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They’ve been dating for almost a month when Stiles flat-out asks to meet Derek’s whole family. 

Derek panics and drops his History notes in the middle of the cafeteria.

“Real smooth, nerd,” Jackson calls from the corner table.

“You fumbled a game-winning shot last week, jackass,” Stiles yells back as he’s kneeling to help Derek gather his papers up. “You tripped over nothing.”

“There was a rock,” Jackson protests.

“No there wasn’t, man,” says his best friend Danny, patting him on the shoulder consolingly. 

“I don’t know what Danny sees in him,” Stiles grumbles, casually grabbing Derek’s hand and pulling him over to their usual table. Derek tries not to blush, because he’s just holding hands with his boyfriend at lunchtime, whatever, it’s not a big deal. 

“I’m sure he has… redeeming qualities, deep down,” Derek suggests. Why not; he’s feeling pretty charitable lately. “Danny’s too decent to associate with anyone really terrible. Do you know he carries my extra books for me sometimes? For no reason at all?”

Stiles snorts. “Oh, dude, that’s not for no reason. He’s got the biggest crush on you.”

“What?” Derek freezes with a chicken nugget halfway to his mouth. “No. What?”

“Yeah, oh my god, everyone knows. You’ve never noticed him staring at you in class?”

Derek hasn’t. But then, he’s usually busy staring at Stiles. “I mean. Danny Mahealani? You’re crazy. He’s just… with the biceps and… no, he wouldn’t.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, and his teasing grin looks a little forced now. “You know, if you like him… what I mean is, now that you know the option is out there—”

What? Shut up!” Derek snaps, wincing when Stiles flinches back in his chair. “Ugh, no, that’s not what I meant to say.” He grabs for Stiles’ hand under the table, fumbles it into his. “I meant, there’s no option. No other option. Except you.”

“Your compliments always end up sounding so dramatic and fatalistic,” Stiles tells him, fondly. 

Derek groans and rolls his eyes. “You can’t expect me to react calmly when you tell me that two hot lacrosse players have secretly wanted to date me this whole time.” (Stiles visibly brightens at being called hot, which is stupidly endearing.) “It’s just, I can’t get my hair to do anything on purpose, and I don’t own any clothes that cost more than ten bucks, and I wear headgear to bed every night. I’m not exactly…”

“Yeah, no, you’re like the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Stiles corrects, tilting his head. “Did you not know this?  I’ve always thought that’s why Jackson hates you so much, actually—well, that and the Danny thing. He’s weirdly possessive, it’s almost endearing.”

Derek self-consciously swipes ketchup off the corner of his mouth. “Jackson hates me because I’m… cute?” 

“Sure, you’re like the Snow White to his Evil Queen.” Stiles pulls their hands toward himself, resting them on top of his leg under the table. His thigh is warm and firm against Derek’s wrist, and Derek’s breath hitches. “He has an all-consuming need to be the fairest in the land. It’s actually a little tragic, I’m sure there are some genuine insecurities going on there.”

“I don’t know what to say to any of this,” Derek says, because his mind is still stuck on a loop of cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen and his ears won’t stop burning. “You’re the only one who looks at me like that.”

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “The average person doesn’t pay enough attention to their surroundings, I guess; plus, you’re pretty good at not being noticed.” He grins wickedly and taps the edge of Derek’s glasses. “Or so you thought. You’d have to be literally invisible to hide those eyes from me, sorry dude.”

Derek shivers a little, overwhelmed with a confusing combination of profound embarrassment and grateful affection. “I need to make out with you behind that big tree in the courtyard now,” he says, because he’s already learned that Stiles appreciates frank communication. “We probably won’t get caught this time.”

“Ugh, who even cares if we do,” Stiles says, abandoning his lunch and darting around the table to pull Derek to his feet. “I require one hickey for each hour we’re gonna spend in detention for this. And don’t half-ass it this time, Dumas, I want people to look at me and be concerned. I want to be asked if I’ve been in a car accident, that is the level of damage you’re aiming for here.” 

“You are so much weirder than I ever gave you credit for,” Derek says, his heart thudding contentedly. He’s already mentally charting a course across Stiles’ jaw, trying to preemptively gather the courage to use his teeth. Braces be damned. 

He gives Danny a friendly, distracted smile as Stiles pulls him out of the cafeteria, and Danny flushes a little and drops his sandwich on his lap.



It isn’t until they’re serving detention in the library later that Derek remembers.

“You’re never meeting my family,” he whispers, shoving the whole Jane Austen section sideways so he can peek through at Stiles in the next aisle. “Laura was unavoidable, but I’m keeping you away from the rest of them until the day I die.”

Stiles sighs and bops Derek’s nose with the feather-duster he’s using to clean the shelves. “I’m gonna have to meet them anyway when I pick you up for prom, dumbass. I’d like to get it out of the way before I work myself into a panic over it.”

“Prom?” Derek reaches through and pokes Stiles’ arm with the corner of Northanger Abbey. “Hey. You never said anything about prom.”

“Or you know, at least one of the dances before we graduate. I want the whole high school experience, and now I’ve finally got the arm-candy necessary to achieve that.” Stiles’ eyes widen with sudden inspiration. “Ooh, no, how about the 50‘s sock hop they do in the fall? You plus hair gel and a leather jacket, hm, yes. We could show up on a motorcycle, even!”

“Neither of us owns a motorcycle,” Derek points out. “Also, I once saw you tip sideways off of your bicycle because you got distracted by a dog.”

Stiles pouts. “Why must you destroy all of my dreams, Derek the Downer? Hottie McHateful. The Amazing Nay-saying Nerd!”

“You can meet my family if you want,” Derek says, trying to muffle his laughter against the dusty book jackets. “Come to my house for dinner on Friday. Just, oh my god, just stop.”

“God, you have the sexiest laugh,” Stiles says—casually, like it’s not a totally insane thing to say. Derek copes with it by blowing a dust bunny right into his face.


Stiles shows up at Derek’s house on Friday dressed in a skintight faded green lacrosse t-shirt with a dark grey blazer thrown over it. Derek tries not to slap his palm over his face.

“What?” Stiles looks down at himself, tugging at the bottom hem of the shirt. “It’s clean!”

“My parents refer to you as ‘that jock,’” Derek says. “They already think you’re a sports-obsessed remedial meathead who’s using me for better grades.”

“This is my favorite shirt,” Stiles says. “I was nervous. I thought it looked okay.”

“It does, you look hot, that’s not even the point,” Derek says desperately, and that’s right when his mother walks in.

“…ask your friend if he’d like cornbread with his chili,” she tells Derek coolly before sweeping back into the kitchen.

“Holy god,” Stiles says, looking back toward the front door like he’s thinking of making a run for it.

It only gets worse from there. 

“Derek already has a list of options for college,” Derek’s dad tells Stiles pointedly as he passes the sour cream. “I assume you’ll be going in-state? On a sports scholarship, perhaps?”

“I… would like to go to Stanford, actually,” Stiles says, brows furrowed in confusion. “Like my mom did.”

“That’s a really good school,” says Derek’s older brother Grant, his tone exaggeratedly doubtful. Derek grinds his teeth.

“Yeah, it is,” Stiles agrees, narrowing his eyes. “I have the third-highest GPA in the entire school, so I’m not really worried.”

“We just want to make sure Derek stays focused,” his mom says.

“To clarify, that means my GPA is higher than Derek’s,” Stiles continues, and then winces and turns to Derek. “Sorry, Dumas, but it is.”

“Doo-mah?” Grant points at Stiles with his fork. “What is that? Is that some kind of sporty homophobic slur?”

“Oh jesus,” Derek sighs.

“Homophobic… I’m dating your brother!” Stiles says, waving his hands around.  “Why would—”

“Is it a bet, then?” Grant presses on. “A joke? A prank?”

Derek drops his spoon. “Grant.” 

“This isn’t actually a high school movie from the 1980s, Grant,” says Uncle Peter drily. 

“No kidding,” Laura says, rolling her eyes. “You’re all worrying over nothing. Stiles may be halfway decent at lacrosse but he’s clearly an even bigger nerd than Derek is.”

“Thank you!” Stiles says. “Uh. I think. This chili is good, Mrs. Hale, may I have more?”

“Of course, Stiles. And I don’t mean to imply anything, but you should know that Derek never got detention even once before he took up with you.”

“Mom,” Derek hisses. 

“I’m just trying to—”

“I know what you’re trying to do, and no.” Derek pushes violently out of his seat. “Yes, fine, I’ve never dated anyone before. Yes, you’re concerned. I get it. But I’m not going to sit here and listen while you try to chase off the actual guy of my dreams with your insanity.” He takes a shaky, outraged breath. “And all the detentions were my fault, by the way. I broke the school’s PDA policy, thoroughly, and it was worth it.”

“Score,” giggles his little sister Cora, finally breaking the bashful silence she’d fallen into as soon as Stiles sat down at the table. 

“Stiles and I are going to my room,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles around the arm and pulling him up. “We have to study for AP Calculus. Which we both take. Because Stiles is smart and responsible.”

“Thank you for dinner!” Stiles says as Derek’s dragging him out of the room. “Best cornbread I’ve had in years, we should do this again sometime, oh my god Derek you can let go now, I’m coming, jeez.”

Derek doesn't let go, not even when they’ve gotten up the stairs and into his room. He just yanks Stiles inside, kicks the door shut, and uses the grip on his arm to swing him around until his back is pressed against it. 

“Whoooa whiplash,” Stiles says, blinking rapidly. “So, okay, are we gonna compare review notes or—mmm.”

Derek kisses Stiles the way he dreams about kissing him, sometimes, but never quite got the nerve to put into practice until now—deep, hard, and full of solid and unambiguous intent. He knows Stiles can tell the difference, because he gasps sharply and grips Derek’s shoulders like he needs help staying upright all of a sudden. 

“Derek, holy fuck,” Stiles squeaks as soon as Derek gives him a moment to breathe. He moves down to suck hard at a hickey under the hinge of his jaw, and Stiles’ groan is lower and rougher than Derek’s ever heard it. “Wha—oh, wait, how did you even kiss me like that without cutting me on your braces?” 

“I practiced on my wrist,” Derek says, his mouth still pressed against Stiles’ throat. “It’s not hard once you get the hang of it.”

“Oh my fucking god you’re so cute, I can’t even, can we take our shirts off?” Stiles wiggles against the door, trying to tug his t-shirt off without pushing Derek away. “Maybe we can also… the bed? But only if you—”

“My parents are downstairs,” Derek reminds him, and Stiles’ shoulders sag in disappointment. 

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“So we have to stay here,” Derek continues, helping Stiles get his shirt all the way off and then pushing him more firmly against the door. “Because my door doesn’t have a lock on it, so we need to hold it shut.”

“Why?” Stiles asks breathlessly. He’s gorgeous, eyes dark and skin flushed all the way down to his fascinatingly-puffy nipples. Derek stoops down a little to pull one into his mouth, and Stiles arches into him with a surprised little grunt.

“So nobody can come in in the middle,” Derek says, leaning back a bit to reverently trace Stiles’ collarbone with his fingertips.

“In the middle of what? Oh my…” Stiles’ eyes widen when Derek gets on his knees, holding onto Stiles’ hips for balance on the way down. “No way. You… holy shit, Derek, someone will hear, your parents hate me enough already!”

“So you’re saying no, then?” Derek rocks back on his heels and looks up at Stiles, who’s looking down at him in wild-eyed desperation. “If you don’t want—”

“No, I want, I want!” Stiles unzips his jeans and yanks the waistband of his underwear down until it’s hooked under his balls, totally shameless. He’s almost completely hard already, and Derek never really thought dicks were particularly attractive on their own merits but he finds himself licking his lips anyway.

“Okay.” Derek kneels up and grasps him firmly before he can freak out about it. Stiles throws one arm out and slaps his palm against the side of Derek’s dresser. “Um. Try not to be loud?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says with a hysterical giggle. “No probl—ahm, oooohh fuck. Ohfuck.”

Emboldened, Derek tries another lick, pressing a little harder with his tongue and focusing more on the head this time. Stiles makes a strangled noise and pushes so hard on the dresser that Derek’s Mathletes trophy topples over. 

“Wow,” Stiles breathes, cupping a gentle, shaky hand around Derek’s neck. “Wow.” 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, leaning back a bit to catch his breath. “You’re… god, Stiles. Cover your mouth.”

“What, why—HOLY Mmfff.” Stiles muffles his own shout a second too late, and Derek would laugh except there’s a dick actually in his mouth so he’s not capable at the moment. 

It’s a beginner’s-level blowjob, obviously; Derek finds he can’t get Stiles nearly as deep as he’d like to, and he keeps losing track of what his tongue is doing, and the corners of his lips are all chapped… can Stiles feel that, what if Stiles decides he’s terrible at this, what if—

Unnnnnnngh,” Stiles moans, long and loud and muffled by the hand he’s stuffed into his mouth, and Derek’s resolve returns with a vengeance. He tries actually sucking as he pulls up, and Stiles arches away from the door and fists his other hand in Derek’s hair.

“Ow,” Derek says, more in surprise than pain.

“Oh god, sorry, sorry.” Stiles has to take the hand out of his mouth to apologize; he’s got deep, bruised teethmarks between his knuckles, and for some reason that’s the thing that makes Derek realize he’s so turned on by this that he’s aching. 

“I don’t really mind,” Derek says, rubbing a possessive palm up Stiles’ belly, already wishing there was more to touch. “I actually kind of like it, I think. So you can keep—”

“Nngh, you’re so hot,” Stiles says, slipping his hand back into Derek’s hair and sliding the other one up the side of the dresser again, grabbing the lip at the top. “Seriously, like porn-hot, except better than porn because you’re you and you’re still wearing your glasses, oh my god, yes.

Derek has to bite his lip to avoid saying something embarrassing, like ditto. “Ditto,” he says anyway—because what the hell, Stiles seems to like it when he says dumb stuff.

Sure enough, Stiles giggles delightedly. He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back against the door when Derek gets his mouth on him again, but he’s still laughing, little hiccuping sounds in between noisy, shallow gulps of air. Derek tries to settle on a rhythm, his fingers curling into fists against Stiles’ sides, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t concentrated on anything this hard since his viola solo in last year’s homecoming assembly. 

“Der,” Stiles says, right when his jaw is starting to get seriously sore. “Der. I’m really close, I just, aah, I just need… can you move your hand too? While you—mmyeah, like that, a little tighter maybe—yup, yes, exactly, oh, Derek, thank you.”

It’s such a dorky, sexy, Stiles thing to say that Derek has to pull off again, gasping for breath while he presses the heel of his hand against the front of his jeans. “You’re welcome,” he says roughly—and Stiles chokes out a laugh and comes over Derek’s fingers, biting down on his wrist to keep the sound in. The Mathletes trophy rolls right off the dresser onto the carpet. “Wow,” Derek says.

“I think that’s my line,” Stiles pants, sagging back against the door. “Shit, Derek, that was so great, what can I do to you? Let me do something.”

“Your hand,” Derek says immediately, and then squirms awkwardly at the eagerness he hears in his own voice. 

“That’s it?” Stiles combs his fingers through Derek’s hair, digging into the scalp a little, and Derek shivers. “I could blow you, too. I want to.”

Fuck. “Next time.  But I’ve thought about your hands a lot, though, when I… “ Derek gestures vaguely, blushing. “You know.”

“Fuuuck, that’s so awesome.” Stiles lets himself slide all the way to the floor and just kind of tackles him, yanking his jeans and underwear down over his hips so fast that Derek’s cock smacks comically against his stomach when it gets free. 

“Okay,” Derek says, scrunching up his nose. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Oh my god, it’s so pretty,” Stiles coos, which makes Derek wrinkle his nose even more. “Oh get over it, Dumas, you’ve got a pretty cock, live with it.”

“You’re not normal,” Derek says, and then shudders all over when Stiles kneels up over him and starts right in with slow, tight strokes. “You’re… you… mm…”

“Do you like that?” Stiles swipes his thumb in a quick circle around the slit; Derek, humiliatingly, whimpers, and Stiles grins and does it again. “This is how I do it, but I don’t know if you like it different. I want it to be good, so you should tell me—”

“Just, faster, please—” Derek sucks a breath through his teeth when Stiles speeds up, twisting a little at the end of every stroke. “Yeah. God. You’re perfect.”

You’re perfect,” Stiles says fiercely, leaning down to press an ardent kiss against Derek’s cheekbone before pushing his forehead into the curve of his neck. “Can’t believe your brother thinks I’d date you as a joke, what the hell, you’re amazing, I’ve wanted you forever and I never thought I’d get to actually have you, and they think I’m not serious about it?”

“Can we maybe,” Derek gasps, his thighs shaking and his back arching, “talk about my overprotective family another time?”

“If they knew how much I love you,” Stiles murmurs in his ear, “they wouldn’t be so—”

Huh?”  Derek says, but then Stiles bites his earlobe and he comes so hard his vision goes grey and sparkly at the edges.

“Okay,” Stiles says as he gently strokes a few more shudders out of him. “Someone definitely heard that.”

“Fucker,” Derek says weakly, his chest heaving against Stiles’. “I… I love you, probably. Also.”

“Duh, I know,” Stiles says. Derek can feel it when the nervous tension goes out of his muscles, though, so he’s pretty sure the bravado is an act. 

“When I’m done being grounded for being rude to my parents in front of a guest, I’m going to take you to that sock hop thing,” Derek promises, running his palm reassuringly up the middle of Stiles’ back. “No motorcycles. But I’ll wear a leather jacket for you, if you want.”

“Oh my god, your parents are right, I’ve corrupted you,” Stiles says, sounding thrilled about it.

Derek grabs him around the waist and rolls them so he’s on top. “I’ll corrupt you,” he growls, and tries not to be offended when Stiles responds by laughing so hard that he cries.