in the end (it’s him and i)
It’s a terrible idea. Absolutely horrible. A completely no good, very bad idea.
In the history of bad ideas, this one probably takes the cake.
Scott would totally judge him with those disgustingly effective puppy-dog eyes of his. Lydia would probably kill him for even entertaining the thought.
But Stiles is pretty much out of options because it’s been nearly a month since he decided he wanted to end this relationship and yet here he is.
He’s tried it all:
It’s not you, it’s me…
I’m not ready for a relationship right now…
I’m just not feeling it anymore…
Each attempt has somehow failed spectacularly one after the other. And after each time, it becomes riskier and riskier to broach the topic because, well…
Stiles turns the nearly empty glass in his hands, focusing on the bar’s lighting glinting off the rim and not on how badly he wants to strangle the man in front of him.
There is so much about this relationship that Stiles regrets. He should have seen it coming, really, ever since he had woken up in the middle of the night to find Matt sitting up in bed just watching him sleep. Or when he had insisted on meeting every single one of Stiles’s friends to no doubt scope out who he thought might be a threat. Or when he had asked Stiles that one time if he could record them having sex.
All in all, a very no bueno man that Stiles really needs to ditch. Preferably without resorting to murder or involving his father in any way. The man’s blood pressure doesn’t need that kind of additional stress.
But while Stiles prides himself on his sharp tongue and quick wit, Matt’s uncanny ability to weasel his way out of anything somehow manages to rival that, which is why he finds himself in his current situation.
So Stiles assesses his options. Scott could never do this for him because he's more like a Chihuahua than a werewolf. No, he needs someone tougher, someone who even Matt wouldn't dare cross.
There’s a drunk, muscular blonde seated at the bar, half-shifted as he moans about something—probably his lack of a date—to an amused-looking bartender who’s wiping down several glasses.
Raised voices drift over from near the doorway and two women snarl at each other in an obvious disagreement, both sets of eyes flashing gold.
A man clad in a leather jacket is sitting on the other end of the bar, back facing Stiles. He might be human, Stiles can’t really tell. Looks like a strong guy though.
A group of what seems to be college students giggle at a table across the room. Stiles can see a guy with a man-bun bury his nose in his girlfriend’s neck, inhaling deeply, his lips curling up into a sweet smile.
“Be right back.”
Matt stands and makes his way toward the bartender, but not before running a palm over Stiles’s forearm in a vaguely threatening manner, the underlying meaning of don’t you even dare think about leaving all too clear. He had learned his lesson all too well the last time. Stiles grits his teeth and stares harder at the glass trapped in his grip.
It doesn’t take long for Stiles to finalize his decision.
“Hey so,” He takes a hearty swig of what’s remaining in his glass. He’s going to need all the liquid courage he can get. Taking a deep breath, Stiles tries again, muttering at a volume he knows only those with enhanced hearing will be able to pick out in the din of the establishment, “If there’s anyone out there listening who could help a dude out, it would be much appreciated.”
His gaze sweeps across the room. It doesn’t look like anyone’s paying any attention to him and something akin to despair flutters in the pit of his stomach, but he stifles the feeling and jumps straight to it.
“Seriously, I’m like eighty-seven percent sure my boyfriend is some sort of serial killer or pervert. Actually, I take it back. I’m a hundred percent sure on that second bit. I’ve been trying to break up with him for the past hour. It’s…really not working. And he’s insanely obsessive so I’m also pretty sure he’s going to stalk me for the rest of my life if by some chance I do succeed. Which is why…if there’s someone out there who has the ability to, y’know, threaten a creep into submission…that would be super awesome. He’s also like deathly terrified of weres, so…”
He drums his fingers nervously against the table.
So if a werewolf could put the fear of God into this self-serving asshole that would be great.
Stiles flinches when cold fingers comb through his hair and trail down to brush his cheek.
“I’m back.” Matt slides back into the seat in front of Stiles, scrutinizing him with an unnerving stare. “Were you saying something?”
“Nope, not at all.”
Matt slides a full glass of beer towards him. “Here, got you another.”
“I’m good actually, thanks though.”
“Don’t be difficult, drink up.”
“I said I’m good.” Stiles bites out, lowering his gaze to the shabby wooden tabletop.
Matt sighs deeply and reaches out, closing his fingers around Stiles’s wrist and putting an uncomfortable but not painful pressure on it. “Stiles. Let’s not do this here, okay?”
A heavy hand falls onto Stiles’s shoulder.
Matt’s expression sours when his gaze shifts to something behind Stiles and he pulls back, releasing his wrist. Stiles reflexively clenches and unclenches his fist in an attempt to get rid of the phantom touch that still lingers.
He stiffens under the hand partly because he doesn’t recognize the voice.
Did it…shit, did his plan actually work?
Stiles turns slowly, holding his breath, and feels the ground slip out from under his feet even though he’s sitting down. He slowly trails his eyes up from the feet planted firmly on the floor.
Light scruff defining sharp cheekbones.
A thick set of eyebrows.
Dark hair that Stiles wants to run his hands through.
Hot damn. There is a veritable god standing behind him. The man is positively lickable, dressed in fitted jeans and a tight Henley that does wonders for his pectoral muscles. He’s wearing an unzipped leather jacket that gives off some serious hot biker vibes.
“This guy? Really?” Mr. Can I Please Sex You Up Right Here Right Now asks, one dark eyebrow raised to convey an impressive amount of judgment. Seriously, it’s a look that even Lydia would be proud of.
Stiles doesn’t even have to feign embarrassment because yeah, Matt’s basically a walking, talking red flag. He still doesn’t know how he had managed to miss all the warning signs.
“Who the fuck are you?” snaps Matt. He plants both hands on the surface of the table like he’s about to get up and- what, beat down the six-foot werewolf built like a brick shithouse? Matt’s like...a thin, wilting weed in comparison. Sure, he might not know that the other man isn’t human, but Stiles still wants to laugh himself unconscious at the thought of Matt going head to head with this guy.
“Derek,” says the man plainly, still not taking his gaze off of Stiles. A pleasant shiver slithers up his spine because wow, those piercing, hazel green eyes are intense. And not…not necessarily in a bad way. Stiles swallows.
“Well, Derek,” sneers Matt and Stiles can tell already that the newcomer is getting on every single one of his boyfriend’s nerves. “I’m a little busy with my boyfriend right now, so you can just run along now.”
The guy—Derek—snorts. “Your boyfriend? Don’t get too ahead of yourself.” A rather frightening smirk splits across his mouth. “I had him first.”
Matt recoils and looks at Stiles. “What the hell is he talking about?”
Stiles clears his throat, mind racing, and lies smoothly, “Derek’s my uh- my ex.”
Something unpleasant ripples across Matt’s face and Stiles’s long fingers pause briefly in their fidgeting before resuming. If this plan somehow fails, he’s going to be in some serious trouble.
Matt scoffs and tips his chin up, words layered with false confidence, “Well, he’s with me now, so piss off.”
“Stiles,” Derek purrs, completely ignoring Matt, and Stiles’s entire body goes rigid because damn, that voice is doing things to him that he can really get behind. Or in front of. Either way. He really hopes that the werewolf can’t smell anything from over the stench of alcohol and sweat in the bar because that would be awkward. The hand squeezes his shoulder. “My patience is running thin. When will you finally end this ridiculous charade and come back?”
“Don't get me wrong, I love the thrill of the chase but I get so lonely sometimes when you're off on another one of these flings."
Stiles is honestly not sure what to say because this is not how he had expected this to go. And besides, who in their right mind would believe that Stiles could bag someone like this guy?
Clearly something about Derek’s words and Stiles’s hesitation unsettles him because Matt finally jerks up, taking a step that brings him closer to the other side of the table so he can slap Derek’s hand off of Stiles’s shoulder.
“Stop touching my—”
A hair-raising growl tears from the other man’s throat, and crimson bleeds into green when his eyes flash red. Stiles nearly stops breathing.
Derek isn’t just a werewolf.
He’s an alpha werewolf.
Stiles really couldn’t have asked for better.
Matt stills and withdraws his hand, expression warring between enraged and frightened. He settles for narrowing his eyes at Stiles and sneering, “You’re disgusting. You fucked this asshole?”
Another delightful reason why Stiles would very much like to dump this man in a garbage disposal truck and never look back. Bigotry and Stiles do not get along at all.
“Other way around, actually.” And wow, is the room getting hotter or what? Blood rushes to Stiles’s cheeks as soon as Derek utters those words. He glances up at the werewolf, unintentionally meeting that forceful gaze again.
Another smirk toys at the corners of Derek’s mouth.
Oh. The werewolf is enjoying this.
Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek to suppress his own grin that threatens to burst free, but from Matt’s narrowed eyes, he can tell that he’s not entirely successful.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but Stiles’s ‘place’”—Matt hooks his fingers in air quotes—“isn’t with you. You’re no longer together and I’m his boyfriend now. Get over it.”
“Hm. Is that why he always shows up at my apartment every single time after he ends a relationship?"
“Oh yes, he just can't stay away. Stiles, come on." Derek's looking at him again. "Surely this…boy can’t satisfy you nearly as much as I did.”
“I satisfy him just fine.” Matt’s knuckles are white from how tightly he's clenching his fists.
“Really now,” says Derek dryly, looking vaguely amused. And then he opens his mouth again and absolute filth comes pouring out.
“You’ve taken him in every possible position then? He really likes being pinned up against a wall, you know.”
Stiles flushes because he...does like that actually but Matt doesn’t know because he’s not strong enough to do it. It’s a little pathetic.
“Sometimes, when we're really going at it, he can come untouched just from me biting his neck. It’s a shame, I used to leave such pretty marks on him too. You're saying you've been able to do that to him too?"
Stiles is suddenly glad he’s sitting because his private bits do not need any attention drawn to them right now. Curse these tight pants.
The more Derek speaks, the redder with fury Matt turns. It’s one of the many qualities Stiles hates about him: the overwhelming jealousy that stems from the man’s insecurity. He doesn’t know how Derek can tell, but the werewolf is successfully hitting all of Matt’s buttons.
"Derek," complains Stiles weakly, "stop airing details about our sex life."
“You can coax not one but seven orgasms from him in a single night?”
Stiles buries his face in his hands. The motion is vague enough to convey anything from humiliation to exasperation. Why? Why do those words send a thrill rocketing through him? And why does he feel the sudden urge to see if every one of those statements can come true?
“S-seven?” Matt splutters.
“Yeah.” Stiles lowers his hands, finally working up the courage to interject. Fuck it. Might as well try and make this convincing and milk the hell out of it. “My dick totally felt like it was going to fall off”—the werewolf next to him snorts loudly—“and I’m pretty sure I couldn’t even sit up the next day.”
“You couldn’t. I had to bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Y-yeah.” Stiles stumbles over his words. “Yeah, I remember. Good times.”
“And I would do it for you every day if you would just come back to me.” Derek’s rough palm drags along Stiles’s cheek and his breath hitches. Unintentional or not, the werewolf had just scent marked him. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Matt, whose expression darkens.
Stiles hesitates for a heartbeat before closing his eyes and leaning into the touch like it’s air and he’s a man starved of oxygen.
“Stiles!” Matt sounds furious.
He opens his eyes again and raises his hands placatingly. “Matt, look. I’ve been trying to tell you for the last month. I miss- I miss Derek. We just work, you know? And you and I just...don't."
“No. We're leaving.” Reason flies out the window for Matt as he seizes his coat and makes a grab for Stiles’s hand. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s go.”
Stiles dodges the movement. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
"I mean no, you wanna hear it in Spanish?"
“He’s not going anywhere with you.” Derek declares matter-of-factly, a low, threatening rumble rising from his chest. And then Stiles’s eyes widen at the feel of a hot hand clamping down around the back of his neck. “He’s mine.”
Stiles sucks in a shaky breath. He knows what that gesture means for werewolves. Everyone knows what it means. Matt definitely does, if the livid look on his face is anything to go by.
A thumb gently strokes the sensitive skin right underneath his jaw, the soft gesture in stark contrast to what Derek’s grip symbolizes. It’s comforting, like the alpha wants Stiles to know that the possessive intent isn’t real. Stiles flicks his tongue across his lower lip to wet it before biting down on it nervously.
"He's mine, and no matter what, he will always come back to me. So you should just give up now, pup."
It’s at that moment when Matt finally breaks, his self-preservation instincts and hatred for werewolves overriding whatever obsession he has for Stiles and the remaining pride he was trying to cling on to.
Scowling viciously at the both of them, he spits out, “You can fucking have him. I don’t want someone who’s sullied himself with a monster.”
Sullied? Sullied? If that’s what it’s called, then Stiles will very gladly and eagerly sully himself with Derek. In all positions. Everywhere. Sully away.
But whatever Matt said must trigger something in Derek because he snarls, lunging forward to loom over Matt, who looks like he’s about to piss himself. Stiles is living for this. He should have invited Scott today. Front row seats and all.
“Watch what you say, human. And one more thing.” Derek fists his hand in Matt’s shirt, yanking him forward. His eyes flare red again and a double timbre seeps into his voice. “I know your scent. So if I so much as catch a whiff of you around Stiles again, you will never sleep peacefully again for the rest of your life. You don’t want to know what I’ve done to some of Stiles’s exes. Understand?"
Matt stumbles backwards, his fear so palpable Stiles can almost taste it.
“Fine, whatever. He’s not even worth it.”
Rude. Stiles is a national treasure, thank you very much.
Before he can even blink, Matt is gone, an aggressive bang of the door at the entrance the only indication that he was ever here.
Stiles's savior tilts his head, clearly listening for something. He must find what he's looking for, because he nods once before turning back around to glance down at Stiles.
“He's gone, he just got into a taxi. You okay?"
Stiles blinks. “Yeah, thanks to you. Seriously, wow. I honestly wasn't sure how I was going to ever get that jerk off my back. He just wouldn't take the hint, you know?"
“Don’t sweat it. I have two sisters, I'm used to scaring off assholes." With that, the alpha turns to leave, but Stiles can't have that.
“Wait!” Lurching forward, he grabs onto one of Derek's forearms.
The werewolf stares down at where Stiles is touching him for a few seconds before his gaze cruises back up to meet Stiles's. He cocks his head in a silent question. The sight is almost adorable.
“I uh,” Stiles licks his lips. This is an even worse idea…right?
He blames the completely unsatisfactory sex life that he has been leading for the past two months.
“I could be persuaded to be yours.”
Derek stares at him.
Stiles takes a step back, hand flying off of Derek's arm like it burned him, and flails his arms in a defensive motion. "If you want, of course! I don’t mean to assume because you could totally be straight or—”
Stiles gapes at him. “O-oh. That’s…good?”
Derek quirks an eyebrow up, faint amusement clear in his eyes.
“Good for me,” Stiles clarifies and he wants to die a little now, because why is he like this. “That’s…not what I meant either. Just- you know- seven orgasms? Seriously?”
There’s that infuriatingly attractive smirk again. “Seriously.”
“Jesus. But, um, yeah. Just wanted to put it out there that if you’re interested—”
Stiles gapes. “Oh. Shit, really?”
Derek drags a heated gaze slowly over Stiles, down his torso and legs and back up again. Blood rushes to Stiles’s cheeks and certain other areas of his body at the blatant appraisal. “Really.”
Stiles swallows heavily and says, “Okay. Okay, yeah. Wow.”
It takes him a few seconds—Derek’s increasingly dark and hungry look isn’t exactly helping him gather his thoughts—to find the words and ask, “Uh- my place or yours?”
The grin that Derek sends him is utterly predatory.