Friendship was about give and take. Teaching this to Derek Hale was one of the many burdens Stiles Stilinski had taken upon himself. Plus, it was the guy's fault for sporadically showing up in his bedroom without permission. In the end, it worked out to the Alpha being in the wrong location at the wrong time.
Stiles had just finished a scarf. (Knitting was hard, man. Mostly because he kept accidentally stabbing himself with the needles and ohshitow, but it kept his hands busy.) The final product was lumpy and orange and homemade, which meant the Internet would love it. He'd been in the midst of artfully draping it over his chair when he heard a stifled snort coming from his bedroom window. And there, perched on his windowsill in those damned jeans that should have made that position absurdly uncomfortable was Derek. Judging him. And his awesome scarf. The humanity. God, everyone had been telling him to get a new hobby. Excuse him for complying.
Huffing indignantly, he'd almost gone back to preparing the scarf for its snapshot when an awful, brilliant idea hit him. What was better than a scarf that came liberally sprinkled with the blood of a virgin? Why, a scruffy grown man adorned in said scarf. Companies used models for a reason. Insanely attractive individuals with bodies only Photoshop could achieve. Except he had access to someone who wouldn't even need any touching up. Stiles grinned.
"Whatever it is you're thinking, no."
It sort of spiraled downward from there.
"A penis-shaped brooch made of vibrantly patterned fabric?"
"The people have spoken, Derek. And they want phallic imagery they can lovingly pin on their cardigans. Who am I to deny potential customers? Who am I to crush their dreams?" Stiles patted the other consolingly on the shoulder before he readjusted the horrific pin. It had to be angled just so to put the balls in the right light. The left one was sewn a little crookedly, which he'd obviously fix before sending, but God, he wanted to take the photo now and get the listing up already.
Taking three quick steps back, Stiles cast an admiring look over the final product. Perfection. And maybe the pectoral it was affixed to helped a little. The pained grimace Derek bestowed upon him was almost enough to trigger his latent conscience...but not quite. "Hey, cheer up. I'm bound to make it onto Regretsy at this rate. You know that's one of my life goals. Take one for the team, buddy." His reassurances weren't precisely effective. But hey, Derek was totally still standing there even if he was scowling like woah.
Oh well, the denizens of the online shopping community entirely approved of Derek's sullen mug. Those cheekbones, man. That jawline? Sheesh, he couldn't even blame them. Stiles was beginning to suspect people purchased stuff from him as part of a cunning scheme to encourage him to take more photos of his mysterious sidekick with The Eyebrows. If he uploaded an item that didn't feature Derek, it literally wasted away in his shop, doomed to enter the graveyard of unwanted listings. The feedback his customers wrote didn't even make sense. They were all positive, which was great, but, uh...
A++++ The moment I donned this sweater with mismatched sleeves, I found that I'd developed a 6-pack. Dream come true! Not sure if the yellow blob by the shoulder is a lemon but who cares?
Fast shipping! Item just as described! Mmmm. Smells like pure, undiluted virility. Would buy from again!
Wow. I never knew how much I needed a plaid beanie in my life until I bought this. When I wear it, it's like being caressed by the bristles of a five o'clock shadow.
Snatching up the camera from his bed, he aimed it at his reluctant model. Derek glowered at him with all the hatred a man wearing a penis brooch could muster. It was hilarious. The best part was how he could cherish the photographic evidence of this moment in the years to come.
"Now hold still. Remember, the camera loves you as long as you don't do the eye thing. Please don't do that. It's a bitch to crop out half your face. The customers get antsy." Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, Stiles carefully positioned the frame so that Derek was centered. "Also, I am not afraid to get out the sunglasses. Do you want to be a douche who wears sunglasses indoors? I think not." He'd found rambling set the werewolf at ease.
The demand for cock-shaped jewelry shot through the roof. Holy shit, he legitimately ran a virtual store where the top-selling item was a dick. Perhaps he would avoid mentioning this little extracurricular activity on his college applications.
"Oh my God," Stiles mumbled, bumping his nose against the computer screen. Refreshing did nothing to change the contents of the page. Crap. He wiped at the smudge his nose had left behind with his sleeve. Clearer now...but still the same.
"What now?" The question was accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh.
Stiles went rigid in his seat, shoulders hunching up around his ears before he glanced back over his shoulder at the man sprawled on his bed in an explosion of crafts gone wrong and cheapo vintage finds. "Um. Soooo. The Internet has been jumping to dramatic conclusions." That had come out rather ominous. He waved a hand in the air, attempting for casual and winding up more spastic. "And they think you're my Sad Etsy Boyfriend." Oh God, Derek's eyebrows were doing That Thing. Not good. "Which you aren't. Obviously." There was literally not enough back-pedaling in the world to rectify this situation.
Someone clearly wanted an explanation. How the hell did a person freaking loom while in a horizontal position? Stiles swallowed audibly. One of these days, he'd learn to keep his big mouth shut. Today was not that historic occasion though.
In his defense, he hadn't intended for this to happen. The goal had been so simple. Sell stupid shit online. Bask in the glow of people wanting his lame stuff. Earn a little spare cash. ...Although, things did make a lot more sense now. "Okay. See. I guess, um, they assumed that for you to be willing to allow me to use you to hawk my wares, then you must be getting something out of the deal." Nope. Derek wasn't getting it. There was no clicking action taking place. Just more glaring. So much glaring.
"You let me immortalize you on the World Wide Web in merchandise that would make a Home Ec teacher shed countless tears." And now, Derek was no longer blinking. Stiles felt his eyes drying up as he tried to keep pace.
Did he really need to spell this out for him? Toss a guy a bone here. "Sex. Tons of sex. All of the sex. From me. To reward you." On the one hand, wow, flattering. People seriously thought that he was getting a piece of that. On the other hand, he was going to die. Because of Etsy. Could they include that in his obituary? Most pathetic cause of death ever. "But I will totally get this mess cleared up. Swear. Because you are a soul of righteous dignity. Quality moral character. One who neither murders his friends nor expects sexual services in return for posing like a sultry dweeb in a deerstalker."
Derek's face had contorted into an expression that was indicative of bottled up rage or indigestion. Wait. Was he blushing? No. Yes? Stiles squinted and leaned forward in his seat incredulously. It couldn't be.
"Why do you let me take dumb pictures of you?" The question had hardly left his mouth before Derek launched himself off of the mattress in a single, fluid motion. Several items tumbled off in his wake, including a snazzy pair of blue mittens and fuzzy earmuffs.
"Leaving. Pack thing." And with that, the werewolf was gone. Exited stage left...straight through the window.
Stiles blinked. Very faintly, he could hear the telltale rumble of the Camaro speeding away. Well, then. He spun his chair around to face his computer, which he simply stared at for a full minute as he gnawed away at his thumbnail. So maybe he owed the Internet an apology.