"So, you're dating Derek?"
"That's just the thing, I don't know." Stiles was in distress and Scott did not seem to be comprehending the full nature of the situation.
"But you just said you kissed him and you went on a date."
"Twice. I kissed him twice. And I got to feel him up. I mean, have you seen that ass? I got to touch it! And we went out to dinner and he kissed me. But then he was all, 'that was fun, call me,' and just went home."
"I'm gonna ignore the ass comment because: gross. But I'm still not seeing the problem. That sounds pretty textbook for a first date. Do you not want to date Derek?"
"Scott. He went home. Alone."
"Yeah, it was a first date. How do your first dates normally end?"
"This is Derek, though. He's a werewolf. I don't think he's ever waited for a second date in his life. Have you met his ex-girlfriends? 'Call me'? Does he even have a cell phone?"
"Okay, first of all: 'he's a werewolf,' really? Racist much? Not all werewolves are hypersexual."
Stiles gave Scott a very pointed look.
"Hey, in theory, there might be some that aren't. You haven't met all the werewolves on the planet. Prejudice starts with generalizations."
"Fine. Unrelated to his species, all available data seems to indicate that Derek likes to round home base every time he comes up to bat. Except with me apparently. I got the brush-off and I'm allowed to be depressed about it. Fuck, maybe I'm a bad kisser. I should ask Lydia. That's probably really rude. You should ask Lydia, or better yet, Malia. Call Malia, Scott, ask her if I'm a good kisser. I need to know."
"Wow, okay. First of all, no way am I asking my girlfriend if her ex is a good kisser."
"But Scott, bros before hoes!"
"And second of all," Scott said over Stiles' whining, "I'm pretty sure, somewhere in there, you low-key just called Derek a slut."
"Hey, now, I'm not slut-shaming. It's not a bad thing. Not all of us can be serial-daters. Some of us just wanna have a good time. Like me. I want to have a good time. With Derek. I think Derek and I would have a magnificent time. Only, apparently, he doesn't agree."
Scott sighed and rolled his eyes. This wasn't really how he had envisioned his Saturday night going. But Stiles had stormed over directly after his supposedly failed date, desperately needing some bro time, and now here they were: on Scott's couch, eating hot cheetos, playing Far Cry 4, and discussing Derek Hale's sex life, of all things. "Or, I don't know, Stiles. Maybe he actually wants you to call him."
"Pff," Stiles scoffed, "as if. At what number, 555-Fuck-off-loser?"
"You could always try his cell."
"Except for that part about him not having one."
Scott, feeling astronomically put-upon, paused the game and pulled his smartphone out of his back pocket. He tapped around on it for a few seconds before picking up his controller again. Stiles' phone pinged from across the room. "There. Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of Derek's contact information."
"You have Derek's phone number? How did you get Derek's phone number? Since when? Scott, bro code! How could you do this to me?" Stiles scrolled through his messages, saving Derek's number to his contacts. "It's a local area code and everything!"
"Chill out, I don't think he's had the number for that long. He texted it to me a few hours ago."
"He texted you? I didn't know that was possible on a rotary phone! I thought he communicated only through vague threats and smoke signals. Next he'll be discovering email. What did he say?"
"Oh my God, we are not doing this."
"Hey," Stiles cut him off before Scott could object further, "I would like it to be noted that he started it. Giving you his number instead of me. I'm allowed to over-analyze."
"Just call him. This is Derek. His lack of social skills is well documented but last I checked, his version of letting someone down lightly was to drop-kick them out of a third story window."
"True." Stiles looked thoughtful for the first time in the whole conversation. "I'm pretty sure he's so bad at lying it could legally qualify as a disability."
"So, and I can't stress enough how fucked up it is that I am giving you relationship advice about Derek, but maybe you should just take what he says at face value. His last few relationships ended pretty catastrophically. That kind of thing would make any dude a little gun-shy."
Stiles screwed his face up and scratched at the back of his head, like a whole paradigm of possibilities was just then occurring to him and he was unsure whether he liked them or not. "So, what you're saying is: Derek might actually want to date me."
"I don't know Stiles, but based on what you've told me: all signs point to yes."
"And the last time he saw you, you were going on and on about Lydia being your one true love. For, like, four years too."
"Huh." Stiles' face went through various contortions as he continued to stare at the television screen, deep in thought.
"And, in the spirit of this conversation slowly getting more and more fucked up: now is the time where I tell you not to break Derek. It's been nice having him around again. It takes some of the pressure off me and getting advice from him is surprisingly less cryptic and bullshity than asking Deaton. So, just: tread carefully or whatever."
"You're right, that might be the weirdest thing you've ever said to me."
"And, for the love of god, stop texting me haikus about his ass."
"It's such a great ass though. It deserves poetry."
"Please. In the name of all that is holy."
"Ugh. Fine. You’re such a fair-weather friend."
Dating was something of a new concept for Stiles, a new thing he was trying. He strongly suspected that it was also a new thing Derek was trying. Derek hadn't even had a phone up until the week before and Stile was starting to feel like this whole operation was maybe a case of the blind leading the blind. Stiles had lost his virginity to a werecoyote in the basement of a nuthouse and, between the two of them, that was probably the more safe, sane and consensual virginity-losing story.
Their first date had been awkward as hell. They had gone out for dinner and the very prospect of choosing a suitable restaurant to which to take Derek Hale on a first date had been more than a little daunting. Daunting enough that Stiles had maybe panicked and suggested the first place that had sprung to mind, which might have been the restaurant his parents used to go to on their anniversary. Italian was, apparently, not a huge hit with the werewolf community. He should have been able to predict that. Also, taking a first date to his dead mom's anniversary dinner location might have been just a touch too heavy.
Derek had okay table manners, better than Stiles' anyway, and Stiles had refrained from making any 'raised by wolves' jokes, which, in retrospect, he wished he hadn't held back on. Their entire conversation over dinner had been stilted and overly formal. Stiles had intercepted the check, driven Derek home, walked him to his door and kissed him goodnight like he was a middle-school prom date.
What a fucking disaster.
Maybe once they got through this terrible dating stage it would get better. Was there a minimum number of dates they needed to go on? He felt like he'd heard somewhere that three was the standard. That meant they needed to get through at least two more of those suckers before Stiles headed back to school in September because this shit was way too awkward to do long distance and Derek's ass was definitely the kind of quality one had to get on lock-down before one left the state.
Stiles knew he had grown into himself a little over the last few years, Lydia had agreed to date him at one point, but he wasn't delusional. Derek was the kind of hot that multiple people had committed very literal murder over. It was probably a little too early to be putting a ring on it, but when Beyonce dished out advice, Stiles knew damn well to follow it.
Stiles let himself in through the front door of Derek's building. Derek wasn't home, Stiles was just stopping by to grab Scott's jacket, which Scott had left in the loft after the last pack meeting. They held those at Derek's place now. For all of it's post apocalyptic industrial wasteland meets crack den charm, the place was pretty useful for training: high ceilings, nothing of value to break and neighbors that either knew better than to ask or just plain didn't care.
Scott was out with Malia and had given Stiles his key and asked him to swing by Derek’s place for his jacket on his way home, which was fine. It wasn't like Stiles had any big plans. It was Friday night and Stiles had been hoping for a date with Derek, wanting to maybe make it a double-header weekend: a date on Friday and a date on Saturday, so they could move past the whole unpleasantness of dating without wasting anymore time. But Derek had claimed to have some sort of urgent business he needed to take care of. Something about a New York pack that would keep him busy until Saturday.
Stiles kicked at the metal door of the elevator when the button didn't light up as he pressed it. It was probably out of service again. Derek was kind of a slum lord, this place was a shithole.
He jogged up the five flights of stairs to Derek's loft and unlocked the door. When Derek got back, he'd have to get a few more details about this New York pack. Dating etiquette aside, Stiles did not like being left out of the loop on any supernatural stuff. Better to interrogate now, then let it bite him in the ass later, all relevant puns fully intended.
The door swung open silently and Stiles paused before going in. He could hear the Madden 17 menu theme playing from somewhere inside.
Maybe Liam had decided to crash at Derek's place for the night. It was within the realm of possibilities. Madden was potentially the douchiest game series to ever exist and Stiles was vaguely ashamed to realize that he even recognized it, but Liam played it a lot and, as Scott's newest padawan learner, Liam tended to be around pretty often. Stiles still had his doubts about Liam. Attempted murder of Scott aside, the fact that Liam continued to play Madden was, so far as Stiles was concerned, proof enough of his persistent douchiness.
"I want Adrien Peterson." No, that was definitely Derek’s voice coming from somewhere inside the loft.
"Seriously, dude? He's old as hell." The second voice sounded slightly distorted, like it was coming in over a speaker. "Oh my God, you didn't bite him did you? That is so cheating."
"Okay, so first of all: I'm not an Alpha anymore, remember? And second of all: THAT WAS ONE TIME. And it's not like I bit him. I still can't believe you didn't know the Mannings were werewolves. Who doesn't know that."
"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we instituted rule 18." The speakers crackled with a chorus of agreement.
Derek was on some kind of a conference call or in a groupchat. Now there was a thing Stiles never would have believed. He took a step forward, peering around for the source of the voices. Derek's head popped up from behind the back of the couch.
They stared at each other for a moment in surprise.
"Uhhh... what's rule 18?" Stiles spouted off the first thing that came to mind.
"Rule 18 requires full disclosure of any and all known supernaturals before the beginning of the draft," a helpful voice came in over the speaker.
Stiles took a few steps closer.
"Derek has company?" Another voice joined the conversation. "It's about time he sought some outside assistance. His picks are so bad we've been thinking about giving him a handicap."
By this time, Stiles was close enough for the whole scene to come into view. Derek was, for lack of a better word, lounging on the couch in sweatpants and bare feet. He had on a Raiders jersey that looked like it had seen better days and his hair was loose and ungelled. It was longer than Stiles had thought and very slightly wavy, like Derek had just rolled out of bed, run a comb through it, and called it good enough. He had taken the time to shave though and it made Stiles blink a few times, he was so used to seeing Derek with some sort of stubble. Add to that the NFL simulator game playing on the flatscreen in the background, the BOSH surround-sound sound system and the beat-up laptop displaying a shared spreadsheet titled 'NFL Fantasy Draft,' and all that was missing was the snapback.
Derek was a closet dude-bro.
"Are you drinking Four Loko?" Stiles’ eyes drifted to the collection of empties lying next to the couch. His shock had reduced him to sputtering out slightly obvious and largely inane questions. "You’re a werewolf, you can't get drunk. Does that mean you're drinking Four Loko for the taste?"
"Uh..." Derek's looked down at the drink in his hand. "Actually..."
"Naw, werewolves can get drunk, we just metabolize the sugar really fast." That same helpful voice chimed back in over the loudspeakers. "It's all about getting the right ratio of sugar to ethanol. Smirnoff Ice works okay, or Vodka and kool aid, Four Loko is the best though, it was basically a godsend."
Stiles' mouth still hung slightly open, he wasn't sure what to be shocked about first so he just stuck with, "You've been keeping this from Scott this whole time?"
"Well... he's still underage." Derek made a face, then shrugged and shifted into a more comfortable position on the couch. He looked pleasantly buzzed and the way he relaxed back against the armrest was bordering on indecent. Stiles got lost for a second, watching his shirt ride up ever so slightly. Also: hello sweatpants.
Stiles shook himself, trying to get back on track. "You're playing fantasy football. Wait. Didn't you have business to take care of with some New York pack? Holy shit, is this your pack business?"
"I never said it was business. It's draft day. We always have draft day on the second Friday in August." Derek's eyebrows were starting to come down into a grumpy frown which Stiles was having a very difficult time deciding whether to find adorable as all hell, or heartbreaking in contrast to how relaxed he had looked a minute before. It was a veritable Sophie's choice: Grumpy-cat-Derek versus Slightly-douchy-sex-kitten-Derek.
"Oh, hey, is that Stiles?"
"Huh?" Stiles looked towards the speaker, where the voice had come from. "Uh, yeah. Stiles here." Holy shit, Derek had friends. Jesus, this was just one revelation after the next.
"Okay, Stiles, here's the deal," the voice continued, "Clearly you have no idea how much effort it takes to coordinate everyone getting together on draft day. We're talking some serious moving of heaven and earth here, so cut your boy some slack and maybe help him out a little. I mean, he pretends to know shit about football, but he is seriously clueless. It's almost kinda tragic, my twelve-year-old niece did better last year and her team was picked strictly based on which players were or were not dog owners."
Stiles glanced down at Derek on the couch. Derek had friends. Werewolf friends. Werewolf friends with whom he talked about Stiles and played fantasy sports. Holy shit.
Derek huffed and pulled his computer off the floor and onto his lap, gesturing towards the kitchen with his open can of watermelon Four Loko. "I'm pretty sure there's actual beer in the fridge. You can help me pick a new quarterback. I am sick of Matthew Stafford never coming through for me."
There was a slightly heavy moment of silence before Stiles answered, during which Derek just stared at his computer scene, not looking up.
Then Stiles scoffed, going to grab a beer from the kitchen and plopping down on the couch next to Derek. "You call six consecutive seasons with over 4,000 passing yards never coming through for you? What are you waiting for, the second coming of Dan Marino?" He popped the tab open on his beer (Natural Ice because, of fucking course Derek would stock his fridge with the worst beer ever). "Alright, who are we looking at?"
Research was a thing Stiles could do. And slightly drunken research with Derek lounging around in sweatpants looking like he had fallen out of gay Sports Illustrated? Yeah. That, Stiles could definitely do.
"You are so unfairly hot right now." Stiles was at that stage of drunk where he was still mostly in control of his faculties, but had lost what remained of his brain-to-mouth filter. Some might think this would constitute no change in his behavior, those were only people who had never been around a horny Stiles after three beers.
The draft had ended about fifteen minutes before and they had logged out of the live chat, but never really gotten up from the couch. Derek was messing around, trying to build his fantasy team on Madden while Stiles organized the draft spreadsheet into more useable tabs for statistical analysis.
Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles' comment, glancing over as he knocked back the last of his Uva Berry Four Loko, his eyes mostly still on his game.
Who even buys Uva Berry Four Loko?, Stiles thought to himself. That flavor was practically a punishment. It was like drinking some ungodly hybrid of grape drank and everclear. Derek Hale, that's who. And he was still hot. It was fucking unfair. "You could be drinking Thunderbird and I'd still want to make out with you."
Derek hummed noncommittally, but Stiles could see him biting at the inside of his cheek. They were both a little drunk. It was nice. Normal. Derek liked to drink malt beverages and play fantasy sports. Stiles sort of wanted to lick him.
More than sort of, actually. "I'm cool waiting, though. Dating is totally fine with me. I want to go on all the dates with you. I just suck at it. I mean, obviously. You could probably tell. But you are so Earth-shatteringly hot right now. If this is like, a preview of what being your boyfriend could be like, I will, seriously, move mountains. Whatever you want."
Derek snorted, but didn't say anything, instead wordlessly holding out his empty can.
Stiles jumped to his feet, running off to the kitchen to grab another Four Loko out of the fridge and grabbing himself another beer while he was there.
He was about to say something as he returned, but Derek cut him off before he could start, grabbing his drink out of Stiles' hand and shooting him an amused look. "If you say 'as you wish' I will seriously throw you out."
Stiles stuck his tongue out and picked his controller back up as he resettled onto the couch.
A minute or two went by, then Derek spoke up again. "Boyfriend, huh?"
"Hopefully." Stiles briefly mourned his complete and utter lack of chill. It was unfortunate, but if Derek didn't already know it to be one of his faults, it was probably best that he found out sooner rather than later. "I'll be back in Virginia next month so I am working on a bit of a deadline. I mean, we don't have to call it that and I'll take whatever I can get. If casual dating with the option to renew over winter break is all that ends up happening, then so be it, but long-distance exclusivity is definitely end-game."
"It seems a bit counter-productive to be telling me all this."
"Oh, no. Bald-faced honesty is part of my strategy." Stiles poked at Derek's side with his toe. "Besides, it's not like you have a great track-record for avoiding shit that you could see coming a mile away."
Derek elbowed the foot away. "Kiss my ass."
"I live in hope."
There was a long pause during which Derek audibly rolled his eyes, then sighed. "I'm not having sex with you right now."
"I know. That's cool. Am I pressuring you? I don't mean to be pressuring you. I like this, what we're doing right now. Just, feel free to assume that if you ever do want to have sex, I will be so down for that. Especially if it involves my tongue in your ass. Because that is seriously something I think about way too much. I shouldn't have said that. Sorry. That sounded kinda pressurey. I didn't mean it that way. But, if you let anyone else put their tongue in your ass I might cry. Shit. Sorry. That sounded controlling. Your body, your choices. I totally respect that. But in the spirit of honesty: tears. Literal tears." Maybe Stiles was a little drunker than he had thought.
Those sweatpants though, they clung in ways that jeans just did not and Stiles could not help but appreciate the results. They were currently riding down a little, just enough so that Stiles could tell that Derek was a boxer briefs kinda guy. Which was both mildly disappointing and indescribably tantalizing. Disappointing because it shattered the illusion that Derek might potentially be going commando, and tantalizing because: Derek in boxer briefs.
"Werewolves get possessive."
"Huh?" Stiles' musings jumped the track a little. "Oh, yeah. Dude, I've been friends with Scott for how long now? Trust me, I know. His relationships are Intense."
"Long distance makes it worse."
"I promise I will make it so worth your while, though. And I'm totally ready for any amount of werewolf crazy. I have been writing you poetry. Which I realize is a bit much. So I've been sending it to Scott, not you, because I'm not a complete idiot and don't want to freak you out. But just know that I am prepared. I mean, I'm only on haikus right now, but if you want iambic pentameter, I'm sure I could work up to that."
"I'll probably want you to wear my clothes sometimes, when you're away."
"Dude, you're welcome to fly to Virginia every other weekend and personally deposit a fresh load of cum in my ass, if that makes you feel better. Just give me a heads up. Throwing on one of your dirty wife beaters is really not gonna be--"
Stiles got cut off when Derek abruptly crawled on top of him, pulling him into a kiss, one hand twisting into his hair and the other pushing up under his shirt. Suddenly Stiles’ entire world was Derek, hot and hard on top of him, better than he had ever imagined.
"You are the worst fucking tease, you know that?" Derek panted against Stiles' mouth.
Stiles' hands sought out the waistband of Derek's sweatpants and Derek pressed forward into him as Stiles palmed the round swell of his ass. "Who are you calling a tease? I wouldn't offer unless it was on the menu."
"And what else, exactly, is on the menu?" Derek pressed his face into the side of Stiles' neck and ran his teeth lightly over the tendon there. It figured necks would be a thing for him. His breath was hot and his hands were strong and insistent, in Stiles' hair and gripping the bare skin at his waist.
Stiles shuddered as Derek bit down lightly and ground into him. Staying coherent was becoming something of a challenge. "Well, at the moment, not a whole lot." Stiles brought his hands up to the small of Derek's back. It dipped so beautifully right there, accentuating the muscles in his back and the roundness of his ass. He kind of couldn't believe what he was saying. Derek was so fucking beautiful and on top of him and who knew when or if that would ever happen again?
He continued anyway. "You're kinda drunk and I'm kinda drunk and you said no sex so, as much as I would fucking love to keep going, I'm also really into our first time, and I'm really hoping that there is a first time and a lot more times after that, but our first time, and all those other times too, I really want them to be more than just ambiguously consensual." Despite his words, Stiles arched up into Derek's mouth as he tongued at the crook of Stiles' jaw. "So what I'm saying is: I definitely don't want to stop. Definitely, not at all, but we should also probably not have sex right now."
Derek kissed him again. His mouth was wet and warm and he was heavy, his weight pressing, solid and strong, against Stiles' chest. One of Stiles’ hands making it's way into Derek's hair. It was absurdly soft. He wanted to get lost in Derek, spend entire days right there on the couch with him, but he forced himself to pull back.
"Jesus Christ, I can't believe I'm about to do this." He took a deep breath, concentrating on the lingering smell of beer and sugary grain alcohol, and wiggled out from under Derek, dashing off into the kitchen before he could change his mind. He grabbed Scott's jacket off the counter, stuck his head in the freezer for thirty seconds, then came back into the living room.
Derek was still sprawled out on the couch, watching him with hooded eyes. He didn't look particularly rejected or concerned, more just curious. Which made sense. There was no way he couldn't smell how turned on Stile was. It certainly didn't require him having werewolf senses. Stiles was fairly certain that shit could be seen from space.
He walked over to the couch again. "Okay, I am going to go home now. To probably jack off in the shower thinking about you. But I'll see you tomorrow and we'll have another terribly awkward date, but then maybe afterwards we can do something fun and, also, maybe revisit this. Because I am definitely on board to revisit this." He leaned down to kiss Derek goodbye. It was meant to be brief, but then Derek opened up for him like the best kind of wet dream and it was all he could do not to crawl right back into his lap. He bit down softly on Derek's bottom lip and forced himself to take two giant steps back. "Okay. Yeah. I'm going to go now. You just, stay there. Okay."
Blushing hotly and tripping over his own shoes, Stiles backed out the door and raced down the stairs to his car.
"Fuck." He collapsed into the driver's seat. "That was the right choice. Fuck, that did not feel like the right choice. But it was so the right choice." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Scott.
Scott answered on the third ring. "What's up? You said you were gonna come by with my jacket."
"Yeah, so... about that. I need you to come pick me up."
"Um, okay, where are you?"
"Outside Derek's place."
"Your car broke down?"
"No, but I'm drunk and I just turned Derek down for sex and I'm really tempted to change my mind, but I'm pretty sure it was the right decision. Also, werewolves can get drunk, Derek was totally big-brothering you this whole time. He looks really hot when he’s drunk and I think I might be developing a frat-boy fetish. I might have to buy him a snapback."
"Whoa, wait, hold up. What?"
"I know, right? Sign me up for sainthood right now. I turned Derek Hale down for sex."
"Just... don't go anywhere, okay? I'm on my way."
"Hurry, I don't know how long I can hold out."
Stiles hung up, and then, because he was not beyond drunk-texting people he had just seen five minutes earlier, pulled up his messenger app and scrolled down to Derek's number.
tmrw, batting cages off Baseline and Broadway, 3pm?
He didn't have to wait long before his phone pinged with a reply.
Stiles screwed his face up. 'K'? really? Derek deserved to be shamelessly drunk-texted.
and buying me a hotdog
u owe me 4 makng me ask Scott for ur numbr
Derek's response came through as Scott's car pulled up next to the jeep.
the only number I had for you was disconnected
Stiles rolled his eyes. Jesus, Stiles had been coming up with better excuses since before he had even left grade school, which was also how long he had owned his current phone number.
sounds like a PEBKAC error
I'm on to you btw
you know what the internet is
i'll keep your secret for now
but just know that i know
He was settling into the passenger seat of Scott's car when he got Derek's reply.
"Scott, he's sending me single character texts." Stiles tried not to whine, to mixed success.
"Stiles, Derek Hale is texting you." Scott sounded amused, clearly not understanding the severity of the situation and the magnitude of Stiles' sacrifice, barely fifteen minutes earlier.
"Single character texts. I turned down sex for single character texts."
"Stiles. Derek Hale is reading your texts and replying to them."
"Hmm... that's a good thing, isn't it?"
"Yeah, Stiles. That's a good thing."