed to talk about them, dumbass.”

“I’m so glad we became friends after all those years of you not talking to me,” Stiles says crossly, “The conversation is so friendly.”

“You look nice,” she says instead, pats his chest before looping her arm through his. “If I win an Oscar from this, you have to promise not to cheer too loudly.”

Stiles scoffs, “Are you kidding? Scott and I have got a whole celebratory dance planned out. We’re gonna do it in the aisle and dedicate it to you.”

Lydia gives him a fond look.


"What?" Stiles looks down at the tee he's wearing, smooths a hand over it self-consciously. "I picked this myself."

Derek's eyebrows, already sky high, lift another inch. 

"Oh, shut up, I have perfect taste. This is me, dude. This is what I'm wearing, deal with it."

"You can't," Derek scoffs, "You'll look a state next to the rest of the cast."

"Hey! The only reason you managed to talk Scott into a tie is because he thinks it'll impress Allison. I have no need to impress anyone."

"Except the entire Hollywood press, the media, and every screaming fan girl tuning in to watch you walk the red carpet," Derek moves in to start tugging at the hem of Stiles' shirt. 

"No, hey, Derek! What did we say about you asking for permission before trying to undress me unless it's just before— look, didn't we make rules about this?"

Derek rolls his eyes, "For god's sake, I've seen more people naked than you've seen Sundays, Stiles."

Stiles sniffs, "I'll have you know I'm not that young, I'm twenty one next week."

"I know," Derek huffs, and Stiles catches the way the tips of his ears are starting to go pink as he turns away and considers the rail of clothes behind them. 

"Awwww, dude, have you been planning a surprise birthday party for lil' old me?"

"No," Derek spins back, arches an eyebrow at Stiles' shirt again, and Stiles sighs in a long suffering type way, glares for a moment. There's a silent standoff; Stiles is determined that Derek will finally be the one to break first. It's not so bad, really, staring into Derek's eyes. He's got very nice eyes; colors Stiles can't quite define, always giving away far more amusement, or affection than the rest of his face and his words ever do. Stiles is pretty ok with being lost in them for a while. This is for a good cause, too. He likes this shirt. He wants to wear this shirt. He doesn't want to get trussed up like he's being served for Thanksgiving dinner. 

"I don't want to be a turkey," he blurts out. 

Derek blinks in surprise, and then his eyes soften almost like he gets it. "You won't be."

"I look stupid in smart stuff— I feel all—" he waves his arms around, "Stuck. Like I can't breathe, Derek. Do you want that for me? Do you want me to suffocate?"

"You're over reacting."

"Those pants you put me in last week cut off the circulation in my thighs!"

"I remember," Derek pulls a face, "You kept bending over like you were trying to make them split on purpose."

Stiles flushes, because he was actually trying to break Derek's almost robotic, uninterested manhandling of Stiles, and maybe unnerve him a little, or you know, have him snap and push Stiles into the shower and strip the pants right off of him. Instead, Derek mostly glared from behind the cameramen.

And, sure, Derek thinking he was wilfully trying to destroy clothes works just as well. It riles him up when he thinks Stiles is being disrespectful about the shit Derek makes him wear. Like it personally offends him that Stiles doesn't see the point in three thousand dollar pants that don't have pockets. Where is he supposed to keep his skittles supply? 

"They're not me, dude," he says easily, waving at the rail of clothes behind them. “I can’t pull that shit off, ok? I’m—I’m a fun t-shirt loving kinda guy, not a—a—” he wants to say you kind of guy, a Derek Hale, Lord of Hotness and Snark that glides around in suits all day and looks like he was born for them kind of guy. The kind of guy Stiles sits at home eating ice cream over because they’re not just super fine, they’re also irritatingly smart and put together and have fantastic eyebrows. He can’t say that. “A—James Bond kind of guy,” he manages finally.

Derek appraises him for a moment, and then steps closer, holding out a pale cream shirt. "Ok, so the clothes aren't you, but you're an actor, right?"

Stiles nods, wary of how Derek is suddenly in his space, leaning in so that Stiles can smell the leafy crispness of his aftershave, see the gold flecks in his eyes. 

"So, be someone else," Derek says in a low voice, "Be someone that the crowds want for the night, let them think you know you look good in the outfit, but you'd sure as hell look better out of it." Stiles swallows hard, catches Derek's eyes flick to his mouth, just like before, and then his gaze is holding Stiles'. "Clothes don't define you, Stiles, they're just your armour, they're your statement to the world." Derek juts his chin at Stiles, edges closer until Stiles can feel the wall, solid and cool behind him in comparison to Derek practically burning up his front as their chests brush. "Stop thinking that the clothes are the enemy."

Stiles exhales hard, trying desperately not to start pushing his hips against Derek’s, climbing him like a tree. "Dude, that seems really ironic from where I'm standing, right now."

Derek almost smiles, steps away, and when he gestures for Stiles to take his t-shirt off, Stiles complies without argument. He’s too dazed to argue, because he’s pretty sure Derek maybe just almost acknowledged that there’s something going on between them. He has to feel it, too. It’s making Stiles’ insides burn like electric every time they look at each other. His hands feel fried when they touch. It’s stupid and awful and he wants to throw Derek down and have his way with him, maybe use his stupid shirt sleeves to tie Derek to the bed all day.

"See," Derek helps him slide the shirt on, and Stiles swats his hands away before he can start fastening it for him. If Derek's fingers brush against his chest, Stiles might just explode. 

"Good," Derek nods, throws a tie at Stiles' head, "I assume you know how one of those works."

"Ha ha," Stiles says flatly, still feeling embarrassingly weak kneed from Derek getting all up in his grill with his super-hot everything. 

It's not like Stiles doesn't work with a lot of beautiful people. He looks at Allison sometimes and wonders how her jawline works. She could cut glass with her cheekbones. Then she goes and smiles for a camera, or laughs during filming and she lights up the room like a Christmas tree. There's Lydia with her ravishing face, and gorgeous hair. Stiles could write sonnets about her pout. Even Scott's a downright handsome devil, and Stiles has seen him eat mud. They were seven; he and Scott have grown up doing everything from newspaper rounds, to Prom, to tiny independent films that went massive, together. They'd only been fooling around with YouTube in the beginning, now... now he's knotting a tie in a hotel bedroom he's not paying for, with strawberries in a tin beside him and a media frenzy downstairs waiting for him.

Derek Hale, uninterested in ninety nine per cent of the population is watching him with a less than bored expression. 

He's mildly out of his depth. He wasn't supposed to get famous. He was supposed to make some dumb home movies with his best friend, maybe hit Sundance, get drunk, have a couple of one night stands and go home. 

"What if I don't get laid until I'm thirty?"

Derek was quite obviously not expecting this to be what Stiles says as he pulls on his jacket, in fact, Stiles’ arms slow because he wasn’t totally planning on that being what he said, either. Stupid Derek making him think about things he can’t have. Derek’s eyes go huge, though, hands slipping on where they're putting his t-shirt on a hanger, and when he finally makes eye contact with Stiles, he looks flustered


"Look at me! I'm by myself on like, one of the biggest day of my life, and I haven't been able to talk to my best friend for hours because he's been doin' interviews all day. I can't go out for drinks without being ‘spotted’ and—" he scrunches up his nose, "—recognised. What if I can't ever get a date? Even with your special super power pants, I'm still like... alone in this."

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, glares like Stiles is causing him actual pain. "You're not alone, I’m right here, and you'll meet people at the after show."

He seems to roll back his shoulders in his own perfectly fitted shirt, tweaks Stiles' collar into place as he passes to open the door. "I'm sure someone will find your inability to keep your mouth shut and your flailing hands appealing."

Stiles scowls at him, shoves his hands in his pockets just to make Derek flinch as he follows him out, "Thanks for the pep talk, boss." 

Derek yanks his hands out, shoves him towards the elevator, "Knock 'em dead," he says curtly, and then shuts the door in Stiles' face. 

"Hey, rude! You better not order room service on my tab!"

Scott comes out of the next room, Allison following, and they both look perfect, bar the lipstick stain on Scott's cheek Allison starts rubbing at furiously.

"Who are you talking to, dude?" Scott manages to get out around Allison’s vicious scrubbing.

"Ugh, the ghost of the evil fashion stylist determined to ruin my life!" Stiles says to the door in a loud voice, "And maybe end it," he adds, tugging at his tie nervously. 

"You look very handsome," Allison says brightly, "Leave your tie alone."

"I hate you all," Stiles mutters, jabbing at the elevator buttons. 

If he spends all night testing his reactions to anyone that leans in too close, and comes up disappointed no one else seems to make his toes curl like Derek did, that's his business. 


Stiles grabs a pair of bright green sunglasses off the rack, spins to beam at Derek, "Oh, please."

"No chance," Derek removes them from his hands, slides them back on the rack, "You can't be seen in those if your image plan is to be more adult."

"I've technically been an adult for a whole year, dude. A pair of sunglasses won't change that."

"It will to the press," Derek says firmly. 

"But, it's my birthday tomorrow!"

"And we'll find you something suitable, and nice," Derek adds as an afterthought. 

"Yeah, nice defined by whom," Stiles grumbles, following him down the store. "You probably think I should turn up at the damn shindig in a sarong."

"Don't be stupid, I'd never inflict that on any of your friends," Derek says easily, "You're so pale it'd blind everyone."

"Dick, I burn fast, I have to wear sunblock. Not all of us go bronze and beautiful in the sun," Stiles huffs. 

Derek looks at him in surprise, and Stiles bites his tongue. They move to a rail of t-shirts without further comment. Stiles lunges at a bright yellow one with glee. 

"No," Derek says immediately, steering him towards a paler, much more boring grey one. 

"Dude. My birthday. I'm not allowed to go home, I'm not gonna see my dad, the buffet in my honor has a list of names I don't recognise attending, and you won't let me wear one horrible, lurid shirt?"

Derek grins at him, "You could always wear the sarong."

"Ugh, I hate you," Stiles bitches, running his fingers over the tee longingly. "Just look how ugly it is, man. It'd be glorious."

Derek's eyes seem to take a moment too long to look away from Stiles' hands, and then he clears his throat, shoves Stiles towards an array of fancy looking swim shorts. "Just pick something you know we'll both find acceptable and we can be out of here. I'll even take you to lunch at the god awful ribs place you wax poetic about."

"What, really?" Stiles bounds towards the rack, "You haven't let me go in weeks, I'm wasting away here, I've missed meat," he sighs, patting his admittedly super unusually toned for the season stomach. 

Derek clenches his jaw, waves some dark shorts at Stiles. "I won't even say anything about your lack of table manners."

"Maybe I don't hate you so much after all," Stiles declares loftily, heading for the checkout desk without even looking at the size. Derek has an odd knack of knowing just what fits him, even if it's for his junk. He should be more concerned, but then, it's Derek, and Stiles is just fine with the idea Derek thinks about his junk at all. 

He considers Derek as they leave, "Do you even eat anything other than salad?" 

Derek squints in the sunshine, his eyes crinkling in a fashion so adorable Stiles is tempted to poke them, or lick them. He's very tired, he's allowed.

"Sometimes I allow myself a small slice of cheese," he says flatly.


"Feta," Derek corrects with a flash of teeth.

"I'm so proud. Hey, what’s your favorite thing to eat?”

Derek thinks for a moment, and then says firmly, “My mom’s chocolate chip cookies. I miss them when I’m not home.”

“My mom was a terrible cook,” Stiles muses, “She always used to try and fool my dad with cookies from the supermarket she’d put on one of our plates, instead.” He crooks a grin at Derek, “He never told her she’d always leave the packaging on display in the garbage.”

Derek gives him a soft smile, “Next time my mom sends me too many I’ll let you have one.”

Let me? Wow, just how often are you allowed sugar, or even carbs?”

Derek pretends to shove him into the road, though his fingers stay curled round Stiles’ biceps for a beat too long, and Stiles feels the invisible brand they leave behind all through lunch, like they’re still there.

Stiles considers the mass of prettily wrapped presents in the corner of his hotel room. His father’s just hung up, having wished him a very happy birthday and made Stiles feel ten times more homesick than he already was, and he has very little interest in unwrapping anything MGM have sent him.

Unless it’s some sort of home cinema package, he’s not an idiot after all. If he and Scott get a pad sorted eventually they’re gonna need a quality entertainment unit. That is, if Scott doesn’t move in with Allison and abandon Stiles to the wolves of Hollywood completely. He’s not angry, or even a little bit jealous of his friend’s happiness, he does wish he could relate, however. He’s kind of sick of being the cliché that is lonely in rooms full of people.  

He pushes open the door to the balcony, tripping over his feet a little drunkenly and collapses on the barrier. Everything seems so small and quiet from up in the air, he likes it far better than the raging party in the ballroom. He knew about nine faces.

There’s a rap on the door, and he yells that it’s open, though it’s mostly muffled into his arm. Derek steps out onto the balcony looking irritatingly perfect for someone Stiles knows he saw have at least three grey goose martinis. Dirty, he seems to recall. It gave him all sorts of lewd puns he couldn’t make, and Derek smirked at him every time he ordered one like he knew Stiles wanted to say something. Stupid fancy companies and producers telling Stiles to watch his mouth. Stupid Derek and his perfect mouth. Stupid LA.

“Traditionally, I don’t think the guest of honor at a party is supposed to duck out early,” he says lightly, elbow resting casually against Stiles’.

Stiles groans, “Needed some air, ran out of small talk.”

“You? Ran out of things to say?” Derek nudges his arm, “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yeah, well it’s a whole lot easier shootin’ the shit with someone that knows more about me than my name and my IMDB status. I’m not trynna complain, or take all this for granted, but—” he runs a hand through his hair, quirks a half smile at Derek, “I’d really rather be home watching The Godfather or something. I feel super out of place here, man.”

Derek nods, turns to look out over the city, and Stiles shamelessly admires his profile. Derek has many different expressions, even if most of them are various levels of exasperated with Stiles, but content sure looks good on his face.

“When I first moved here, I made the mistake of falling for the glitz. I—” he straightens up, grasps the balcony railings until his knuckles go white. “I fell in with the wrong crowd, lost a lot of money and my dignity.” He glances at Stiles, as if waiting for judgement and Stiles lifts his eyebrow encouragingly. “So, I got on an art course, I stopped trying to do what people expected,” he shrugs, “I know people think I’m—attractive, but,” he shrugs, “I didn’t see myself that way for a long time, not until I started doing something I cared about. Now, I enjoy making other people feel good about themselves, even with something as frivolous as clothes.”

“You don’t think it’s frivolous, though.”

“No,” Derek curves a sly smile at him, “But, you do.”

“I never did!”

“It’s been implied.”

“Hey, man, you’ve made me look pretty good over the last couple of weeks, even if I’ve been a whiney bitch about it.”

Derek laughs, and it startles Stiles, makes his stomach flip.

“You haven’t been so bad, in the grand scheme of things,” Derek says fondly, jerks his head at the door, “I’ve got you something, by the way.”

“Ooooh, presents?” Stiles leaps to follow him, then hesitates, “Wait, it’s not a man purse, is it?”

Derek snorts, “No, dumbass,” he grabs a package off the table, tosses it at Stiles, “It took nerves of steel to buy that for you. You better appreciate it.”

Stiles beams as he tears off the paper and unfolds a soft, distressed looking plaid shirt with cream and brown checks. “Nice. This’ll totally bring out my eyes,” he says, winking at Derek.

Derek rolls his eyes, but there’s a flush on his cheeks, and Stiles wonders if maybe the gin is affecting him more than he’s letting on.

“Thanks,” he says, turning the shirt over in his hands. “Do you feel like your soul has died, allowing this to be in my closet?”

“I’m dealing,” Derek says drily, heading for the door, “Happy Birthday, anyway.”

“Hey—” Stiles holds out a hand, waves at the bed, “Do you wanna?”

Derek almost trips on the plush carpet and Stiles shakes his head quickly, “No, no, I mean, d’you wanna, like, hang out?”


“I’m not propositioning you, dude, I swear.”

“I didn’t think you were, I just—don’t you want to go back to your party?”

“No,” Stiles winces, “I really don’t. I just wanna veg and…” he peeks a glance at Derek, “I’d kinda like to do it with someone that’s not gonna judge me if I eat everything in the mini bar and don’t say anything witty for the rest of the night.”

“Well, I am used to the lack of wit,” Derek says immediately.

“That—” Stiles points at him, “Oddly, that’s why I keep you around.”

“You keep me around because no one else will put up with you for too long, and I’ve obviously got head damage,” Derek retorts, but he’s elegantly removing his jacket and kicking his shoes off, so Stiles knows he’s lying, Derek finds him delightful.

“That, or Jackson stipulated in your contract you had to be friends with me, too,” he says without thinking.

Derek stops on his way to sitting on the bed, eyebrows raised.

“That came out wrong, in a weird, Pretty Woman kind of way,” Stiles scratches the back of his neck, feeling his face flood, “I didn’t mean it to. I just meant—you know—”

“I’m off the clock,” Derek says softly, “If I wasn’t I’d be complaining that you’ve got raspberry coulis on your fall season Hugo Boss shirt. Do you know how much bargaining I had to do to get that for you?”

Stiles chuckles, shimmies out of the shirt and pulls his new plaid one over his head, quirks a look at Derek, “Better?”

Derek nods wordlessly, expression strangely vulnerable as he blinks at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asks hesitantly.

“Nothing,” Derek says quickly, “I just—knew it’d fit.”

“Oh,” Stiles rolls up the sleeves, throws himself onto the bed next to him, “Congratulations, you know my super awesome body better than anyone.”

“Send me  a gold star.”

“I will.”

Stiles does as promised, and falls asleep halfway through Anchorman, Derek solid and drowsy beside him. He doesn’t even seem fazed when Stiles bats at him with a cheese dusty hand in the middle of the night, just rolls over and kicks Stiles under the covers. Stiles sleeps better than he has since he stepped out of LAX.

In the morning, Derek wanders round on the phone in his boxers and his shirt open. Stiles lies very still and pretends not to be awake until Derek’s at least got pants on. He tries desperately not to think about how nice and domestic it feels. Derek snaps his phone shut, calling someone named Peter a foul name, and Stiles snorts into the pillow.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Derek huffs, throwing a cushion at his head.

“Yo,” Stiles sits up, runs a hand through his hair, “You gotta go?”

“Mmm, I need to be down town for an appointment,” Derek disappears into the bathroom and when he returns he’s fully dressed, much to Stiles’ disappointment, and without a hair out of place. He sits on the edge of the bed to fasten his shoes and Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

“How do you do that?”


“That,” Stiles waves at him, “You’re all… perfect and it took you less than five minutes.”

“Practice,” Derek smirks, leans backwards towards Stiles and then stops himself at the last second looking suddenly startled. “See you on Thursday,” he says quickly, vanishing from the room before Stiles can play catch up. 



Derek sighs, slides off the couch he's perched on looking like a fucking Giorgio Armani advert— yes, Stiles now knows who the hell Giorgio Armani is— in leather and sunglasses, and whips back the curtain.

Stiles squawks, despite being mostly dressed, and makes a vague attempt to cover his chest. "Derek!"

Derek rolls his eyes behind his glasses, whips the flimsy excuse for a shirt out of Stiles' hands and tries to tug it over his head. 

"No! We laid out ground rules," Stiles yells, "No manhandling me in and out of clothes unless we're—get off me! Help!"

"Stop being ridiculous," Derek hisses, and Stiles blows fluff out of his mouth, glares daggers at Derek. 

"Is everything alright in there, Mr Hale?"

Derek peeks his head round the curtain, obviously gives the salesgirl one of his A-grade smiles that seems to dazzle everyone into doing his bidding. Stiles wouldn't know, he's barely seen the corners of Derek's mouth curl, and that certainly doesn't make him want to get on his knees for Derek, or put his stupid, ugly clothes on. 

"Everything's fine, although I was hoping Mr Stilinski would be able to try one of the new line waistcoats in charcoal, with the blood orange scarf perhaps?"

"Blood orange," Stiles scoffs, "It's—"

"Don't," Derek snaps, twisting to glare at Stiles, "You think I haven’t heard that one before?"

"I don't know, I know very little about you," Stiles retorts, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Derek. "All I do know is that Jackson made me let him hire you, and I hate both of you. And the 'blood orange' scarf. I bet it's red, I fucking bet it's red."

Derek sighs, bashes his head against the side of the dressing room wall, "Stiles..." He turns, appraises Stiles. 


Derek tilts his head to one side, "How about this: for every piece of clothing you try on in here, and take off— in the hopes of making you look presentable for the Press conference tomorrow—I answer one of your questions about me."

Stiles narrows his eyes, crosses his arms across his chest, "Even if it's personal? You can't fob me off like last time and say your favorite color is the ever changing ocean and then throw a flat cap in my face. Flat caps are the worst, Derek."

"They happen to look very fetching on me," Derek says smoothly, taking the waistcoat the salesgirl timidly proffers through the curtain and holding it out to Stiles expectantly. 

Stiles can't even deny that Derek would probably look good in a garbage bag. It still doesn't mean he'll ever wear a flat cap. He's an actor, apparently, not a— a—chimney sweep

"Fine," he snatches the waistcoat, ducks to find the shirt he'd discarded on the floor earlier, and Derek makes a muted noise of alarm. Stiles snaps up, bumping into him because he's too busy suddenly looking at the ceiling to see Stiles fall, and trips on the clothes surrounding them. Derek manages to catch his arm, grabbing the curtain for balance, and it rips, loudly


"What? You were the one makin' noises. I thought there was a 'gator in here or something!"

"You thought there was an alligator," Derek says drily, managing to look totally unruffled as half the curtain slowly falls onto his shoulder. "Put the damn waistcoat on," he snaps when Stiles shrugs mutinously, neither of them budging as they glare at one another. Derek swipes the curtain away, huffs at nothing. Stiles huffs back.

It could have been a 'gator, ok? He's heard about them getting into stores before. It would have been kind of cool, actually. Maybe he'd have even see Derek lose his damn nerve for once, instead of Stiles always being the stupid, flailing moron around him. 

"You didn't tell me anything!"

"My sister used to visit the alligators that lived in the swamp at the end of our yard," Derek steps out of the dressing room, "She called one of them Gatorderek and put a picture of me on a flask over an alligator's head and made me use it for the entirety of my last football season of school. There, something relevant, I hope you appreciate it. Put the damn waistcoat on." He shuts the remains of the curtain just as Stiles bursts into uncontrollable laughter. 

They buy the waistcoat. Stiles spends more money on one tiny piece of silk than he would on a month's rent back home. He tries not to feel guilty as the shop assistant slides the bag across to him. When they hit the sidewalk, the plastic sticks against his hand where he's sweating. 

Derek cuts a glance at him as they're walking, frowns, "You ok?"

"This is— unreal, dude. I— I have utility bills. I shouldn't be spending this much money on clothes I won't ever wear again."

"You'll wear it to weddings," Derek says loftily, "Or, funerals."

"Wow," Stiles grumbles sourly, "Something to look forward to."

"Only a couple of weeks before the tour starts," Derek flashes a grin at him, "Then you'll be free to wear whatever you want for your vacation."

"Yeah, then it all starts again in August," Stiles mutters darkly, "I'll probably accidentally strangle myself with your stupid red scarf."

Derek opens his mouth, and Stiles feels his eyes widen, "Oh my god, you were going to correct me, weren't you?"

"Shut up," Derek snaps, yanking open the door of the cab and ushering Stiles inside. 

"You so were!"


Stiles pads into Scott and Allison's hotel room, yawning. He's got more interviews today, more classy events he'll have to go to where people that don't know him try to pretend to, and Derek puts him in more starchy shirts and stiff jackets. He couldn't even do the moonwalk at that Vanity Fair party last night, he could hardly move. He made up for it in his hotel room later, Scott and Jackson watching Die Hard with glassy eyes on the bed as he danced around the room in his pjs, shaking off nervous energy, determinedly not wondering if Derek has ever watched the movie, or had a passing Bruce Willis in a bloodied up vest is my sexuality stage. 

"You're famous," Scott says brightly, waving the newspaper at Stiles. 

"Tell me something I don't know," he says sleepily, "We all are this week. Next week," he waves an arm, "Someone else. Emma Stone, she's due a comeback, right?"

"She never went out," Allison says in a muffled voice from the bed. 

Stiles points at her nodding, then squints at the paper, "What's this?"

"You and your boyfriend shopping the other day. And then sharing a cosy cab," Scott says in a faux dreamy voice, splaying the pages wide to where there's a shot of Stiles and Derek on the sidewalk and then Derek holding the door of the cab open for Stiles. 

Stiles' mouth drops open, "What?"

Scott shrugs, "I think you look cute together, and so does everybody else."

Stiles stares at his own stupid, dumb face, gazing across at Derek like Derek just gave him the fucking moon and then blinks twice at the one where he's scrambling into the cab, and Derek's looking after him almost... fondly.

"Huh," he says after a moment, sitting down heavily and drawing the paper closer, "Huh."

"It's bound to happen," Scott says reassuringly, "People know you're out and just— I mean—don't worry about it? Derek won't mind, either. He's always in the news with someone."

Stiles really hadn't minded that anyone assumed he was dating Derek until Scott pointed that out. Something that feels suspiciously like lead drops in his stomach. 

"Yeah," he manages to bleat out, "I'm sure we'll have a laugh about it later. The two of us, dating, ha!"

"I can't imagine Derek laughing about anything," Allison comments, stealing up behind Scott to take his coffee and kiss his cheek. 

"He's a real joker once you get to know him," Stiles says weakly. 

Scott lifts an eyebrow, looking suspiciously like he knows what Stiles' insides are doing, and just how bothered he is by being just another person on Derek's list of boyfriends/friends/acquaintances/beautiful people that are better than Stiles because they don't shout at Derek for making him try and look nice. 


The door to the room slams open, and Lydia sails inside, "Someone on JustJared claimed I'm marrying Jackson, I need to sue them. Scott, do you still have the number for that lawyer your mom used in the divorce? I would do it myself, but I'm still half a semester away from passing the bar."

"I can eat a whole twinkie at once," Stiles offers. 

Lydia rolls her eyes, squeezes Allison's shoulder as she passes and throws herself onto the couch dramatically as she pulls out her iPad. 

"Oh," she lifts her head up, grins sharply at Stiles, "Congratulations on your big love affair with Derek, I told you so."

Stiles bashes his head on the table. Scott pets his hair consolingly. 


Derek hums, holds another tie up to Stiles' neck and shakes his head. 

"Too bright?"

Erica— Derek’s second in command—nods, eyes hawk like as she considers Stiles. 

"He needs something richer, something that'll really make his eyes stand out."

"I thought that ochre one would suffice, but," Derek pulls a face, "It looked hideous."

"Something with more green, olive?" Erica digs her nails into Stiles' arm, turns him gently, "And maybe a hat?"

Stiles bites his lip, refuses to be goaded into arguing. If he's going to be Derek's project for the summer, he might as well bask in it, make the most of it, cry into the ugly ochre tie later. 

Derek looks at Erica with interest, "A trilby?"

"Yeah," Erica smirks at Stiles, "Something that really says, I'm a cheeky guy, and wouldn't you like to put your hands all over me."

"But, we don't want to make him look too like he's in a boy band," Derek argues casually, stepping round Stiles like he's a damn mannequin. "A fedora?"

Erica's eyes light up, "Definitely got a James Dean twist to it. It'll make him look edgy, but not too like he's going to go and relive the glory days of the Viper Room."

Derek nods, looks around for Cora and points at the laptop, "See if Ted Baker have any available, in grey—"

"No!" Stiles blurts out, and all three of them snap to look at him. "No," he adds again, looking at Derek pleadingly, "I'll wear the tie; I'll even wear the shoes that squash my toes, but please, no, don't make me wear a hat that'll make me look like a douche."

There's a smirk curling at the corners of Derek's mouth, and Stiles scowls, he's totally been played. 

"I wondered if you'd completely lost your voice for a minute there."

"Well, I'm trying to be more appeasing seeing as, you know," Stiles waves a hand between them, "I'm your boyfriend this week, and I'm pretty sure I'm doing a lousy job at being obliging. I mean, on the scale of me to Nicolas Cage I’m pretty sure I’m maybe not as crazy, but I don’t know what you say about me behind my back, you know? Maybe you do hate working with me, and you’re only putting up with it to get your name in the paper next to the hot flavour of the month."

Derek jerks back like Stiles has slapped him, the smile on his face dying. Stiles bites his lip, he perhaps unleashed a little too much of his own neurosis there. Erica grabs her purse without a word, gives Stiles a disapproving look as she and Cora leave silently.

Stiles exhales shakily, stares at the wall instead of Derek, who's doing a pretty good job of boring holes into the side of Stiles' head.

"It'll all be in the trash now," Derek says finally, and Stiles gawps at him, incredulous.

"Oh, gee thanks!"

"What?" Derek snorts, "I'm sorry if being seen with me was such an insult to your good name, Stiles. I've gone to every measure to be discreet, I've even moved our appointments to places more private," he gestures around him, "I can't do any more when I've been hired to do a job for you."

"Well, it's good I'm just a job for you, seeing as you clearly don't give a shit." Stiles almost shoves him, takes a step back and trips over loose fabric, kicks at it furiously. "I've been bending over backwards for you with the scarves and the shirts and the god damn ties, and then you get so embarrassed to be seen with someone so un-famous and undeserving of your attention you move us to somewhere private?!”

Derek makes a noise of annoyance, is suddenly very close to Stiles, "You think it's easy for me? Dealing with your endless complaints about every little thing I try to get you to wear, and then on top of that, everyone calling me to congratulate me on snagging Hollywood's hottest boy toy for the week? You don't think it's not just a little bit difficult to deal with when I'm the one people think you're using to get your kicks with, and then you’re going to drop like I’m not worth your time anymore?"

“Get my—wait—” Stiles grabs Derek’s arm before he can storm away the way he obviously wants to, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This is how it started before,” Derek snaps, “People used me because they thought I was front page material, and then they dropped me like I was nothing. I didn’t think you’d be like them, but clearly I was wrong.”

“Hey! I thought you were the one using me!” Stiles yells crossly, “You were the one who freaked out and moved us some place quiet like an in the closet homophobic asshole! I’m not used to this, Derek, and you’ve—you’ve helped me, ok? I would never,” he deflates, steps away from Derek, biting his lip as he waves his arms around, “I don’t have it in me to do that to you, Jesus, don’t you know me at all?”

“You’re an actor, Stiles,” Derek seems to go for a rough tone, but it cracks and he ends up looking painfully young and vulnerable in the stark studio lights.

Stiles heaves in a breath, clutches his chest with both hands and points at Derek wordlessly. Derek arches an eyebrow, looking confused.

“You’re the only person that hasn’t known me since fourth grade that I’ve been myself around since I got here, Derek. You’re—” he swallows, trying to pick his words carefully, “You said the clothes were armour, right?”

Derek nods jerkily.

“Well, I don’t take mine off for just anyone, dude, and I was takin’ off more than my favorite shirt for you on day one.”

There’s silence in the room, and Stiles looks at his feet in favor of trying to read Derek, or bursting into flames of embarrassment. When he glances up, Derek’s in front of him, his jaw working soundlessly and eyes intense.

“I was… wrong,” he says quietly.

Stiles scoffs, “How many times have you ever said that before?”

Once, when I told my sister I thought it was a good idea to get her hair dip dyed.”

“Huh,” Stiles licks his lips, tugs awkwardly at the shirt Erica shoved him into earlier. “You know, that was something about yourself I bet you haven’t ever told anyone else, right? And you know what that means, if you want it to.”

Derek’s eyes go dark, and finally, Stiles thinks they’re totally on the same page.

“Yes,” Derek breathes out, hand coming to rest cautiously at the hem of Stiles’ shirt as he leans in closer.

“Got anything else you wanna share?” Stiles asks hoarsely.

“I want to kiss you,” Derek says simply, and Stiles tries not to swallow his tongue; it’d be a case of really bad timing.

“Apparently the whole world knows that these days— mmff—” before Stiles can crow about being apparent Hale bait, Derek’s closing the distance between them completely and kissing him. Stiles melts into it, loops an arm around Derek’s neck and threads his fingers through Derek’s stupidly perfect hair. It even feels nice. Derek’s kissing him like the world’s about to end, pressing him up against the wall, hands dithering as they slide up his sides and then clutch at his hips. Stiles arches into all of it, wanting as much of Derek as he can have. He sneaks a hand up the back of Derek’s shirt, rakes his nails gently down hot skin and Derek gasps against his mouth, shoves a thigh between Stiles’ and pushes up in retaliation. Stiles feels himself grin before he can stop it, slows the momentum to cup Derek’s face, kisses him deep and open before pulling away, admiring how wrecked Derek looks.

He narrows his eyes and Derek blinks at him, “What?”

“This isn’t all just a ploy to get me to get my haircut, right?”

Derek laughs, bright and dazzling, slips his hands up Stiles’ shirt, splays them out across his ribs, “I actually prefer it longer,” he says against Stiles’ mouth, “’S’gonna come in handy.”

“Ooh, I knew you were gonna be a dirty fucker under all those neat clothes,” Stiles exclaims delightedly.

Derek hums, “You can take them off and find out if you like.”

“Do you have many wardrobe themed puns under your belt? Because I do.”

“Don’t start,” Derek says with a grin, grabbing one of Stiles’ hands and tugging him towards the couch.

He doesn’t complain once that Stiles ditches all his fancy clothes on the floor in his haste to get naked and on top of Derek. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure Derek rips his own shirt when he tears it over his head, but he’s too busy enjoying Derek grazing his teeth against his collarbone to check. He makes a noise of approval when Derek kicks away his pants; yanking Stiles back into his lap and kissing him heatedly.

“Can’t believe you thought you wouldn’t get laid,” Derek mutters, hitching Stiles’ thighs closer to him and grinding up. Stiles moans, drops his head back and Derek starts kissing his neck like he’s been waiting for a chance. Of the two of them, Stiles can’t actually tell who seems more frantic. He totally thought he’d be the one desperate to get his hands on someone when he finally got the chance, when it was more than awkward groping at the back of a high school dance or fooling around in the couple of months of summer he and Scott saw before the movie bonanza hit. Instead, Derek seems just as into it as Stiles, his hands are hot and a touch possessive as they dig into Stiles’ sides, tug at his hips and when he kisses Stiles it feels powerful, heady, and like he’s as equally passionate about this situation becoming something of a repeat performance. At least, he hopes it means that.

“You’re the one who implied my flailing and general personality was unlikely to get me any,” he manages to huff, careful to keep up the appearance of being semi-coherent under Derek’s ministrations. He hasn’t even touched Stiles’ dick, yet. He needs to show some control, here.   

Derek pulls back, and Stiles is momentarily distracted, as ever, by his eyes, colors no fashion designer would ever be able to pin down and make a tie from. Then he smiles, and it’s so open and sincere he thinks he melts a little further into Derek’s lap.

“I lied,” Derek says simply. “I was teasing you. You’re terrible at seeing your own appeal,” he runs a hand up Stiles’ side, eyes running over him appreciatively, “How can you not see?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Gee, in a room filled with male models and Hollywood’s finest, and you, who the fuck’s gonna be like, oh yeah, totally wanna bang the pale one in the suit that looks like it’s strangling him.”

Derek sucks in a breath through his teeth, fingers splaying over each of Stiles’ shoulders and running down his arms, “As if anyone wasn’t thinking that. You’re beautiful.”

Stiles blinks at him, arches an eyebrow, “I could maybe believe pretty, some have thrown around vaguely attractive—”



“Shut up.”

“That’s just rude to the person sitting naked in your lap.”

Derek smirks, wraps a hand around his cock, eyes still fixed on Stiles’, and oh, Stiles has found a new religion.

“Doesn’t seem to be bothering you,” Derek says in a low voice, “At all.”

“Hey, I have no qu—” his voice cracks and he pushes into Derek’s hand, “—qualms about admitting being easy for you, dude. Honestly, you could have asked me to go lie out on a bed and wait for you the moment we met.”

“I’m not that sort of guy, I like to know your inner leg measurements, first.” Stiles laughs, and Derek grins, twists his hand making Stiles hiss and rock into him. “Besides, I seem to remember you getting very antsy about being naked in front of me the first time we met.”

“My original point,” Stiles removes one of his own hands that have found themselves clutching at Derek’s shoulders, and gestures between himself and Derek. “You? Built like a tree. Me? I consider going to the gym a punishment that I refuse to put my body through more than Jackson insists is compulsory.”

Derek laughs, and oh, man, Stiles really likes it when he does that. To save himself the embarrassment of admitting it out loud, or anything else implying how very much he likes Derek, he kisses Derek’s neck.  Derek’s hand tightens around his dick, and Stiles shoves a hand blindly between them, pushing it into Derek’s boxers and curling it around Derek’s dick. Which is totally hard; Stiles kind of wants to crow about it.

“Wow, so you really do like me,” he pants breathlessly.

Derek doesn’t answer, just kisses him until he can’t think straight, all thoughts flying out the window between the feel of Derek’s hand jerking him off, and Derek’s chest brushing his, Derek’s lips pressing against his own in a kiss that makes him feel like his insides are going to alight. He bites down on Derek’s lower lip, feels Derek’s groan as it rumbles through him.

“I was right,” he says in a strangled voice, “I always knew clothes were the enemy. You should—always be naked.”

Derek grins against his neck, starts mouthing at his skin, teeth scraping at the hinge of his jaw. Stiles never even considered such a place to be erogenous before.

“Do that again,” he demands.

“When we get to my apartment, I’m going to show you exactly what I’ve wanted to do to you all summer,” Derek murmurs in his ear. “I’m going to lay you out and have you every way I want, every way you’ve ever pictured.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles moans as Derek bites at his neck, licks the mark as he pulls away. “I hope you don’t have anything on your schedule for tonight.”

Derek catches his hand, lining their cocks up and Stiles arches into it, shoving his hips blindly forward into the delicious friction.

“Nope, I’m all yours.”

It catches Stiles off guard, the words, the statement behind them, and the orgasm that shreds through him almost like an afterthought. He thinks he yells Derek’s name, bites down on his shoulder and Derek catches his chin with his free hand, kisses him hard. Stiles pants breathlessly against his mouth, eyes fixed on the mess of his come painting Derek’s abdomen and where their hands are moving on Derek’s cock.

“Fuck, I’ve seen some things since being in LA, but this is the best, so the best, the very best,” he blurts out. Derek chokes on a laugh, jerks underneath him, and then he’s coming between them, biting at the same mark on Stiles’ neck as he works himself through orgasm.

He lets out a shuddery groan, falls against the back of the couch, tugging Stiles with him. Stiles can feel his heart beating frantically against Derek’s chest, Derek’s own pounding against his. His hands never stop roaming over Stiles’ back, tracing the moles Stiles knows are scattered across his skin, and he sits up a little, arches an eyebrow at Derek.

“You know where they are?”

“Of course I do,” Derek says, managing to sound easily dismissive considering he’s just had an orgasm. Stiles knows his own voice is ragged, and he’s pretty sure he’s sweating profusely.

Derek thumbs at his bottom lip, eyes suddenly serious, “I know you pretty well.”

Stiles crooks a grin at him, nips at his thumb, “You better be stickin’ around to get to know me even better. I think we might have fans that’d be very cross with you otherwise.”

“Because that’s the only reason I’d want to,” Derek says drily, “The fans.”

“Hey, they called us cute, and adoring. Apparently you were lookin’ at me like I was very significant.”

Derek rolls his eyes, curves an arm around his waist and sits up to brush his lips across Stiles’. “Stop fishing, you make a very good accessory.”

Stiles shoves at his shoulder, tries to clamp down on the urge to grin when he sees Derek laughing again. “Asshole!”

“For the record,” Derek says after a moment, as Stiles runs a hand through his hair just because he can. “I am sticking around, if you are, and you are significant.”

Stiles pauses, slowly winds an arm around his shoulders as he smiles down at him, “Why, Derek, are you admitting something else personal when I don’t have any clothes to try on?”

“I can always find you something,” Derek threatens, but he makes no move to get up, and Stiles squirms closer, presses his mouth to Derek’s again, wants to learn the shape of it over and over.

“I’m stickin’ around,” he confirms. “Just promise to let me wear plaid in your apartment, I can’t live in the fancy stuff at weekends.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Derek says fondly, cupping his jaw, “But, I think I can deal. I like you best in the shirt I got you for your birthday any way.”

“I knew it,” Stiles crows, “Closet me fan the whole time.”

Derek scrunches up his nose, “How many more clothes related jokes are you planning on using?”

Stiles grabs a shirt, wiping between them and tossing to the side without Derek even flinching, beams at him as he leans in again and wiggles his eyebrows, “How long’ve you got?”

“As long as you like,” Derek says quietly, hands slipping to curve around Stiles’ hips again.

“’S’good cos I got like a million,” Stiles tells him, “Like, Derek you can wear me all night long.”

“Awful,” Derek says immediately, kissing Stiles’ shoulder.

“You’ve gotta remember this is like me winning you over in a one liner situation—and you happen to be into me already—you’d be hooked. You’d be all up on this, wearin’ me out of fashion.”

“What have I gotten myself into?” Derek says to the room at large, but when he leans back against the couch he waves a hand at Stiles as if to imply Stiles should go on, “What else do you have?”

“Please, don’t front, you’d have gone home with me in a hot second,” Stiles winks at him, “You’d have been floored by my charm.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, but there’s a smile in his eyes that Stiles recognizes now, it means he’s thinking Stiles is cute, he knows it does.

“Ok, this one’s a good’un, hey Derek, I bet those million dollar pants would look better on the floor of my hotel room.”

“Terrible, and old, never use it again.”

“Hey, Derek—”

Derek kisses him. It’s about the only argument Stiles ever lets him use to get him to put on fancy clothes, ever again.