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Dwells Amidst Your Walls

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The lesson to be learned from this, Stiles thinks, is to never allow Scott anywhere near tequila ever again. It's 3 in the afternoon, Stiles' hangover is still firmly in place, and he's scrolling down the screen with a growing sense of apprehension matched only by his nausea.

For Sale: One virginity, slightly used, the title says. Stiles is glumly grateful that at least, even drunk, Scott can spell. The description below it is just as bad. Worse, really, because Stiles remembers helping to write it.

Stiles' phone has been playing California Dreaming, Scott's wait tone, on repeat for half an hour. Stiles is just about to hang up and bother Scott about it later when the music is cut off by a groan and a gruff, "What?"

"Am I hallucinating," Stiles says, "or did you actually post a Craigslist ad offering my virginity to the highest bidder?"

There's a recriminating silence from the other end. "You thought it was funny."

"I thought it was funny writing it." Stiles opens Minesweeper, clicking as he talks. "I didn't think it was funny to actually post the damn thing."

"I thought you'd like it." Scott has puppy-eyes down to a superpower. Even though he can’t see Scott, Stiles can feel them, begging for Stiles' forgiveness.

Stiles clicks in the wrong place, watches the display explode, and sighs. "Look, it's fine, I just didn't want active confirmation that nobody would want my bod even if I paid them to take it."


Stiles' brow furrows. "I know that uh. That never ends well."

"Just," Scott says slowly, "you may want to get over here."


"Whoa," Stiles says for the third time in so many minutes. He's scrolling down furiously. There are more than thirty replies. More than thirty individuals have bid for Stiles' virginity. He's a little overwhelmed. "So, that was..." Stiles hesitates. "Somewhere between flattering and amusingly terrifying."

"You don't have to actually answer any of them, you know," Scott says earnestly.

Stiles squints at him. “Sure? Because I thought the Craigslist fairies might eat me otherwise.”

“They— oh. You’re joking,” Scott says, and Stiles rolls his eyes.


Stiles still makes Scott promise to forward him any future replies, because that way lies hilarity. Apart from that the whole thing might never have happened at all. Until Scott comes to him, pale-faced, and says, “So you might have to follow through anyway.”

“Let me think about it,” Stiles says. “Hm… Still no.”

“No, seriously. I think this guy is like, with the mob. Or a serial killer.” Scott flails. “He’s got murder eyes!”

"And you want me to sleep with him," Stiles says, flat. "Truly, you are an awesome friend."

Scott's voice drops to a whisper. "He offered actual money. Like, not goats or monopoly money, actual dollars. A lot. And I think he might kill me if you say no."

"How do you even know what he looks like," Stiles says, catching on to that part just now. "Did he send a picture?"

Scott turns even paler. It's sort of impressive. "He followed me out of class."

Stiles takes a moment to digest this.

"He's coming to my house today." Scott's hands are on Stiles' forearms, desperately clinging. "You have to say yes! I can't die, I have a date with Allison this weekend!"

"By all means, yes, set me up with the apparent serial killer," Stiles mumbles. "Since you went to the trouble of telling him where you live and all that."

Scott, because unlike Stiles sarcasm isn't his native language, perks right up. "So you'll do it?"

Stiles pauses. "I'll come stay with you this afternoon," he offers. "We'll face him together."

Scott smiles, warm and honest. "I knew you wouldn't let me die alone."

Stiles smirks. "Not unless you break my Playstation. In that case, all bets are off. Go to class already." He shakes Scott off before Scott can do anything unfortunate like kiss Stiles or pull him into a headlock.


There's a knock on the door. Scott and Stiles both pause, handfuls of popcorn halfway to their lips, staring at each other.

"It's your house," Stiles hisses.

"It's your ass on offer."

"It's your ad that put it on offer!"

Scott actually rolls his eyes, the dick. "Fine." He gets off the couch with a huge huff, like Stiles had better appreciate the sacrifices Scott makes for him. For the moment, Stiles is unimpressed.

Stiles' first thought when Scott opens the door is a numb He didn't tell me the guy was smoking hot.

Because for the record? He is. He's wearing a dark gray t-shirt that clings to very, very obvious abs and cuts above similarly obvious biceps. He's got cheekbones that could probably cut diamonds.

And worst of all, when Stiles gets up and moves closer – drawn against his will – the guy takes off his sunglasses to reveal absolutely stunning eyes whose color Stiles can't even determine at first glance. Are they green? Gray? Gold? Stiles doesn't know. Color has no meaning for him anymore. All he knows is that they're gorgeous.

The guy gives him a long, calculating look. "You must be Stiles."

Intelligently, Stiles answers, "Uh."

"Yeah!" Scott jumps in. "Yeah, he is. And. Um. He doesn't actually want to sell his virginity!"

Some days, Stiles has no idea whether he loves Scott like a brother or hates him like the plague. Possibly both at the same time.

"It was a joke." Scott is turning the puppy-eyes on the stranger, full strength. "We were drunk. We didn't actually mean to follow through or anything."

The guy's expression betrays nothing at all. "So you're not a virgin," he tells Stiles. Tells, not asks; there was definitely no question mark there.

"Excuse me," Stiles says, affronted. "I am as pure as the driven snow!"

"Like snow that was driven on, maybe," Scott mutters, because he's a terrible friend. Stiles glares daggers at him.

The guy sort of – leans, except the word in no way does him justice. He manages to somehow sprawl while remaining vertical. Stiles thinks he saw a pec jump, and his mouth promptly goes dry. "So you're not interested," the guy says.

"I didn't say that," someone says, and Stiles is quite shocked to realize it was him. "I mean," he says, trying to salvage the situation. "Scott mentioned that you made. Ah. A very compelling offer." He's kicking himself as soon as he closes his mouth: Way to go, Stiles, A+ class right there.

The guy's mouth moves into a tight smirk. Aesthetically it's very pleasing, but it turns Stiles cold inside. "I did," he says.

"So." Stiles tries to calm down his heart, tries to find a way out of this that doesn't— that won't— ah, fuck, he doesn't even know anymore. "I. If you want to then. I guess we could. I mean, everyone has sex sometimes, you're not exactly hard on the eyes," Oh God, Stiles, why did you say that, I can't take you anywhere, "and getting cash isn't like a hardship, so. Um. Why the hell not?" Stiles tries for his most winning smile. He has a feeling it's coming out watered and weak.

The guy doesn't seem to mind. He gives Stiles an even look, then a hand to shake. "I'm Derek," he says, and Stiles feels just a tiniest bit worse realizing he never even thought of asking the guy his name.


"So when I said virginity," Stiles starts. They're in a hotel room – rented on Derek's dime, since Stiles is cheerfully broke.

Derek scowls. "You mean to tell me—"

"I am!" Stiles says hurriedly. "I mean, most I've done with anyone is kissing. Not even so much as heavy petting. Or dry humping. Pretty much anyone's definition of a virgin, that's me." He swallows. That was... surprisingly less humiliating than he thought it'd be. "The question is, when you bought my virginity," and yeah, that does not get any less awkward on repeat, "what exactly are you paying for, here."

Derek looks pained. "Sex," he says .

"Yeah, that's a lot of help." Stiles sits down on the bed, bouncing a little. "Sex as in, I did not have sex with that woman?"

The way Derek's face twists is fascinating to behold. "Fucking," Derek says. "I mean. We could—"

Stiles waves his hands. "No, no, fucking is fine with me." He pulls at the hem of his t-shirt. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I’ll get to top?” he says wistfully.

Derek shrugs. “If you want.”

Stiles blinks, stunned.

Derek rubs a hand over his face and says, cranky, “I’m seriously reconsidering this deal.”

“Oh no,” Stiles says very quickly. “No takesie-backsies. C’mon. Take my penetrative virginity, you stud, you.” That just makes Derek look like he’s regretting his entire life, but he's taking off his shirt, so Stiles counts it as a win.

Very much of a win, in fact, when you consider exactly how cut Derek is. Stiles sucks in a breath. He didn't even realize bodies like that were possible without Photoshop. He suddenly feels very, very uncertain about taking off his own clothes.

It's not that Stiles has a low self-esteem – he's a delight, and to hell with anyone who says otherwise – but he's maybe less of a delight in the carnal realm than in, say, the realm of trading witty banter.

Stiles is fervently considering whether Derek would just let Stiles talk about Homestuck for an hour when Derek says, "Are you regretting this," with a tone that says I'm not even going to bother being surprised.

"Fuck you," Stiles snaps, pushing his clothes off. Then he pauses to consider, and snickers.

Derek rolls his eyes. He's lying on the bed, naked and, okay, kind of mouthwatering. "You going to get in here?"

Stiles chooses actions over words, climbing over Derek. He nearly swallows his tongue at the first touch of heated, naked skin against his; he's abruptly aware that he's hard, very hard, and it's difficult not to worry whether Derek noticed.

Derek smirks. Like everything else about Derek, it's unfairly attractive. He puts his hand on Stiles' hip. "Still got time to change your mind," he says, soft and a little mocking.

Stiles has no choice but to kiss the guy to shut him up, obviously.

And. Okay. Stiles has kissed and been kissed before, a number of times, with a number of varyingly skilled partners. And this is... in it's own category, really. Derek smells good in a way Stiles can't quantify but makes him want to eat Derek up with a spoon, his mouth is just the right amount of wet and, shit, Derek's making little hungry noises when Stiles opens his mouth to him.

Derek's fingers are on Stiles' temple, weirdly gentle. Derek disengages to say, "Open your eyes," softly. Stiles blinks, and tries to obey.

A minute later, Stiles decides that Derek was very right about that, since now Derek is mouthing at Stiles' nipples and that's a sight Stiles truly didn't want to miss. "Fuck, you're hot," slips out of Stiles' mouth without him meaning to say it. Derek just grunts and bites down on Stiles' nipple, making him whimper.

He's kind of losing it when Derek stands up, fishes in his jacket pocket and throws something at Stiles – a tube of lube and a condom, which Stiles doesn't catch because coordination isn't his best quality even when he's not out of his mind with arousal. They slide down to the bed.

"Unless you changed your mind," Derek says with a crook of his eyebrow.

Stiles chokes a little, because that should not be sexy, but it is. "Nope, no change of heart here, come back where I can kiss you."

Which is lacking in dignity, Stiles will admit, but it makes Derek crack into genuine laughter – and Stiles would take that over dignity, any day.

He's on top of Derek again, taking the opportunity to lick Derek's stomach and his hipbones. He gently pushes Derek's legs apart. "So, you may be aware I don't have a lot of experience. Any instructions you want to make are good, okay?"

Derek's quiet for long enough that Stiles figures he took it for a rhetorical statement. Stiles is slicking his fingers when Derek says gruffly, "Go slow. It's been a while."

Stiles nods absentmindedly. He's kind of distracted by the wonder of nature that is Derek's ass. He presses his fingers against Derek's hole, just rubbing slowly. "Gonna let me in?" he says, and it's like Derek's body responds to words better than Derek, because the tip of Stiles' thumb sinks right inside him, without any pushing.

Derek grunts. Stiles pauses. "Okay?"

"More," Derek says, and Stiles works a finger in.

Slow or not, the prep's over quicker than Stiles would like. Derek body takes Stiles' fingers like he was made for it, arching gracefully when Stiles finds the perfect angle and rhythm. It's fascinating, it's beautiful, it makes Stiles so hard he thinks he might burst.

"So fuck me," Derek says, strained. He's said that a few times already. Stiles nods, dazed, tries to put the condom on. It falls out of his slippery fingers. Derek catches it, tears the package and rolls it onto Stiles' cock with quick efficient movements before lying back and spreading his legs in clear invitation.

Nobody's going to have to ask Stiles twice.

The first push in is almost painful it's so good, an intensity Stiles didn't even realize was possible. He'd never felt anything like it, the heat and tightness utterly foreign to anything in Stiles' experience. He thinks he might see God; he thinks he might be about to cry.

Derek's hands clutch in Stiles' shoulders, and he remembers he's not alone in this. He looks down, and Derek looks – stunned, blinking up at Stiles like he has no idea how he got there.

"Move," Derek says, and Stiles does, sobbing at every thrust. Derek's quiet compared to him, but his body is more than eloquent, pushing and rippling under Stiles – around Stiles, God, and Stiles chokes and comes on that thought, humiliatingly quick.

It's okay, though, because Derek's eyes widen when Stiles' hips stutter out of control, Derek's hand flying to fist his own cock, and he starts to come pretty much the moment Stiles finishes, hot white pearly streams gushing over his fingers. Stiles stares at it and kind of wants it in his mouth. More than kind of.

“Seriously, though,” Stiles says, once he can breathe and has stopped trembling. “Why like this? Like it would be hard for you to find sex partners?”

Derek seems much calmer now, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “I liked your picture,” he says eventually. “I don’t deal with disappointment well.”

Stiles glances at him and mutters, “Figures.”


Had Stiles expected sex to turn him into a different person, he would've been in for a disappointment. As it is he wakes up in an empty hotel bed with a note saying he can stay there until 12pm and to order breakfast if he's hungry. Stiles considers this for all of two minutes before he remembers he has class and skedaddling.

It's discrete math, which is a painfully annoying class with a painfully annoying lecturer, but it has the benefit of one Lydia Martin. She sits one seat over from Stiles and rolls her eyes whenever the lecturer has to backtrack or draw something instead of writing a precise definition. Stiles sees her writing neat little math symbols with a fluffy-edged pink pen and can't help but fall a little further for her.

This is it, Stiles resolves. Today will be the day that he talks to Lydia Martin.

He hangs around after the class, waiting for Lydia to finish asking the lecturer questions with a sweet, acid tone. "Hey," he says, jogging a little awkwardly as she passes him by. "Do you have a partner for the assignment yet?" Start low-key, Stiles figures. Don't want to put too much pressure on either of them.

She looks at him like she can see his innards and doesn't like the look of them. "I'm doing it by myself. But thank you."

"Did you get the short proof for question three?" Stiles blurts. "With the golden ratio?" Stiles was proud of that one. It was pretty.

This time her look lingers, considering. "Did you also prove it using induction?"

Stiles can't help grinning. "Actually I just played with the algebra, used a telescopic sum.”

"Ah," Lydia says. She smiles, sharp and decisive, and Stiles can't help a soaring feeling of victory. "Perhaps we could—"

Then a hand drops on Stiles' shoulder, and a newly-familiar voice growls, "I need to talk to you."

"Um." Stiles' head whips back and front, looking from Derek to Lydia to Derek again. "I. Sure?" He doesn't have much of a choice. Derek's pretty much dragging him away, hand like a vice on Stiles' shoulder. "Tomorrow at the library, 9am?" he yells at Lydia, catching her bemused nod.


"I'm choosing to look on the bright side," Stiles says, brushing invisible dust of his clothes once Derek has finally deigned to let go of him. "You did get me out of there before I managed to make a complete idiot out of myself in front of her."

The set of Derek's eyebrows speaks volumes.

Stiles exhales. "Yeah, okay, I did look a little silly back there. But! That was mostly your fault, which puts me off the hook and gives me an amusing anecdote to tell later. Everybody wins. So, what is it?" He pins Derek with an expectant gaze.

Derek's the first to look away. Stiles didn't expect that. "Never mind," Derek says in a low voice. "Go ahead and play with the redhead."

Stiles blinks. "You sound angry," he says. "You pulled me away from Lydia, whom I've only been trying to court for the entire semester, and now you sound angry. And also passive-aggressive."

Derek looks prickly. Like a hedgehog. Seriously, it's like his hair just stood up on end and got spikier, Stiles has no idea how he did that. "I said never mind."

"Really not sounding any less passive-aggressive, but alright," Stiles says. He should just walk away, but damn it, Derek had to go and get him curious. "So before you got all huffy, what did you want?"

"I said—"

"Never mind, I know, heard you the first two times." Stiles waves his hand. "But I want to know. C'mon, you owe me, you may have frightened off the love of my life and the mother of my future children."

Derek's eyebrows are like caterpillars engaging in hate-sex. Stiles can't look away from them. "I wanted to ask you," Derek bites out, "how much for the year."

Stiles gapes. "Like, a year, straight?" he says. Derek just glares at him like Stiles kicked Derek's kitten and also his feelings. "Do I at least get breaks? I mean, I have classes to get to. Also, chafing. Do people really charge for sex by the year?"

"Not for sex." Derek looks quietly furious. It's a good look on him. Stiles is beginning to think nothing looks bad on Derek. "For exclusivity."

"Exclusivity," Stiles echoes.

Derek's mouth tightens. "I'm offering to pay you to not have sex with anyone else for a year. How much do you want?"

"I don't know, man. I think I kind of like sex." Stiles fiddles with his fingers. He's not poor, exactly – he had a college fund, even, before his dad had that trouble with his heart and ended up spending a while in the hospital and having to quit his job.

He's fine now, taking up fishing and consultancy work, and Stiles is happy to do without pretty much anything if it means his dad is still kicking around. So now Stiles has to take some student loans and maybe find a job, that's fine.

A little extra cash wouldn't go astray, though, is what Stiles is thinking.

Derek has this expression containing all the smugness of a smirk without his mouth actually moving. "I didn't say no sex. Just not with anyone else."

Stiles stares, and stares some more. "That's blackmail," he accuses eventually.

Derek shrugs. "You don't have to take it."

Stiles swallows. Looks Derek over again, the easy grace of him, the glint of teeth when Derek almost – not quite – smiles. "And sex with you is going to be included in this deal?"

"Do you want it to be?" It sounds like an honest question. Stiles isn't sure if Derek's an excellent actor or genuinely oblivious.

Stiles closes his eyes and names a ridiculous sum. It's enough to cover tuition and living for the next two years. It's far, far too much.

"Alright," Derek says, without even thinking about it.

Stiles shakes his head. He's pretty much resigned to waking up and finding out this has all been a convoluted wet dream. "Your money, your ill-advised choice."

Derek gives him a black look. "I'll show you ill-advised ."


Derek gives Stiles his address, tells him to come over whenever. There's even a key for Stiles, shiny and new. Stiles pockets it carefully like it might burn him.

He comes as soon as school ends, helpless in the face of his own curiosity. He's got a mental image of Derek's place already, somewhere sleek and full of decorative edges without a hint of genuine personality.

As it turns out, while Derek's place isn't a dump, it's much closer in size and upscale-ness to Stiles' dorm than to the rich people fantasy Stiles had concocted.

"What," Derek says, arms crossed over his chest.

Stiles takes a moment to ogle said chest and arms before saying, "You have unholy amounts of money to burn on a glorified escort service, but you can't even buy a decent sofa?"

"I like bean bags." He sounds almost defensive. It's kind of precious, in an emotionally stunted way. "And I'm not paying you for sex."

Stiles throws himself on one. "So do I. Who doesn't like bean bags? No one, that's who. And you paid me for sex at least once."

Derek looks away. "That's not what I paid you for."

"You— okay, I'm dropping this subject out of the goodness of my heart. And the hardness of my cock. You did mention sex with you was an option?" Stiles gives Derek his most hopeful look.

Derek's lips curve just a tiny bit. "I did mention." He drops to kneel between Stiles legs and alright, yes, any questions can definitely wait for later.

Derek's long fingers cup around the bulge in Stiles' pants. Stiles can feel the heat of them through his jeans. Chokes down a little whimper, and another one when Derek conversationally says, "Ever come in your pants?"

Stiles shakes his head, mute for once. Derek keeps massaging him through the cloth. Closes his slick mouth over Stiles' for a brief, claiming kiss. "Is that what you want?" Derek's voice is hypnotic. "Or I could suck you off. Or maybe both, how about that?"

"Nng," Stiles says, and renders the choice moot by coming hard in Derek's grip.

A filthy, satisfied grin spreads over Derek's face. He unzips Stiles then, peels down his underwear (Couldn't he have done that thirty seconds ago? Stiles would like to lodge a complaint), and pushing his face right into the mess in Stiles' lap.

Okay, so maybe coming in his pants wasn't all bad.

Derek's bestowing Stiles' cock with little kitten licks, cleaning him up slow and thorough. Stiles is ridiculously sensitive post-coming, but he still can't find it in himself to ask Derek to stop. He tries, but all that comes out is, "Can I blow you?"

He'd say he has no idea where that came from, but if he's honest he knows damned well that it came from the hunger on Derek's face, from how fucking good Derek smells and tastes everywhere that Stiles has had the chance to try, and that Stiles would just seriously like something in his mouth right now. He sucked his thumb until he was like, twelve; he may have a tiny little bit of an oral fixation.

Derek's still kneeling but he straightens up and opens his own flies. Stiles flops around until he's on his stomach, facing Derek's rather impressive cock. No underwear, Stiles notes with a happy little shiver.

He starts off just putting his mouth against the head of Derek's dick – kissing it, kind of, except that would be silly and also embarrassing. He mouths there, paying attention to how it makes Derek shudder when Stiles licks at the slit or just under the head. Derek's uncut, which Stiles noticed the other night, but fully hard his dick is pretty much the same as Stiles'. Stiles wraps his lips around the head and sucks experimentally.

Like before, Derek's body speaks louder than anything. Whenever Stiles does something good Derek's hips move, blood pulses in his cock (Stiles can feel that now, it's trippy) and his balls draw up against his body. Everything gets wet and slick with saliva and, Stiles is guessing, pre-come. (Stiles' own hips may do a little juddery dance against the bean-bag at the thought.)

"I'm going to," Derek chokes out. "Stiles, I'm—"

Stiles ignores him, sucking harder and mindless, trying to get Derek deeper in his throat. God, Stiles wants to choke on him.

Turns out swallowing come isn't that hard. A little of it drips, maybe, but whatever. Stiles can wash his face, no biggie.

Or , Stiles thinks as Derek hauls him up to lick the come off his face, Derek can clean it for me. That’s good too.

"I've changed my mind," Stiles says after a few minutes. They're sprawled together, loosely clinging to one another. "Beanbags are officially awesome and I'll take one over a couch every day." He pauses. "Also, you can take me over a couch every day. Or a beanbag. Whatever you choose."

Derek snorts. They lie in comfortable silence for a little while.

Stiles ruins it by squirming. A lot. "Okay, so this is pretty great, but I'm getting sticky. And hungry. Also I have homework."

Derek helps him up without a word, shows him to the bathroom. Stiles gives himself a quick scrub, then darts back to the living room to find his backpack. He fishes through it to find his meds, swallows them dry.

Derek is sitting in the living room with a book propped open on his knees. Derek catches Stiles' hesitation. "What?"

"Just bracing myself to go out into the cold," Stiles says.

Derek rolls his eyes and tugs at the bottom of Stiles' jeans. "You could do your homework here, you know."


Stiles bitches about it, but not as much as he should, because it turns out Derek makes a kick-ass stir-fry. Even if they do eat it on the beanbags, because Derek has neither a table nor dining chairs.

“You should come to my room sometimes,” Stiles says around a mouthful of noodles. “I’ve got an X-Box. And, like, furniture.”

Derek just grunts.

That night, Stiles finds out that sleeping curled up with another person is pretty damned great. The last time he shared a bed with anyone was with Scott on second grade sleepovers. Stiles hasn't realized how much he missed it, maybe doesn't realize it fully until it's morning and he has to leave for class.


As Stiles approaches the library his footsteps slow. He hasn't been hoping to actually ask Lydia out yet anyway, so last night hardly even changes his game plan.

Stiles did briefly consider asking Derek how far, exactly, he wanted the exclusivity thing to go, but the only thing Stiles can think of that would be more awkward than that discussion is attempting to explain to Lydia why he can't have sex.

He's contemplating the merits of claiming to save himself for marriage when Lydia shows up, bright and sharp. "Any progress on question four?" she asks, and Stiles lets everything go in favor of combinatorics.


Settling into a rhythm is easy. Stiles shows up at Derek's place twice or three times a week and usually sleeps over. Derek's not bad company out of bed, either; he's quiet, reads as he lets Stiles get on with his studies.

"Don't you ever have to go to work?" Stiles asks one afternoon, desperately procrastinating from calculus.

Derek doesn't even look up from his book. "Don't have a job."

Stiles has already surmised that Derek is of the idle rich, much as his living arrangements seem to belie that. "School, then. Volunteering programs, something. If you tell me you just sit all day at home reading I may lose faith in humanity altogether."

There's a pause before Derek says, "Guess I better not tell you, then."

Stiles buries his face in his notebook and groans. "I hate you."

Derek doesn't answer, but when Stiles looks up, he doesn't look too concerned, either. He seems to have gone back to his book.

"Not as much as I hate calculus, though," Stiles amends with a sigh.

"Trust me, you don't want to come by your money the way I did," Derek says.

Stiles waits for an elaboration, but none appears, so he lets it go. He smooths his notebook open. Derivatives wait for no man .


Some days, Stiles walks back to his dorm room with a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Other days, it's pretty much the same, except the spring is broken and the song is a funeral dirge.

Not that anything went wrong, per se. It's just that Lydia is absolutely merciless, and Stiles had to re-do his proof three times before Lydia stopped throwing counter-examples at him. He'd entertained thoughts of going to Derek's earlier, but now it's past midnight and all Stiles wants is to huddle in bed and sleep for three days.

He doesn't bother with quiet. He's seen his roommate about twice since semester started. He just throws his backpack to the floor, turns to crash on the bed, and lets out an unholy shriek when he sees it's occupied.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Stiles says, flailing at Derek.

At least Derek has the grace to look moderately ashamed of himself. "You haven't come by in four days."

Which, yes, is a little longer than Stiles is usually content to wait between instances of sexytime, but. "I've got midterms," Stiles says, "and also that's no excuse to sneak in here and give me a heart attack. How did you get in here? "

“Your class finished six hours ago. You didn't change the combination on the lock, it's still the default.”

Stiles scrubs his eyes. He can’t deal with Derek’s face, which is sort of stubborn and miserable at the same time – like a puppy who knows he did something bad, can’t figure out what, and is determined to get out of punishment, whatever it takes.

“I wanted to know if you’re going to that thing Scott is doing this weekend,” Derek adds, and okay, that’s it.

“Why the hell do you know about what Scott is planning?” Stiles demands. “And why do you know when my class is letting out? This is creep territory, Derek.”

"It was all online," Derek says, looking aside. "You're on Facebook, you're on Foursquare—"

"Yeah, that doesn't mean you can just waltz in whenever." Stiles would probably be shouting if he weren't so tired. "You can't follow me to class and you can't show up in here without checking with me."

A muscle works in Derek's jaw, but when he spits out, "Sorry," it sounds sincere, if reluctant.

"No following my friends around, either.You scared the hell out of Scott, following him out of class that time."

"I was out of practice.” Derek slumps down on the bed beside Stiles. It's a lot of slump for such a small amount of bed.

Stiles turns his face to Derek, eyebrows raised. "In what, basic social skills?”

Beside him, Derek goes stiff. “It was the first time in months I talked to anyone.”

Stiles takes a moment to absorb this. “That's... wow. Should I be flattered you ventured out of your man-cave to see me?”

Derek elbows him in the ribs, but there's no force behind it. "I just want to know you're not out there doing anything stupid."

"Gee, thanks," Stiles mutters. He smushes his face into Derek's side, nuzzling Derek's pec. "Dude, if you missed me and wanted to know my weekend plans, you could've just called." Derek stays suspiciously quiet. "Do that next time, okay?"

"Sorry," Derek says again. He starts to get up. Stiles wiggles until he catches Derek's sleeve, pulling him back down.

"Just, try to work on it?" Stiles says. His eyes are closing already. "Now be a good pillow, I have a long day tomorrow and it's going to have a shitload of matrices in it."

"I don't even know what that means," Derek says. But his voice is quiet and his hand is smoothing down Stiles' hair, soft and rhythmic like the beat of his heart, until Stiles slumps into sleep.


Waking up is surreal, because Derek is still petting his head. Stiles makes a few noises to test that his mouth is online, then says, "Did you do this all night? Are you petting me in your sleep right now?"

Derek huffs. "I could stop."

Stiles moves to his side, yawns jaw-crackingly wide, and returns to his previous position. "Nah, keep going."

Derek does, but only for a minute before rolling Stiles on his back. Stiles squirms for a minute – his butt is still numb from sleeping on the bare edge of the bed-frame – but lets go when Derek starts mouthing Stiles' nipple through his undershirt.

It's a little strange to realize that he's only wearing that and boxers now when he remembers sliding into bed fully dressed the night before. Weird to think Derek must have stripped him almost bare without Stiles ever waking up in the process, but he's going to let it slide so long as Derek keeps doing that, God.

Derek raises his head. "Good?"

"Yes, good, did I tell you to stop?" Stiles shoves Derek's head back down, arching his back to make his point more obvious.

It's not fair, not fair at all. Derek bites softly, and he makes satisfied little humming noises. His hands ruck up Stiles' undershirt, just high enough that Derek's hands rest right against Stiles' bare stomach.

When he pushes Stiles' boxers down, Stiles whimpers.

Derek ignores Stiles' blood-stiff cock, though, preferring to nuzzle Stiles' thighs until Stiles spreads his legs as far as the narrow bed will let him, breath hitching. This is not the first time Derek's done that, and it ends very, very well when he does.

Two of Derek's fingers brush against Stiles' mouth, over and over, until Stiles parts his lips to lick at them. It's a habit now, and a game: how long Stiles can hold out, just feeling Derek's warmth and the hints of his scent, before he gives up in his need to taste.

Not long, it turns out.

Once Derek's fingers are thoroughly wetted, he shoulders Stiles' leg and brushes his fingers against Stiles' entrance. Stiles' thighs jerk, trying to get more than the bare tease Derek gives him.

"Look at you." Fuck, Derek sounds hungry. "You want so much."

"Fuck you," Stiles says. There's no venom in it, only desperation. "Yes, I want, gimme."

Derek's eyes go glazed, distant. "I will." His finger push, just the tiniest amount of pressure, but it's more than he ever let Stiles have before. "I'll fuck your little hole open, I'll break you, I'll ruin you." With every word Stiles feels Derek's erection dragging against his shin, hard and hot.

Stiles twists against him, heart skipping beats and breath coming thin and dizzy, shouts and comes when Derek fits his mouth around the head of Stiles' cock. He can feel Derek pushing against him, losing his rhythm and rutting against Stiles until he sighs and grips Stiles hard, shuddering.

Once he catches his breath, Stiles hauls Derek up for kissing.

Derek's petting his hair again. Then he pulls away and says, "You've got class in fifteen minutes."

Stiles is up and dressed in five. He turns, and Derek is still naked in his bed. Bastard.


Scott's thing that weekend is a really big thing. Namely, it's his now-sharing-a-house-with-Allison housewarming party. Stiles shows up early that afternoon to Scott freaking out. "What if she changes her mind," is what Scott says instead of a greeting.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dude. She's been lying to her dad for months just to get to see you until now. I don't think this is when she's going to back off."

Scott groans, flinging himself back on the couch. "I know, that's the problem – what if she only liked me because her parents said she shouldn't? What if I'm like, forbidden fruit, and now the attraction's going to fade?"

"Seriously?" Stiles sits by Scott, drapes an arm over him. "We've been over this. She loves you, you love her. Stop being ridiculous and enjoy the party."

In spite of Stiles' sage advice, Scott persists in sulking until Allison shows up.

When Allison walks in, she's got dust on her clothes and her hair done up in a quick, neat bun. Scott' smile is like the goddamned sun coming out from behind a cloud. "That's the last of my kitchen stuff," she says. "Hi, Stiles. When did you get in?"

Stiles gets up to hug her. "Just an hour ago. How's moving getting along?"

She laughs. "Pretty much done. You're helping Scott set the place for tonight?"

"Sure," Scott says hurriedly. "That's what we've been doing, getting the place ready." He's glaring at Stiles, like Stiles is about to spill Scott's little fit of anxiety to Allison.

Whatever. Stiles is used to much more impressive glares, nowadays.


He didn't really intend to start talking about Derek, but then Allison asked if Stiles is seeing someone and he's already had more beers than strictly advisable, so he answers, "Yeah, still fucking the guy Scott sold my virginity to."

Scott looks wounded. Allison gives him the laser eyes and says, "Explain."

Scott fumbles through the entire sad story, with occasional interjections from Stiles. He finishes with, "But you didn't have to keep seeing him! I didn't even think you were going to go through with it in the first place."

Stiles sprawls back, rubbing his tongue over the back of his teeth. "He was good, though. Way good. And the money's good. So I'm good." Great, now the word good has officially lost all meaning.

"It's still weird," Allison says. Stiles nods; he's not going to deny the obvious, after all. "I mean, Facebook-stalking you? Seriously? At least tell me you switched your privacy settings."

"Yeah, 'course I did."

Allison smiles at Stiles, almost as sunny as Scott. Easy to see why they're so good together. Even with the lying and the sneaking around, there was always something inherently wholesome to Scott and Allison.

That may be why Stiles doesn't mention that after he switched his Facebook settings, he made an account using Derek's email and added him as a friend. Derek would probably never even use that thing, anyway.

Stiles phone pings. Stiles takes it out to see a Facebook notification: Derek Hale has added you as a friend.

Obviously, this is Stiles’ move. Stiles looks around the room, tongue peeking from between his teeth. Scott and Allison are very busily making out, so nobody notices when Stiles ducks into the kitchen and sends Derek a link to the purity tests they’ve done earlier for laughs. (Tequila again; if Stiles thought it did bad things to Scott, he has no word to describe its influence on Allison.)

In fact, “kink check-lists” would probably be a more apt description than “purity tests”. Stiles’ “would try” column is nearly full. He sends it to Derek with a cheery little caption: Think a little fingering is too much for me to take? Hah. Think again.


Fun as the weekend was – and it was; Stiles actively enjoys helping people pack and unpack, nothing gives you insight into someone's life like shamelessly going through their belongings – it's a relief to be on his way back home. Stiles relishes the thought of spending no more nights on Scott's shitty couch.

That doesn't quite explain why Stiles first swings through Derek's apartment with its nearly-as-shitty futon.

To add insult to injury, the apartment's empty when Stiles makes his way there. He stands awkwardly in front of the door for a minute before letting himself in.

The place is downright bleak with Derek not there, especially contrasted with the cheerful, homey mess of Scott and Allison's place. Stiles hovers in front of the bookshelves, which are numerous and full but covered in dust. Derek reads pretty much all the time, but he has three books that he cycles through and he ignores everything else he owns.

When Derek comes in, half an hour later, Stiles is nestled in one of the beanbags, working on his algebra homework. "Fucking determinants, how do they work," Stiles says instead of a greeting.

Derek drops beside him, sinking his face into Stiles' neck. "No idea." His voice is muffled in Stiles' skin.

"You're sweaty." Stiles palms Derek's neck. He's warm, too.

"Went running. I can shower if you're offended."

"Didn't say that." Stiles flops on his back, pulls Derek over him. Sniffs Derek right back. "Sweat works on you. You look like some sort of friggin' masculine ideal. I have no idea how you do it, I just get gross."

Derek huffs and maneuvers Stiles so they're half-facing each other, lying side by side on the beanbag. It's not that large a beanbag; Stiles has no idea how Derek manages not to fall over on his ass. "You smell like old books," Derek says. "And dust."

"Yeah, I was looking at yours," Stiles says. "That a problem?"

Derek grunts and rucks up Stiles' shirt, palming his stomach. Stiles ought to feel self-conscious next to Derek, but Derek is so obviously enthusiastic about nuzzling Stiles' soft, under-defined belly that complaining seems rude.

Plus it might discourage Derek from said nuzzling. Stiles cants his hips, humming approval as Derek unbuttons and pushes down Stiles' jeans. Derek's only wearing shorts and an undershirt, thin fabric, easily removed. Stiles very much approves of this.

Derek's soft, though, when Stiles cups him through his shorts. "Yeah, not happening right now," Derek says. "Don't worry about it."

Stiles squirms. He feels weird, suddenly, exposed. "We don't have to," he says. "I can. Wait." The last sentence comes out slightly labored because Derek is stroking Stiles' cock, putting in a little twist around the head.

"Don't worry about it," Derek repeats. Stiles still feels funny, but there's a hunger in Derek's eyes that can't be for sex, and Stiles doesn't understand it but he doesn't want to stop. He spreads his legs and tilts his head back, eyes closed. Lets Derek milk his orgasm out of him, doesn't try at all to control the small sounds escaping him. It's only been three days since he had this, but it feels much longer.

Derek doesn't linger after Stiles comes. "I'm going to shower and make lunch," Derek says as he gets up. "Take your meds."

"Yes, dear," Stiles murmurs. It gets him a cuff on the back of the head.


"Can't stay long," Stiles says through a mouthful of spaghetti and meatballs. Derek grimaces, and Stiles swallows before continuing. "Meeting Lydia this afternoon."

Derek takes a small, decisive bite of pasta, chews thoroughly before answering. "Still doing discrete?"

"Nah, working on calculus." Lydia and Stiles are in different classes for it – Lydia takes the most advanced everything, whereas Stiles is happy with the minimum requirements that'll let him go on to all the cool comp-sci classes – but they find studying together helps them get a better handle on most things. "I can come back after if you want."

Derek shrugs.

Stiles hesitates. There was one other thing he wanted to bring up. He waits until Derek's mouth is full before saying, "So when are you going to fuck me?"

To Stiles' mild disappointment, Derek doesn't splutter. He finishes swallowing before answering, "I'm thinking about it."

"'Cause, I mean. I'd like to. If that wasn't obvious." Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek, wondering. "Or was that the point of this entire thing?" Gesturing between Derek and himself. "You want to tease me to death?"

"It's tempting." Derek's eyebrows are doing that mocking thing they do.

Stiles stabs his pasta with unnecessary force. "Fine. I mean, your money, your call. I just like to see the customer satisfied and all that."

Derek's fork scrapes along his plate, loud and out of place. Stiles winces. "I'll get to it," Derek grits out. "That's not what I paid you for."

"You said that before," Stiles says, just pondering out loud. "It's important to you, isn't it? Exactly what you paid for. My virginity, my exclusivity. What's the common criterion there?"

Derek gets up so abruptly it sends his chair skidding back. "You should go. Don't want to be late for your study date."

"Touchy," Stiles says quietly. He stares down at his plate, determined not to leave before he finishes every last damned delicious bite.


Lydia puts down her pen and glares at him. "Alright, what is it? Spit it out."

She's got every right to be pissed – he just made her go through the definition of a Riemann sum twice because he wasn't paying attention the first time. Stiles sighs. "It's nothing. Sorry. Head back in the game now."

She's still staring at him with narrowed eyes. "Is this about your boyfriend?"

Stiles pauses. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Is that the problem?" She actually looks sympathetic. It's kind of alien-looking on Lydia. "Scoot over."

Stiles does, and Lydia plunks herself on her couch beside him. He puts an arm over her shoulder and sighs a little.

She looks up at him and smirks. "Better?"

Stiles gives her a little squeeze. "Works every time." The last time they ended up hugging it was because she'd just broken up with Jackson – again – and Stiles swore by the uplifting properties of a good friendly snuggle.

He's a little weirded out, in retrospect, that she didn't suspect any ulterior motives. Even weirder to realize he didn't have any.

"Go home," Lydia says after a minute. "You're useless to me now."

Stiles gives her his most mournful expression. "Just like that?"

She makes an imperious shooing motion. "Kiss your not-boyfriend. Talk it out."

Well, if she puts it like that, she does make a good point.


Derek doesn't answer when Stiles knocks, but the apartment doesn't feel as empty as it did before, even with all the lights shut; there's a faint glow coming from the bedroom, anyway.

When Stiles gets there Derek is lying on his belly, leafing through Watership Down for the eleventh time since Stiles has met him. His shoulders are tense.

The breath and the fight go out of Stiles. "Can I come in?" he says, small and unsure.

Derek pauses for a minute. Then he flips the blanket without even looking at Stiles. Stiles doesn't give in to second thoughts, strips quickly and burrows under the covers because Derek doesn't believe in central heating.

As soon as Stiles is all the way under the blankets, Derek's arm curls around his middle. Stiles closes his eyes against the faint glow of the reading lamp and grins.


The next day, Stiles gets an email halfway through an intro to comp-sci lecture. He sees it's from Derek and pockets his phone without reading.

Later, back in his room, Stiles discovers that this was a very, very wise decision. He can barely even skim the message without blushing. It’s not needlessly obscene, but it’s thorough. There are links and everything.

Stiles did not expect Derek’s plan for de-virginizing him to be quite this kinky, but it’s not a bad surprise. Not at all.

He exhales and opens a reply message: “Plan accepted.”


"You look nervous," Derek says, coming up behind him.

Stiles drops the water glass he was holding, flinches as it splashes and breaks. "You think?" he says glumly, staring at the shards.

Derek sighs and disappears, coming back in a minute with a broom and a dustpan. "We don't have to."

Stiles paces. "Okay, for the record, it really gets on my nerves when I can't express anything but complete enthusiasm for any of your ideas without you second-guessing me—" He pauses and considers the nature of Derek's ideas. "Okay, yeah, that would be a good idea normally, but don't do it with me. I promise, when I change my mind, you'll know it."

"Noted," Derek says, tipping the dustpan into the garbage can. Then he picks Stiles up and carries him.

"What the fuck," Stiles says faintly when Derek dumps him on the bed. “Also, since when do you have a real bed that’s not a back-murdering futon?”

"Bought it,” Derek says shortly. “And you were barefoot. There was glass." Derek takes his shirt off, which sufficiently distracts Stiles from making further protest. "Are we having sex now?"

Stiles watches Derek's abs ripple and swallows, dry-mouthed. "Yes. Yes we are."

Apart from his lack of shoes, Stiles is fully dressed. It was in the instructions. It's weird to lie there and not help as Derek takes his clothes off, but that, too, was in the instructions.

He does squirm, because he's Stiles, but Derek doesn't seem to mind. Well, he swats at Stiles' ass and growls, but coming from Derek that's practically glowing approval.

It's hardest to stay put when the blindfold comes out. Stiles makes a small sound as Derek puts it on him. Derek hesitates, but thankfully follows Stiles earlier instructions re: stopping.

He does say, "You don't need to say anything special," as he ties Stiles, spread-eagled, to the bedposts. "Just no or stop, I will."

"Duh." Stiles pulls, testing the ropes. He thought they would be scratchy, but it's nylon, almost slippery against Stiles' wrists. It's hard to lie still. Stiles knows the contents of Derek's plan but not the sequence of events, so to speak.

There were a lot of events on that list.

So Stiles tenses. Then there's something warm on his forehead, moving in a sure, familiar rhythm. Derek's hand.

Stiles' breathing slows and eases. Both of Derek's hands are on his face now, framing it, Derek's thumb brushing across Stiles' lips.

"Wait for it," Derek says softly.

Stiles tries, but there's nothing else to focus on but the touch of Derek's finger, his scent, how easily Stiles could taste him just by opening his mouth. It would feel so good. Stiles whimpers.

"Sh." Derek's other hand moves down to Stiles' throat, fingers resting on the pulse point. Suddenly there is warm wetness on Stiles' nipple, and he cries out. Derek's stubble is harsh against Stiles' chest, his hand is gentle on Stiles' face, and it's, Stiles' doesn't—

Derek's thumb pushes Stiles' lips apart, pushing into his mouth, and Stiles opens up greedily. He sucks it clean of salt sweat, tracing the familiar texture with his tongue. Stiles' heart thumps out of rhythm, then settles.

"Good boy," Derek whispers in his ear. Grips Stiles' cock, and Stiles surges into Derek's hand with a wail.


Stiles has no idea how long he's been in bed. He's come twice already – once in Derek's hand, once in his mouth. Stiles' ass feels loose and wet, three of Derek's fingers twisting in him comfortably.

He'd ask to be fucked, but he's not sure how to form words anymore. Besides, he's already begged so much that Derek ought to be sick of his voice.

Derek doesn't sound fed up. He sounds feral, hungry. "You want," he tells Stiles, like Stiles doesn't know.

Against all odds, Stiles manages to answer. "Yes." It's wet and raw, his voice. Much like the rest of him.

"Made you come twice, and you're still begging for more." Derek palms Stiles balls. Stiles' legs thrash at the overstimulation. "Tell me."

"Fuck me." The words feel like they've been carved into Stiles' throat by repetition.

Then Derek's lips are on his and Stiles surges up, mouthing at them like he's starving and Derek is food. Derek allows it for a minute, lets Stiles take what he can. Then he pushes Stiles back down.

"You'll get it." Derek's thighs push against Stiles, straddling his legs. Derek's fingers move out, and Stiles grunts his protest. Derek laughs, a short, dark sound. "Don't worry. Won't leave you empty."

Something thick and cold, foreign, slides into Stiles. Stiles struggles against the initial intrusion, legs trying and failing to buck against Derek's weight.

"You need it." Derek says like he's parting with secret instructions. "Not your fault. I made you need it."

The swell at the toy's base snags against Stiles' opening. It's too big, Stiles can feel it, it won't fit.

"Made you," Derek whispers, and pushes it in anyway. Stiles keens. "And now I'll break you."

There's enough give in the ropes for Derek to turn Stiles on his side. He pulls Stiles to him, warmth pressed all against Stiles' back. Thigh between Stiles' legs putting pressure where Stiles is opened, raw and tender, hurting in the best way. He works that pressure as he works Stiles' cock, so that the burn of the stretch and the white-hot flash of Stiles' third orgasm are indistinguishable.


Warmth against Stiles forehead, again. Moist heat. Derek is kissing his face.

"I can take the blindfold off," Derek says. Stiles can tell his voice is low, but it still feels loud somehow. Everything is, from the texture of the sheets against his fingertips to the thrum of his own heartbeat.

Stiles nuzzles Derek's arm. Derek sighs. "Stiles." Another kiss, to Stiles' temple this time.

Somewhere, Stiles finds words. "If you want to."

"Okay," Derek says. Stiles hears him breathing deep. "Okay."

The blindfold stays on.

Derek brings him water, slides behind Stiles to let Stiles sit up leaning against him, tipping the bottle to Stiles' mouth carefully enough that only a few drops spills.

Derek thumbs them aside and Stiles turns his head, chasing after Derek's fingers. Derek chuckles and lets Stiles suck them. "Hungry?"

Stiles lets Derek’s fingers escape long enough to say, "Nah." Then he hunts them again. Like a ferocious predator. He makes little rar! noises, even, to let the fingers know they’re well and nommed.

He may be a little bit woozy.

Derek puts him gently down on the bed. He pushes Stiles’ legs open, his fingers – still wet from Stiles’ mouth – exploring where Stiles is stretched out over the toy. Stiles makes discontent little noises, and Derek takes his fingers away; Stiles steps the unhappy noises up.

“Demanding,” Derek says, and his voice is as warm as his hands as they push Stiles open.


Derek doesn’t need to take the toy out before fucking Stiles – it’s tunnel-like, clear silicone, so Derek can see right into Stiles and also fuck right into him. At the moment, Derek is doing the latter while Stiles writhes under him.

Every breath Derek takes, Stiles feels in his skin. Under his skin, because Derek's moving in him, deep and strong and desperate.

“The blindfold," Stiles gasps, “can we not, off, I want it off," because he needs to see Derek's face more than he needs to breathe.

The light's too bright at first, but then Derek slows above him. Stops. And shades Stiles' eyes with his hand, giving Stiles a moment to adjust.

Stiles' mouth is forming the shapes of words without the words themselves. "Move," he says when he finally finds his voice. Then Derek puts both his hands on the bed, and Stiles can see him.

A few weeks ago, even a few hours ago, Stiles thinks what he sees there might have scared him – hell, terrified him. Need that raw, that naked, has no place on a human face. He gets it now.

"Fuck me hard," Stiles moans, going for porntastic because he wants to make it good for Derek, wants to help fill up the inexorable hunger he sees in Derek's face.

"I'll break you," Derek says again, a desperate promise and a warning. "I'll ruin you," and he pushes deep, shuddering inside Stiles.

"That's the spirit," Stiles says. If he had his hands free, he'd pet Derek's face.


At some point there's dinner – PB&J sandwiches, which Derek feeds to Stiles one bite-sized piece at a time. Stiles eats, and licks Derek's fingers when he's done.

Derek unties Stiles, lets him walk around a bit and use the bathroom, before herding him back into bed, this time on his stomach.

He naps for a while, waking up to a mouth on his neck and fingers in his ass. "Sore?" Derek asks.

"Fine," Stiles says easily, moving back against Derek.


He literally loses track of the number of times he came. Seriously. And not just because he thinks Derek might have broken his higher cognitive functions at some point.

It slips Stiles' brain-to-mouth filter as Derek rubs him down with a warm washcloth. "I think you broke my brain."

Derek kisses his forehead. He does that a lot, in the after-times, when they're resting and comfortable together. "Told you."

Stiles stretches and yawns. "Worth it," he decrees, still coming down. Derek huffs, but Stiles can tell he's amused. "Love you," Stiles adds, shifting to let Derek get the sensitive inside of his thigh.

Derek freezes.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at Derek. Stiles is feeling suspiciously little mortification: he might still be a little high. "I'm not going to make it into a thing," he says gently. "You don't have to love me back or anything. But I do."

"You shouldn't." And there is that scary stranger that comes out to play when there are fingers three knuckles deep in Stiles' ass, the one who growls about annihilating Stiles.

Thing is, that guy's not really a stranger anymore, and Stiles isn't afraid at all. "Feelings don't do should," Stiles says. "Everyone knows that."

Derek stays tense until Stiles falls asleep. Stiles is probably going to have to do something about that when his brain resumes functioning.


Sleeping on problems is a good strategy for Stiles. He never suspected he’d use it for relationship stuff, but given that Stiles is fucking a guy with more issues than a rabid comics fan, he’ll use any advantage he can get.

Derek’s clinging to him when he wakes up, nuzzling Stiles in his sleep. Stiles kisses the top of his head as he disengages, careful not to wake Derek.

Stiles hunts for a pen, smirking as he scribbles down a handful of sentences. He’s fighting dirty, and he doesn’t care. Stiles is going to make Derek an offer he can’t refuse.


Throughout the day, Stiles keeps surreptitiously checking his phone. No reply. Slowly but surely, Stiles is beginning to reconsider. Was he too forward? Was that even a thing, outside Regency romances?

His phone rings the minute class finishes. Stiles picks it up on the third ring, after he finishes packing up.

“I’m waiting by your room,” Derek says.

Stiles waits for more, and when he figures out it isn’t coming, says, “I’m on my way.”

“Good.” Derek hangs up.

Stiles stares at his phone. “I guess that’s progress,” he says to no one in particular.


When Stiles gets there, Derek’s brandishing a piece of paper. “What is this?”

“Hi, Derek, nice to see you too,” Stiles says faintly. “Come on in.”

Derek stalks inside after Stiles, but he’s by no means mollified. “I’m not kidding, Stiles. What made you think this is a good idea?”

Stiles sits on the bed, hands braced against his knees. “You can just say no if you don’t want to do it.” It’s sincerely meant. Stiles thinks it would be hot, but he won’t cry at the loss or anything.

Derek’s a little too quiet, and when Stiles looks at him, the look in Derek’s eyes takes Stiles’ breath away.

“This is the opposite of what I wanted to happen,” Derek says, eventually, strangled.

“You wanted the opposite of hot, kinky sex?” Stiles raises his eyebrows at Derek, challenging.

Derek kneels before Stiles, so they’re looking one another directly in the eyes. He gestures at Stiles’ narrow dorm room. “This used to be me,” Derek says.

“You used to be a bed?”

Derek groans. “Don’t be an idiot. I know you’re not. I used to be like you, okay? Young. Stupid.” He purses his lips. “Lonely. It made me do things I shouldn’t have done.”

Stiles rolls his shoulders. “Okay, you made some regrettable life choices, I get it. But maybe, here’s a thought, you should’ve given me the pro-abstinence lecture before having wild monkey sex with me?”

“I saw your picture,” Derek continues doggedly. “And you looked so young.”

Stiles feels a little bit sick. “I looked like a second chance, is what you’re saying.” Derek nods. Stiles can’t even look at him. “And now that’s gone, I’m spoiled, and you don’t want me anymore.”

“No!” Suddenly, Derek’s hands are tight on Stiles’ knees. “No.” Stiles stares pointedly at Derek’s hands. Derek lets go but doesn’t retreat. “Stiles, look at me.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, mouth tightening, and glares at Derek.

“I can’t remember the last time anything made me happy,” Derek says. “You did. You do. I don’t want you to get fucked up the same way I am.”

“My fuck-ups aren’t up to you to decide.” Stiles’ hand takes off of its own volition toward Derek’s cheek.

Derek angles his face into the touch. “I know.”

Stiles keeps quiet for a few moments. It helps that he has to haul Derek up onto the bed. “So if you’re done trying to scare me off,” he says.

“Like you ever listen,” Derek says, but there’s a definite lack of bite there.

Unperturbed, Stiles continues. “Should I take this to mean you don’t want complete control of where and when I jack off?”

Derek is still, but Stiles has learned something about Derek Hale’s silences by now, and this one is not a bad silence at all. “I didn’t say that,” Derek says eventually, all choked-up excitement that he tries to hide. Stiles ought to let him know it’s a lost battle.

“Well,” Stiles says after the enthusiastic bout of kissing has petered out. “I mean. You won’t just leave me to blue balls and indignity, right? I’m counting on you, here.”

Derek gathers Stiles close. “I’ll take care of you,” he says, growly and happy all at once.

“Make sure you do.” Stiles nuzzles the top of his head. “And. Y’know. Take care of yourself, too. Okay? Don’t just leave all the hard work to me.”

“Smartass,” Derek says, but it’s muffled in Stiles’ neck and he’s undoing Stiles’ shirt buttons, so Stiles doesn’t quite feel like objecting at the moment .