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(Come A Bit) Closer

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After approximately thirty-billion arguments with his dad (which aren't really arguments so much as manly declarations of feeling), Betsy is packed and ready to make the four hour journey to his home for the next four years. Roughly. Give or take any catastrophic disasters the might impede his learning capabilities.

Speaking of which.

"Dad, I'm gonna drive over and see Scott for a bit, okay?"

There's an affirming grunt from somewhere in the hallway where Stiles presumes his dad is still trying to figure out which sheet is the extra long twin and which is just the regular twin or if the twenty-four pack of toilet paper is going to be enough, even though Stiles is pretty sure someone else takes care of toilet paper counts in dorms. He thinks it's really cute that his father thinks linens are anywhere on his radar right now or will be in the foreseeable future.

But then again, last night, his father had looked over his take-out container of (low-sodium) Combination Fried Rice and said, "Your mom would have been better at this." Except, when he had said it, he was smiling a little and Stiles was surprised to find that it didn't feel like shit talking about her like this.

The Stilinski men are currently freaking out and maybe a little unhinged due to life changing circumstances. Totally understandable.

Stiles doesn't even bother driving in Scott's direction, just takes the fastest road out to the Hale property boundary. The trees aren't as green this time of year, but it reminds Stiles of the impending promise of fall. It's something he's going to really miss about Beacon Hills. Not that there isn't autumn at college or anything. It's just that the forest here at home is lusher and thicker than anything he'd seen on his visit to campus. Presumably the werewolf per-capita in the region is going to be lower—which means that Stiles is going to be keeping to the books instead of staying up late to wander the forest and make sure no one gets killed (for real this time) by surprisingly attractive but totally evil (or morally ambiguous) supernatural beings and getting through classes on Red Bull and natural genius.

God, it really is stupid how much he's going to miss this place.

Derek is sitting on the porch when he pulls into the drive, legs splayed in such an obscene way that it's not even sexy anymore. That's a lie. That jean-clad crotch is totally sexy; instead of driving Stiles insane with how hot Derek just feels familiar and nice. Except his thighs, because those things are still driving Stiles insane. They look really warm and they’re huge and thick with muscle that makes it impossible not to think about how hairy they are and what they would feel like clamped around Stiles' head. Derek is also wearing a thin white t-shirt that does nothing to cover his nipples. Stiles can tell that before he even gets out of the car.


But Derek always looks good lounging on one of the only finished parts of the new house. The summer before senior year, Isaac had committed mutiny by demanding that Derek put-up or shut-up because he was tired of sleeping on the floor. That was seriously some of the tensest shit Stiles has ever had to be around, and he's been to dinner with Chris Argent while Scott was secretly banging his daughter. As soon as Isaac spoke up about bedding, Erica was on Derek's back about a decent kitchen and—surprise, surprise—Boyd had to chime in about how nice it would be if they had a place to watch TV because, even with his werewolf senses, he had trouble tracking the ball during games on such a shitty TV. The next thing everyone knew, Derek was snarling his way into town to acquire building permits. The trip to Home Depot that followed was equally traumatic for everyone involved. Screw outside threats like banshees and revenge crazed relatives; they were all going to kill each other in a blood bath over glass tile and grout.

A year later, it's not even close to being finished. But they’ve filled in the basement with concrete (Stiles' idea because they didn't need a bunker of nightmare and sorrow, faint stench of misery and mass-murder included, thank you very much) and reframed the house. The second floor is still barren, just a massive space waiting for walls, but it exists. They spent most of their free-time installing a pretty bangin' kitchen, a three piece bath, the comfiest living-room Stiles has ever sat his ass down in and there are actually bedrooms.

Isaac still doesn't let anyone in his room since he doesn't have a family he needs to make appearances for, but the other room is occupied by a large bed and dresser drawers for Boyd and Erica because they like to make everyone think they're still living at home. Jackson is still a jackass and refuses to admit that he likes staying at the house when he can, so he passes out on the couch most of the time, and Scott's either at Allison's or trying to convince his mom that no one is dying or in danger by blinking rapidly and eating her out of house and home.

Yeah. Slim chance. She's smarter than all of them.

Hilariously enough, Derek stays up in the massive, wide-open second floor but Stiles has never seen it. Not for lack of trying! But every time he gets halfway up the stairs, Derek appears at the top to lurk, loom, and lord over his domain.


The porch is done, too. Vast and wrapping around the house like a hug the property sorely needs—and maybe Derek too, but Stiles isn't going to be sharing that opinion with anyone anytime soon.

"Close your legs, you hussy," Stiles yells, getting out of the Jeep. "You'll only attract hunters with that scowl."

Derek doesn't move but his eye twitches a little the closer Stiles gets to the porch. It's not like Stiles expects a tearful goodbye. He's not great at goodbyes anyway and Derek is shit at them. Erica thinks it's because everyone Derek learns to like ends up dead when he stops watching them, so he just never leaves them and therefore never has to say goodbye as he is always creeping on them. Stiles still clings to the idea that Derek just doesn't know how to share—Like once he collects people and learns to tolerate them, he doesn't want to give them back to the rest of the world.

Even if they're on loan.

And Stiles is on loan, okay? This isn't his big to-do out in the big world where he gets a life and forgets everyone back in Beacon Hills. His dad is here. Werewolves or no, he would have been back for his dad. He will always come back for his father.

"You look gloomy," Stiles says, grinning, as he leans against the post.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Stiles shrugs. "College can wait the twenty minutes I spend saying goodbye to everyone's favorite Alpha," he says. "Besides, my dad is spastically twitching between excited that he hasn't screwed me up enough to ruin my chance at higher education and freaking out over being an empty nester."

Derek frowns. His brows are heavy and he straightens his spine in a way that says listen to me before I gnaw on your jugular and says, "He's going to miss you."

He sounds both stern and horrified, in a way that is wholly Derek—contrasting emotions all rolled into one confusing, damaged sourwolf—but also like he is trying not to imply that he's going to miss Stiles.

This is why Stiles didn't want to come out here.

"I'm going to miss being here," Stiles says. "It's just—"

He doesn't really know what to say. There's always been this mysterious tension between him and Derek. At first, Stiles thought it was just the rush of impending threat of violence or death that followed being around Derek but it's mellowed since then. It lingers between them like subtext from an indie movie. Stiles wants to understand it but it just keeps slipping away from him, or rather, leaping out of his window and once, notably, out of his moving Jeep. Stiles isn't stupid. He knows it's sexual tension, at least on his side, but he's also aware that everything is sexual to him. Hell, there's been plenty of awkward moments over the past three years where he's almost made out with a member of the pack... They were all raging with hormones before werewolves were even in the equation. It's a logical conclusion that it would only get worse. This isn't hard math okay? Adding freaky teenage hormones with freaky werewolf shit and the outcome wasn't going to be mundane.

But Stiles wants to believe that whatever is between him and Derek is different—that lingering question of what if that leads into dozens of others: what if Scott had been found by his dad and Stiles was bitten. What if Stiles had joined Derek's pack immediately? What if during one of the dozens of times Stiles was getting a little too friendly with his own mortality, he had actually caved into the warm touch of Derek's hand and done something about it? What if all the wall slamming and smoldering looks of despair were actually a werewolf coping mechanism to deal with having the hots for jailbait; what if Stiles has been a stupid fucking coward for years?

Whatever, it doesn't seem to matter now. He's leaving.

"I'll be back, you know," Stiles says. "In fact, I haven't really thought this through. I'll probably spend most of my time failing out of class because I'll be too worried about Isaac killing Jackson in his sleep or Erica trying to get Boyd pregnant or the sheer stupidity and danger that you puppies manage to get yourselves into—hell, I'm not even sure you all are house trained yet! What are you going to do for research? Peter moved to Canada because he was tired of explaining how to use Google to you."

The panic comes on quick, a freaking sneak-attack ninja. He's suddenly surging with anxiety—he doesn't want to leave. Why did he ever think this was a good idea? This is where he needs to be: with his dad and Scott and the pack and, fuck, with Derek.

But as quickly as the panic comes, it goes with the firm grip of Derek's hand around his ankle. Bursting through the fog of panic, Stiles can feel the iron circle of Derek's hot hand through his jeans.

"Right," Stiles forces out and breathes.

Derek doesn't say anything, and it feels awkward and brittle. Stiles forces himself not to apologize. Eventually, Derek takes his hand off and Stiles slides down, sitting beside him on the step below him. Stiles tries to match his breathing with Derek's but he can't feel the shift in Derek's chest, even with his elbow and shoulder pressed up against Derek's thigh and side. They sit in silence for at least twenty minutes. Stiles knows he should get going. His phone is probably vibrating like crazy in the Jeep but the lingering weirdness of leaving keeps him sitting.

It's pretty insane to think that Stiles is going to go weeks without getting scared shitless by Derek in the frozen section of the grocery store or elbowing his way into the puppy-pile of werewolves to get a spot where he can actually see the television. The thing is... he's not worried about Scott. They speak as much on Skype now as they will when Stiles is off at college. But the rest of them? Isaac, Erica, Boyd and hell, even Jackson—what if they all forget how awesome he is, and by the time he gets back for Christmas, they all can't remember his name or think he's a rather annoying snack that has outlived his welcome, or, fuck, what if Derek never crawls through his open window to watch him sleep?

This is a really inconvenient time to be re-examining his feeling for Derek.

"I should get going."

The walk to the Jeep is awkward and, wow, did Stiles grow like three inches? Because even his legs feel funny. He's in the safety of his Jeep, breathing a little hard and for some reason, his chest is sort of tight—when he gets an eyeful of hulking, werewolf because Derek is pressed up against the window.

"Fuck!," he shouts, slamming his hands against Betsy's steering wheel and jumping in his seat. He glares and angrily rolls the down the window with as much pissiness as he can communicate. "Did you want a hug or something? Jesus, Derek. You scared the shit out of me."

Derek steps back a little, bending down, almost into the window, so that now Stiles can see his face instead of just his torso. Stiles is expecting Derek to roll his eyes but he looks super uncomfortable, like that time Stiles caught him holding a crying Isaac last Easter.

"Because," Stiles continues, "we could hug?"

"I'll come out."

Stiles blinks. "What?"

"I'll come out," Derek repeats slowly, grinding his teeth. "Once a month, maybe twice, update you on pack business."

Stiles knows his mouth is open but he can't manage to shut it. Derek looks even more uncomfortable, shifting side to side, his arms looming even as they're folded on the hood.

"Forget it. Scott will keep you—"
Stiles shocks both of them by reaching out and grabbing Derek's shirt, as if he could physically stop the words or the opportunity from rushing away from him. The action causes Derek's shirt to bunch up and reveal a tan strip of skin and, yeah, Derek's body will never cease to be distracting. It's so muscled and lickable, like something out of a Monster Porno site that Stiles has absolutely never been on. (Don't judge him. Sexual harassing tentacles that enjoy human orifices aren't a far cry from werewolves who hang out with teenagers.)

"Noooooo," Stiles draws out. "You should. Come out. To see me and, you know, make sure Scott doesn't neglect to tell me something important. You know how he is being dumb and distracted by Allison and her face and all."

Totally unfair. Scott was smart enough to get into a vet-tech program two towns over. Although, the Allison comment was totally fair. It's been almost three years but Allison still scrambles Scott's rational thought.

Regardless, they could just call each other. Even if Derek's phone pleasantries leave a whole lot to be desired, he probably doesn't have to drive or run wild all the way out to see Stiles at college. Stiles has oddly gotten used to long pauses with mostly heavy breathing and occasional growls or verbal eye-rolling over the years.

But Derek doesn't object, just nods, eyes on Stiles' fingers twisted up in the black fabric of his v-neck and says, "Yeah."

Stiles leaves before he can process exactly what just happened but makes damn sure that Derek can't take it back. By the time he looks in his review mirror, Derek is still there, standing in the drive and watching him drive Betsy away.

The dozen missed calls on his phone from his dad are a welcome distraction from the mine field of mindfuckery he just left behind. In fact, he isn't brave enough to think about it longer than four seconds on the drive until he can see campus because he has the lingering fear that if he does think about Derek, back there in Beacon Hills, with his flashing eyes and stupidly young heart and really fucking attractive face, then Stiles might turn right back around and go demand to know what that was about.

With his mouth.

Maybe on Derek's.

Like he could suck the information out.


"I'm doomed," Stiles says but his dad is grinning and his only response is, "You'll be fine, son! College is an exciting time," he pauses and then adds, "to learn. I'm proud of you."


College is awesome.

For the first time in his life, Stiles is actually paying attention in class and doing most of his homework without the aid of Adderall and Red Bull all-nighters. Hey, he said most, okay? The people are generally all right. There are parties with too drunk, too-pretty people that leave him goofy-happy but still missing Beacon Hills when he thinks of the fact that he'll never see Scott's drunk-face. Stupid werewolf powers.

College is great but it's not home.

It's Sunday morning and Stiles wakes with a faint headache, whiskey breath and nausea. After stumbling into the ensuite bathroom for a cold shower and some pain killers, he goes in search of his roommate. What he finds is the empty shell of Oliver, his weird hipster roommate, sitting in the hallway of their dorm in only his underwear.

"Dude," Stiles says. "What the fuck."

Oliver doesn't move but he does mumble, "I feel like even my soul is hung over. Also, I might be sick."

See? Even four hours away from Beacon Hills, Stiles is still cleaning up other people's messes. Oliver is dragged back into the dorm, fed some cold Pop-Tarts and Stiles listens to the hilarious recap of Oliver's night.

"I think I rode a camel."

Stiles squints. "Nah, man. You probably just sat on your cigarettes again."

Oliver looks thoughtful for about three seconds, adjusting his thick-framed, John Lennon-round, yellow glasses and says, "I fuckin' hate when I sit on my Lights and think I've had an existential experience with a camel. Drunk Oliver is such a tease."

With a few more stories about possibly making out with some girl from Tri Delta that looked like Daria from ‘90s MTV and a serious dent in their emergency hangover Gatorade, Oliver is finally ready to play Call of Duty. Stiles had been worried when he first moved in, seeing Oliver with his too-tight corduroys in an obnoxious lima bean color, looking the picture of hipster-chic. But in the past three weeks, Stiles has learned to appreciate Oliver's odd exploits, love of whiskey and his dedication to Call of Duty and not tumblr.

Stiles is rarely lucky outside of life or death situations. Oliver as his roommate is one of those lucky, non-threatening situations.

They're on campaign, dutifully playing a water level for Ollie's benefit (he's super into driving the underwater propeller) when Ollie finishes the Gatorade and says, "Is that my hat?"

It is.

Stiles doesn't really want to admit it but Oliver has the best hats. They're worn in knitted beanies that should be scratchy and too tight around his ears but they're not. So Stiles doesn't answer that question.

Instead, Stiles looks out of the corner of his eye and says snidely, "Is that my shirt?"

Ollie shrugs, as if to say, I don't know if you're cool enough to wear my clothes, bro, and Stiles nods, going back to ninjaing his way through the water to kill some terrorists and save the President's daughter from a bullet to the head by some unidentified man who has a really shit Russian accent.

Beanies and plaid button-ups? Totally fair game in the clothes sharing. But those ball-constricting jeans are still off limits. Stiles might be away from everything he's ever loved, a little confused about where he fits in with the pack and the Kinsey scale but he's not wearing women's jeans yet.


"I'm pretty sure Mr. Argent tried to run me over in the parking lot of Target today," Scott is saying, looking wide-eyed and innocent even though he is anything but when it comes to Allison Argent.

Stiles tilts the camera down and says, "Surprise, surprise, dude. I don't know how long it's been since you got some but technically you're still banging his daughter. And you haven't broken that freaky werewolf habit of entering houses through bedroom windows. So, bitchy Argent has a point."

"You'd think he'd let the rage go!" Scott squeaks, arms up and flailing. "It's been three years!"

"Yeah but she'll never stop being his daughter, ya know? Plus, Allison is all he's got left."

Scott just blows out a stream of air, looks dejected for all of ten seconds before he's up, leaning too far up into the camera and giving Stiles a brilliant view up his nostrils.

"Speaking of parents, my mom says hi."

The sentence reminds him of when Stiles was spending all his time at the hospital with his mom. It really was the most shit time of his entire life and nothing will probably ever top it, but Ms. McCall always came around with a warm plate of food or a cookie and the same message: "Scott says hi." Now, hearing it from Scott makes him miss home.

"I still can't believe she let you live at home this year. Isn't that awkward now that you're not just obsessively masturbating in your spare time?" Stiles jokes. "You know she can't wait for you to leave so she can take up a night-life that would put us both to shame."

Scott looks very stern. "My mom's a virgin, okay?"

"You are delusional. You're mom is pretty hot. Fact."

"My mom is awesome and she doesn't need anyone in her life but me," Scott growls back.

"That's because you tell her everyone is a murdering creature of the night!"

"That's because everyone is!" Scott flails again but Stiles is already laughing. It's the last week of September, the first week of a few of Stiles' deadlines, but talking to Scott feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

"Speaking of everyone being murdering creatures of the night," Stiles parrots, "how is our neighborly pack of werewolves?"

Scott launches into a story about Isaac tricking everyone into going into IKEA and Stiles lets the longing roll through him in waves. He wants to be there even though he is glad he's here. He's happy to be at college. Classes are awesome and Ollie is cool. For once in his life he feels like he's learning something and doing something.

He just wishes he could feel that way and be back in Beacon Hills.

He wants to giggle with Scott when Erica gropes Boyd in the backseat and Isaac throws a diva-tantrum in the middle of a showroom bedroom that would make him an excellent candidate on Ru-Paul's drag race. He wants to be able to see Derek's facial expressions, even though Scott trying to imitate them is making his belly hurt with laughter. He wants to drive them all, Betsy complaining the moment Derek gets in sitting distance because she has PTSD from his jaw line, but it would be worth it. Because Stiles wants to fight over the radio with him and stop wondering if this is a moment and just fucking make it the moment.

Or something.

He lets Scott tell the story until the conclusion, where everyone gets kicked out and banned from IKEA for life, Jackson orders a truck-load of home assembly furniture and Isaac threatens to call Peter and move to Canada. He lets Scott talk and ignores any thoughts that stop him from fully enjoying Scott's totally spastic story-telling. (Which manages to feature Allison in it, like, five times, even though she did not make the trip to IKEA.)


It's 2:34 in the afternoon when Stiles wakes up from a nap to find Derek Hale's eyebrows looming over the safety-rail of his top-bunk bed.

"Am I dreaming?"

When he looks away from the ceiling, Derek's making that face that says: you're a silly human and if I didn't have use for you, I'd feast on your flesh and pick out the leftovers between my teeth with your rib bones. Stiles is familiar.

"I mean nightmare-ing," Stiles corrects, looking back at the ceiling and trying to will his heart to stop beating so fast. "Am I having a nightmare where you creepily creep into my dorm room in the middle of the afternoon and stare at me while I sleep? Because that would be a nightmare and not, you know, a dream, which implies nice things like kittens."

The eyebrows climb higher and Stiles manages to close his mouth.

A moment passes before Derek speaks. "You dream about kittens?" His voice is deep and flat, but Stiles can hear the rough edge of something that might be fondness.

"You're definitely real. At least nightmare Derek doesn't sass me. He's still the brooding, possibly murdery and silent werewolf I always loved," Stiles bites out, but he's mostly staring at Derek's eyebrows. They're amazingly bushy but still impeccably groomed. Stiles used to suspect that in the middle of the night Lydia crept in and removed any delinquent, stray hair or, hell, just wished them away with spite and judgment , but now he knows that Isaac is the source of the manscaping. You would not believe how terrifying Isaac is with a waxing kit and a pair of tweezers. Stiles' face hurts just thinking about it.

"Are you thinking about something invasive and inappropriate again?" Derek says, bored.

Stiles shakes his head and automatically says, "Shut up."

He doesn't really know what to do, with Derek here and not brooding over his pack in Beacon Hills. Stiles spares a brief moment of panic for the rest of his friends—who are so terribly codependent due to psychological damage and probably instinct related to werewolf business—they're probably all huddled around a laptop, watching Derek's blinking GPS dots. Derek's got two, one for his phone and one tacked on the bottom of his Camaro. Because he meanders from safely buying donuts to being kidnapped and tortured too often for everyone's comfort.

Stiles has spent time watching that dot, okay? More than he likes to admit. It's something he lets happen after talking to Scott or getting a text from one of the others, usually Erica or Isaac, and he just misses them. In such moments of weakness, he pulls up the app and watches Derek's dot pace the length of the Hale house or run in the woods. One memorable night, Derek's little blinking dot hovered outside of the Stilinski home for a whole twenty minutes, and Stiles spent way too much time thinking up increasingly pathetic ideas about why Derek was skulking outside his house.

"Um," Stiles says, trying to break himself out of his head and break the silence at the same time.

Derek's eyebrows still look bored, but instead of staying silent and waiting for Stiles to fill in the gaps, he curls one broad palm over the guard rail of the bed and starts speaking. It's nothing like Scott's updates, which are exaggerated stories of the packs’ social exploits and filled with long tangents about Allison. Derek sticks closer to business, explaining the latest news in the supernatural creep-fest that is Beacon Hills (yeah, Stiles is not leaving his dad alone there after college, ever) and detailing some pack business. He talks a little too much about training and Boyd's improvement for Stiles' attention span, but Stiles uses that time to lean forward a little and stare at Derek's face because hey, it’s been a while. They continue the entire, mostly one-sided, conversation just like that: Stiles sitting cross-legged on his bed with Derek's arms folded over the guard rail of the top bunk.

Stiles does pretty well. He listens and comments as little as possible as to prolong this experience with minimal irritation from Derek's end. He even feels like congratulating himself for staying quiet when all he wants to do is lean down and put his mouth on Derek’s. Specifically when Derek is telling some story about the Argents, but it involves grocery shopping, and Derek pushing a cart around. Fuck, so you can't really blame him, okay? And second time when Derek licks his lips and rocks on his feet a little.

"So, you're not all dying without me?" Stiles ventures at the end, when Derek looks like he's actually realizing he's spent an hour telling Stiles about home.

It seems like he might even be embarrassed, but Stiles can’t figure out if it’s because he’s rarely ever heard Derek speak this much without yelling or because deep down underneath all that tough exterior, Derek thinks it’s a secret that he loves his pack. Whatever. Everyone knows that Derek is surprised and equally proud that they all made it out of high school alive and under his tutelage. Derek has never been shy in admitting that he fully expected them all to die a horribly gruesome death. Though there is still time.

"It appears so," Derek says. "I will admit that Scott is a test of my patience on a good day."

Stiles can't help himself: he laughs. Derek's face is hilariously like Mrs. McCall’s when she's trying not to reveal that Scott is driving her up the wall. When Stiles is done laughing, he catches Derek looking a little surprised and, there, right there at the end of his mouth is a trace of a smile.

Which Stiles totally put there. By laughing. Because apparently, Derek likes to make Stiles laugh.

Fuck, if Stiles was a Disney princess there would totally be kissing right now.

"I should get going—" Derek starts to say, just as Stiles' mouth opens up and just does whatever the hell it wants to and says, "You look really hot in my dorm."

Stiles doesn't often see that blank, eyebrow-raised look of surprise on Derek's face,,but there it is: wide-eyed and mouth slightly open, like the mouth breather he is.

"I mean," Stiles starts and knows that he should just stop, but of course he doesn’t. "You always look hot, obviously, with the hair and the muscles and the leather. And, well, I'm sure you know that. Or well, you know. Um. The hotness is just... amplified by the fact that you're here and not you know, there. At Beacon Hills. Always from me. Being hot."

Oh god, why.

"I have to go," is what Derek says. And yeah, it appropriately makes Stiles feel like shit because a) Derek is leaving and b) Stiles has made an Alpha werewolf uncomfortable enough to leave. Great. Awesome. That's super sexy and endearing.

"Right," Stiles says. "Sorry about suddenly making this awkward. You were just trying to be nice, coming out here and now I've made it weird with my spastic feelings and my dick."

Stiles is stewing in mortification because his mouth, but Derek is laughing.

Derek. Is. Laughing.

It's deep and sort of a chuckle.

"My meter is up," Derek says, still smiling wide and, holy fuck, that smile could charm fucking kittens into walking in a straight line. What the actual fuck. Where has Derek been hiding that smile? How many times could they have both used that to get one of the pack to fucking get shit done? Forget growling and glowing eyes. That smile is a damn goldmine and, like, twenty-million times more genuine than the one Derek uses to distract innocent people when a hellmouth is opening up next door. That's got to mean something, right? That Stiles is getting real Derek smiles here in his dorm room... right?

"See you next month, Stiles."

He's gone before Stiles can recover, leaving him to stare moodily after him and try to decipher what the hell just happened.


After spending too much time watching Derek's dot drive back to Beacon Hills, lazily looking at porn and then finally deciding on taking a shower and doing his homework, Stiles realizes that it's well into the evening. Where the hell is Ollie?

Which is, of course, when Oliver chooses to burst into the dorm, door banging the wall on the way in.


Stiles looks up from his textbook to see Ollie, hip-cocked out as he twirls his Carabiner key-ring around his finger and violently flicks his lip ring in a way that makes Stiles want to rip it out.

"What?" Stiles says. Oliver is sighs and throws up his hands.

"I walked in here before my Econ lecture, and there was this seriously imposing dude watching you sleep," Oliver says. "So not only do I get sexiled from my room by a stranger, who admittedly looked like he could kill me and no one would even find the parts of my body he ripped off with his bare hands, but I find out that you've been getting some T.A. nookie on the side and You. Didn't. Tell. Me. That is so low. There are so many things wrong with that. I can't even."

Stiles realizes his mouth is open, but he can't seem to make it close.

"I'm all, this is my room too, bro, and Mr. Muscles growled at me. Your boyfriend growled at me! And man, like whatever gets you going or whatever, but he was definitely watching you sleep and he was wearing my beanie at the same time. I didn't have a chance to tell him, because I was definitely high-tailing my ass out of here once he started barking orders about me getting the fuck out, but he can't just wear my shit and then be a douche. I don't care if he's sexually frustrated, okay? Blue balls or not, that bitchass was rude."

See. Stiles isn't freaking out. It's just a lot to process.

Oh no, he definitely is not freaking out.

Well, maybe a little freaking out is happening, but that is all Danny's fault! Danny, rational and gorgeous Danny, who acted a little too much like Lydia and gained himself a Stiles barnacle because of it. Only Danny couldn't avoid Stiles by ducking into the ladies restroom like Lydia so often did back then. So when Stiles had cornered Danny at the end of freshman year and asked if loving his own dick too much made him kind of gay, Stiles totally deserved the answer: "No, it doesn't. However, eyeing me in the shower and creepily muttering about braiding my leg hair does."

For the record, Stiles didn't and still doesn't mutter creepily, okay? He was going through a stage in his life where he really wanted body hair. It leaked into other areas of his life. And the braiding part was Lydia's fault. Her strawberry-blond hair sort of messed up his priorities across genders, which, wow, totally explains why Stiles is so into Derek's permanent five o'clock shadow and how he wants to rub his body all over Derek's hairy knuckles. Dammit.

What was he freaking out about again?

Ollie snaps his fingers and says, "Dude, are you drooling?"

"What? No," Stiles says, wiping his mouth. Then he clears his throat. "So you're okay with—"
"You banging a T.A.? Whatever gets your nut off, man, but if you get expelled, I'm not harboring you like some sort of fugitive intellectual, okay? I'm gonna put both our beds together and make a super-sex bed, but if you're going to fuck, send me a text so I don't swing by in the middle of your sexcapades," he says with a seriousness that is coupled with a severe nod of his head and an adjustment to his beanie, which is slouching off the back of his head.

Was that the beanie Derek was wearing? And what the fuck was up with that?

"No I meant—"

Oliver rolls his eyes and picks up an X-box controller. "Look, dude, my brother is homofabulous, okay? Like, the first and last vagina he ever saw was my mom's. He's super-gay, like Neil Patrick Harris or Ellen gay. And honestly, out of the two of us roommates, who is the more stereotypical fag?" Ollie pauses, giving Stiles a critical cast over with his eye and then purses his mouth like he made a point, then he holds out the controller. "Here's a clue: it's not you. So don't be weird about it."

Stiles blinks.

He thinks about the cling-film quality of Oliver's jeans, the eye-liner pencil in their ensuite that isn't his and how Oliver totally cashes in on his seemingly harmless metrosexually friendly style with the ladies. Yeah, so okay, Ollie is definitely the more stereotypical gay, but Stiles is the bisexual here. If there was a gay-off, Stiles would win with his bisexual dick.

He does not say any of that.

What he does is take the controller from Ollie and says, "Dude, you have a brother? I feel like you've been lying to me."

And that's the end of it.

Stiles doesn't think about how his shoulders feel a little lighter when Ollie changes some of his wording after their little conversation. Did you make out with any chicks? subtly shifts to Did you get on any face? or instead of telling Stiles that his shirt makes him look "gay," Ollie still tells him his shirt makes him look gay, but then asks if that's what he's going for. It's... nice. Surprisingly nice because Stiles didn't even know he was worrying about it.

More to the point though, Stiles doesn't think about how he never corrected Oliver about the fact that Derek is not a T.A. and that they are definitely not dating. It's just pack business. It's nice, sure, that Derek feels like making sure Stiles feels included now that he's away at college, but it's not special. Stiles isn't special to Derek. He doesn't think about Derek watching him sleep, or Derek wearing a beanie, or Derek being here with Stiles for whatever reason. Because it's nothing. There is absolutely nothing going on.


Stiles is smarter than this.

So he goes to class. Because he’s here to learn and not freak out over Derek and feelings.


Later, he gets back to his dorm and because he couldn’t stop thinking about Derek, regardless of whether feelings were present, he has to jerk off.

Fuckin' hell. This adult relationship shit is complicated, Stiles thinks as he pants at the ceiling, cock floppy and shrinking against his panting belly, after he has just rubbed one out thinking about sucking Derek's dick and totally holding his hand the entire time.

Strangely, staring down at his Derek induced leaky cock and sticky hand, he thinks about Danny. If Danny was here, he would put this entire experience in the Proof that Stiles Likes Penis column with a stern I don't give a fuck face. Then he would leak the information to Jackson because everyone likes Danny, but Danny does not like everyone back. Although, to be fair to Danny's character, he probably would have told Stiles to consult the fucking internet and stop talking to him because a) still way cooler than Stiles and b) he's not the token gay of this sideshow circus. Danny isn't best friends with Jackson because they're completely different. Danny is sassy and hot and kind of mean when he’s annoyed.

Alright. Maybe Stiles has a type.


Stiles makes it through the next week and his first real week of shit actually being due without too much abuse of the library or his medication. Ollie looks pretty ragged, having had a cruel week of two midterms and three papers because his professors are jerks. But they come out the other side Friday eager to illegally procure as much cheap booze as possible and find some people to make bad decisions with.

In the cafeteria, Stiles is trying to figure out what food looks the least detrimental to his health but is substantial enough to handle a night of drinking when Ollie texts him. It takes him, like, a good three minutes of juggling his tray, backpack, phone and iPod before he can read it.

from: Oliver Roommate
what do you want to drink for tonight?

Stiles manages to find a table to sit at that doesn't have too many strangers and collapses down into the chair before he drops the tray with his food all over the floor. (He got some questionably looking spaghetti but it was the lesser of the evils. He'll end up eating cereal for dessert anyways. Sometimes, he doesn't even know why he tries. Although, in a week’s time, there will be Halloween themed food. Stiles doesn't care who you are: cookies and sandwiches shaped like pumpkins taste better.) He types out a response asking for PBR and a suggestion that they split a bottle of whiskey.

from: Oliver Roommate
and i'm the fuckin' hipster? fuck you, man.

Stiles smiles at Oliver's determination to use correct punctuation and hurries to finish his dinner as quickly as possible. If he gets out of here fast enough, he might actually have a chance to shower and nap before going out tonight.

Stuffing his face, Stiles joins in a conversation about what is going on at the frats that night, any parties off campus and when everyone is thinking about ordering their Halloween costumes off the internet. Absently, he thinks that the curly fries he picked up out of curiosity aren't actually that bad. They're not the best. Not like the ones from Dott's Diner by the station in Beacon Hills that his dad and he always used to go to, but they're passable. Stiles makes a mental note to tell his dad and continues to listen to a girl who lives down the hall detail her budget-friendly plan to dressing up as a sexy witch.


"You're drunk," Ollie shouts in his ear. They're dancing way too close, but Oliver has his eyes on a red-head that reminds Stiles of Lydia Martin. She clearly has a thing for dudes being close to each other.

"Yep," Stiles says back. "You're exploiting my natural homoeroticism to get laid."

Oliver nods enthusiastically and shoves a shot into Stiles' face. It tastes alarmingly like vodka, which makes Stiles sputter and grip Oliver by his stupid white v-neck shirt. His complaint of the fact that he's dying goes unnoticed because the alcohol provoked groping is exactly what he was going for. Three minutes later, Rhianna blasts through the speakers, and Ollie is gone with a wink, handing Stiles a PBR in thanks as he dances off to a dark corner with the red-head.

Stiles dances pretty much by himself for a few songs. He drifts around the dance floor of the dingy basement of the frat they’re at. The music is deafening, the floor disgustingly sticky with booze and beer, but it doesn't stop him from enjoying himself. There are tons of attractive people, mostly scantily dressed freshman, but Stiles doesn't let that stop him from flailing his arms. Girls join him, shouting lyrics to the songs they all know the words to and leaning back against his chest to laugh, their heads tilted back. Everyone is drunk and it's perfect. It's fucking college, and Stiles isn't thinking about Beacon Hills at all, not even about getting drunk with Scott in the forest or that one time Stiles made it to a high school party and actually had fun.

He's not a great dancer, but the girls seem to like that he's not groping them so much as waving his arms around their body like a pool noodle. Stiles relaxes into his drunk and continues to dance through horrible remixes, a few classics that have been rendered unrecognizable by pop artists and one shouted, entire basement ensemble rendition of Ignition that has everyone laughing. Stiles' finishes up his own beer, causally wondering which girl would be able to get them a shot from the frat-run, make-shift bar. (All the underage people have huge Xs on their hands but it's just for the cops. No one really cares, except only hot girls actually get drinks from the bar and not from the iced kegs in the boiler room.) He's not thinking about why he's neglecting to put his hands all over these drunk girls or why he's content to act like he's strictly gay and not the card-caring, breast loving bisexual that he is.

He's just dancing.

It's possible he loses track of time. Sometime between Calvin Harris' newest collaboration with Rita Ora and Stiles' favorite Nicki Minaj song, there are strong hands wrapping around his hips. But they're not moving with him. In fact, they're super still and that seems impossible. Who doesn't want to get down with Nicki? She's such a bad bitch.

Stiles' first thought when he turns around is, "holy fuck it's the cops."

"Derek?" It's dark and maybe someone slipped a little something in his drink because Derek Hale looks awful pretty underneath the erratic lights of the basement dance floor.


A strobe of bright white light hits Derek in the face, and Stiles sees the blinding light of his teeth, which are definitely bared in a snarl.

Yeah. That's Derek.

Holy shit.

"He's hot!" some girl behind him yells into his ear. Stiles doesn't even have time to drunkenly shush her before Derek is hauling him through the crowd. He wants to be embarrassed that he's being dragged out of a party like Derek is his dad or something, but Derek's hand is so hot against the sweat-slick surface of his neck. Although Stiles is pretty good at ignoring how hot Derek is when he's sober, there's literally zero chance he's going to be able to do anything but leer now.

He can admit that.

Stiles stumbles a little on the stairs out of the basement but Derek just lifts him up by his neck and shirt like giant Stiles' handles.

That's... yeah, that's way too dirty of a thought right now because handles and... riding.

The cool air feels really nice against the heat of his skin. It's still really dark outside, and Derek practically mauls the smoking section into submission as they walk by. Or well, Derek stalk-stomps like the petulant adult he is and Stiles drunkenly stumbles by, lusting after a smoke and Derek's shadow.

His knees feel a little jello like. It's the alcohol. Not the way he can still see Derek's teeth gleam in the shoddy moonlight or the way Derek smells really, really good and okay, yep, there's the side of the frat-house against Stiles' back.

Stiles takes a big sniff because hell, he might be a little drunk, but that's totally an excuse to smell Derek like a werewolf would, right? It's Derek's fault for pushing him up against a flat surface. Stiles' body has muscle memory, and it mostly just remembers boners and awkward teenage angst.

"You smell like a closet," Stiles blurts out.

Derek frowns at him.

The world shakes.

Because Derek shakes him.

"'M not a puppy," Stiles says.

"Why are you drunk, Stiles?"

Stiles frowns. "Why are you angry?" He's reaching out to touch them, those soft looking eyebrows, when his hands get caught.

"I'm angry because you weren't in your dorm."

"It's Friday, Derek! This week has been such a bitch. And parties," Stiles finishes with a nod. "Parties and whiskey and dancing. Did you see me dancing? I'm getting better. Lady Agnes and Ms. You-Da-Hoe said I'd get better. I just have to move with my hips."

He wiggles them. Just to make a point. Derek doesn't like it. He growls. Or maybe he does like it, but it's hard for Stiles to tell. He's drunk, and Derek's faces are expressive but very similar. The I like this face is strikingly similar to the Stop that before I snap your neck face. That is essentially why Stiles is a big chicken and spent a lot of time waiting and jerking off during high school. Which isn't that different than now and, man, that's depressing.

"You smell like a closet," he repeats. Derek repeats his frown. "It's like we're in a time loop."

"We're going back to the dorm."

"Maybe I don't want to," Stiles says, firm. He goes to gesture with his hands, but he can't because they're still caught in the net of Derek's big hands. They're so large and warm, however Stiles can't get distracted. He's standing his ground. Right.

"Maybe I want to stay here," he continues. "Maybe I want to dance more and not hang out with people who smell like closets."

"What are you even saying?" Derek doesn't shout. It's kind of surprising. In fact, he kind of says it with a little curiosity and a shake of his head, like drunk Stiles is funny.

"You," Stiles says, handles fluttering. "You smell like that stuff they put in closets."



"Moth balls?"

Stiles shakes his head. Derek was being stupid. "Don't be stupid," Stiles admonishes. "It's a good look on you. Or maybe that's just a default because your face."

"You're not making any sense again."

"But you're not frowning anymore. You're not annoyed with me. You're just mad that I wasn't missing you in my dorm room tonight and that's not fair," Stiles says.

Derek blinks twice. He always does when he's shocked by something. Stiles used to think that he gave this blank look when he was surprised though now Stiles can see the wrinkles at the sides of Derek's eyes and the way his nose kind of twitches at the end like the lady from Bewitched. It's Derek's surprised face. Stiles really likes this face.

"I'm allowed to have fun. I'm allowed not to miss you guys so much. With your hair and your stubble and your creepy-ass love of broccoli. I mean, missing the way you eat broccoli is exhausting," he mumbles, suddenly feeling tired and alcohol heavy. "College is great, but it's better when you're here. Why are you here, Derek?"

There's no answer.

Stiles blinks, eyes now sleepy. Man, it's a long walk home to the dorms. Now that Derek's here, there's less of a chance he'll fall down and sprain his ankle like a sorority sister on her walk of shame in last night's heels. It would totally serve him right if he did, though, because he laughed once at a drunk girl who fell in heels. It was probably slut-shaming.

Shame on him. If he had heels, he'd fall just to punish himself.

"I don't own heels," Stiles says seriously. "But can we go back? I'm tired."

Derek's making a face, Stiles is sure, but he can't see it because he's closed his eyes. His muscles feel tense from dancing but loose, too, tired from whiskey and dancing his ass off. He wants to open his eyes and see what kind of face Derek's making. Instead, he wiggles his hands until they escape and just palms Derek's face because braille expression reading sounds like something he can do right now.

"Your eyebrows are super soft," Stiles says, drowsy. "That's really weird... and kind of hot."

Derek sighs. Stiles can feel it against his palm and his fingers too, when he drags them down to poke at Derek's lips. They're kind of chapped and Stiles wants to put balm on them. No one should have chapped lips—even grumpy werewolves with sexy-soft eyebrows.

"Jesus," Derek curses. "Let's get you home."


They make it about a block before Stiles begs for a piggy-back.

Derek refuses on account of things like dignity and Stiles smelling like too many liquors and sweaty people.

Five blocks later, Stiles is halfway asleep with Derek's razor sharp shoulder blades digging into his chest. But it's okay because Stiles can just smell cedar and cut grass and melted cheese and leather and ice cubes and something else that reminds him of home so badly that it hurts inside Stiles’ chest.

He lets Derek worry about it.

"Derek will take care of him," Stiles mumbles into the skin of Derek's neck, curling his fingers around the thickness of his leather jacket and falls asleep.


Stiles wakes up with a hell of a headache and absolutely no idea how he managed to undress himself.

"Oh god," he groans into his pillow.

Because he didn't undress himself.

Derek did.

With his big hands.

"Oh god," he repeats. "Why didn't I black out?"

When he manages to roll over and pull the curtains tighter to the window, he notices that the room is werewolf free. Oliver is snoring, soft little wuffles of sound that makes it seem like he's not breathing at all but, like, gnawing on a blanket.

Stiles sort of expects there to be a sign that Derek was there. Like, a big triskelion traced on the center of the room in bunny blood or a scary clown doll or something. He doesn't know, okay? It just feels weird to look around the dorm and not know that Derek's been there. It feels wrong. He wants evidence that it's not all in his head—that the weirdness that kept hovering in the space between him and Derek during high school transcends geography and has followed them here. And that makes him feel angry and hurt and fuck, dealing with all this Derek bullshit while he's hung over is the least cool thing in the world.

Stiles remembers, okay? He was there.

He climbs down and makes for the mini-fridge. It's early. Way too early to be up and hung over but if he makes it to the shower it means he'll have plenty of hot water. Except, when he opens the mini-fridge door, he gets exactly what he wants.

A massive bottle of Pedialite is taking up most of the second shelf.

It has a Post-it note on it.

Drink it.

Below the message is a small, crude drawling of Derek's face—or well, just a face with a frown, two slashes for eyes and scribbled, imposing eyebrows that match what can only be a 'v' to indicate Derek's forehead wrinkle of authority.

"What the fuck."

The only person who answers him is Ollie, who snuffles and whacks his elbow on his bed post with a sleepy whine. Stiles spends about five seconds staring at the drawing before he chugs half the Pedialite, leaves the rest next to Oliver's face and stumbles into the bathroom.

He gets dizzy halfway through, but even having to sit down on the tile doesn't stop him from having a very angry, hung over spank session with his dick. He comes, thinking about Derek's fingers up his ass in a dimly lit closet location and doesn't even want to really examine why.

When he gets out of the shower, the marker on his hands is still there and he saves the Post-it; shoving it into his desk drawer and not thinking about how adorable Derek must have looked, frowning in concentration as he drew a little miniature Derek face to pressure Stiles into feeling better.



College goes on and the next week, Derek shows up on a late Saturday afternoon. It's weird how normal it all is. He knocks on Stiles' dorm, and then there is what would normally be categorized as hanging out. There is lounging around, idle chatter and Stiles generally just running his mouth. Miraculously, Derek stays for all of it. He randomly interjects a comment or even a question, which means that they’re actually keeping up a model of adult conversation. The next thing Stiles knows, it's eight o'clock, and Derek is asking him about dinner.

Derek even survives the forty-five minutes it takes for Oliver to come home, change and pregame for the night without killing anyone. It's amazing. Ollie asks if they want to go like seven times, and Derek actually differs to Stiles. It's so bizarre but nice, that Stiles doesn't even question it.

They get Chinese at this hole-in-the-wall restaurant four blocks from campus that’s buffet style. Stiles laughs at Derek's inability to use chopsticks and the way the old owner looks at them both suspiciously with a pretty impressive stink-eye. Stiles is pretty sure it has nothing to do with how it sort of all looks like a date and more to do with the fact that between the two of them, they eat the entire place out.

It's late before they get back, almost midnight after the walk back. It was mostly quiet. Derek told a story about the pack that week, updated Stiles a little on Peter—but it's half-hearted and nothing really interesting is going on in Beacon Hills.

And yet, Derek is here.

Admittedly, the day is so nice. Jesusfuck, the thought of Derek just being here and even enjoying himself is too attractive for Stiles to think about it more. He just soaks it all up. There's a weird moment by Derek's car, where if this were a normal life and they were normal people, Stiles would swear that Derek is going to go for a goodnight kiss... but it passes and by the time Stiles gets back to his dorm, he's got a drunk Ollie calling him for help getting home, and he can't dwell on what it means to have a nice day with Derek and not the Alpha.


The only thing that happens the next week is that Oliver gets completely freaked out in his Biology class, and is convinced he has some sort of parasite because he can't stop eating a dozen fajitas every time it's Tuesday Fajita night. Stiles doesn't have an opinion on Ollie's freak-out other than the way Oliver says fajita is weird: fuh-git-ah.

It's not right.

But that's it. Stiles goes to class, spends too much time kicking Oliver's ass on the Xbox and tries to avoid Pot Head Trent from the third floor because he has hygiene issues and a serious creeper vibe that just radiates date-rape and then eat your spleen with ketchup. And not in the sexy werewolf way, okay? Stiles would know.

The only other thing that happens is Isaac.

Tuesday is any other normal day: Ollie is staring at the online menu for the dining hall like a junkie ready to confirm that, yes, he is indeed gonna get his fix today, and Stiles is trying to do a stupid online worksheet that apparently refuses to be loaded on any Mac machines.

His phone rings and he looks at it absently, still trying to make the worksheet magically appear on his screen, but when the name on the caller id finally registers, it definitely garners Stiles' attention.

"No way."

Ollie doesn't even respond. He's too busy refreshing the menu even though the dining hall seriously only has fajitas on Tuesdays, so the worry is just unfounded.

Stiles picks up the phone like he's holding a bomb to his ear. "Hello?"

The only thing that answers him is heavy breathing. He waits for a few solid seconds, listening to the deep and breathy puffs of air on the other line.

"I don't get it," he says. "Does Derek set you down after he munches on you and teach you how to be a total social stalker? Because I don't remember you being this creeper before you had a time of the month."

The only sign that Isaac is even listening is a growl of laughter.

"Did you call just to breathe at me? Because Erica did that yesterday. Only she mostly laughed at me and told me how she blackmailed Derek into letting her borrow the Camaro. Then she hung up on me. You're not gonna leave me hangin' though, right? You'll at least let me finish out my thought before fuckin' off?"

Stiles rambles to fill the silence because this is weird. Isaac never calls him. He sends him texts and more rarely sends him an email. Boyd usually sends him an email with a link to a dancing cat or a news article that reeks of supernatural freaky. Erica is the caller. Scott communicates with everything he owns but never in response to anyone’s calls or texts because he's annoying and the habit of only using his phone when it is convenient for him is a habit that Stiles suspects Derek will continue to attempt breaking with violence and will fail.

"… I really do think that Boyd and Erica are sleeping with each other. Can you guys detect this sort of stuff? I mean, I know you all are about actually sleeping together because of werewolf reasons that freak me out, but don't you think they're boning? I can never tell. Like sometimes, it just feels like Erica is groping him because she can. I think she's got similar territorial issues as Derek. Surprise, surprise, right? Any opinions? I mean, even you like your privacy, and I've seen you cuddling Derek's feet. Don't you think it's strange that they—"

"Derek smells."

Stiles sighs. "Then tell him to take a shower."

"He smells like you, Stilinski."

Stiles tries not to be offended. "What, like sexy human?"

"He smells like Adderall and that stupid body wash you use."

"Orange burst with micro-scrubbing pomegranate is not stupid," Stiles needlessly defends. He couldn’t care less what Isaac thinks of his body wash because his mind is kind of reeling about Derek smelling like him.

Surely Derek knows because he's got the sharpest nose of them all.

What does that mean?

"And Boyd's looking smug," Isaac says, like Derek's scent and Boyd's smug nature are even remotely related. Boyd and Isaac have a small sibling rivalry that Boyd ignores with an infuriating calm, and Isaac spends a lot of time squinting and slamming doors—at least from what Stiles has absorbed. Even though Isaac was bitten first, he acts more like the baby of the family. Much to Stiles' delight. He secretly blames it on Isaac's curls, perpetual grounders of Isaac to youth.

"Why are you calling to tell me this?" Stiles squirms. He feels like he's missing something.

"Has Derek been to visit you?"

So it's a secret? God, why is Derek like this? Wouldn't it have been a better idea to clue Stiles in on the secret? And why is it a secret anyway? Stiles is pack—still pack despite humanity and being a few hours away and sort of useless in the skills department—so he deserves to know what's going on back home.

"Why don't you ask him?" Stiles snarls back because, hey, he didn't have siblings either and sometimes it's nice to have someone to fight with that isn't his dad. Fighting with his dad sucks. Or Jackson because Jackson is really mean. "Or smell him some more, you creeper. God."

Isaac growls over the line and huffs. Stiles knows it's more about Boyd knowing more than him and this preying on Isaac's boredom. Isaac takes EMT courses in the evenings and he's passionate about it. Stiles is sure that he studies harder and faster than anyone else in the course. Both Lydia and Stiles had pitched a huge fit about Isaac staying in Beacon Hills because he definitely could have gotten into a decent pre-med program but Derek refused to push and Isaac wasn't even considering leaving an option. He's worse than Jackson when he makes up his mind.

"Dude, listen, if you've got a problem with Derek smelling like me—I can't believe I even said that—then you need to take it up with the boss-man because I've got to head to fajita night."

Across the room, Oliver makes a growl of his own and hisses, "Don't jinx it."

"Seriously, Isaac, he must have smelt like me all the time when I was back in Beacon Hills. I don't see what the fuss is about, other than Boyd is just messing with your mind," Stiles says. "You know it's just all an elaborate mind-fuck, right?"

"I'm on to you."

Then he hangs up.

Thankfully, the schedule for dinner goes up, and Stiles is dragged away from his phone and strange, stupid conversations about Derek and how he smells. Or how Stiles may smell because if it goes one way... does it go the other? Is he, like, just going about his day smelling like Derek?

Stiles sniffs his pits.

"It's fajita time!" Ollie yells, during a little victory dance with his hips. It pulls Stiles away from smelling his pits more, which is good because smelling anything this much is a werewolf thing and not a human thing. He mustn't let the freaky rub off on him.

And now he's thinking about mutual masturbation... and how much smelling like Derek makes his dick wet.


He leaves his phone in the room when they go down to dinner, just in case he feels the urge to text Boyd because that would be downright silly.


Wednesday is a great day because Stiles gets bought coffee after lunch by his TA, a girl with thick-framed glasses and crazy hair invites him to a party being held in an abandoned biochem lab that weekend (which Stiles chooses to interpret as pretty freakin' mad scientisty, in a Tony Stark kind of way), and the only communication he gets from Beacon Hills is a voicemail from his dad and three texts from Scott with varying degrees of mundane information. (The first and last one are about Allison's legs and the middle one is about penguins. Seriously, god bless Scott McCall.)

Of course, that means that Stiles wakes up Thursday morning for his eight am class, goes to get a muffin and while he's yawning and trying to find a song on his iPod, he sees Derek lurking behind the bicycle racks.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles hisses. "Put your boobs away."

Derek frowns, but Stiles isn't distracted. It's cool enough out that he can see Derek's nipples, perky and hard, from beneath his grey, long-sleeved t-shirt. Stiles can't function. He's barely had three cups of coffee. The world can't honestly think he can handle Derek's hard nipples before eight o'clock in the morning, when he hasn't had a least an entire pot of coffee and ample time to squeeze out at least one jerk off sesh.

"Seriously, do I look like I'm kidding? Put them away."

Derek's eyebrows rise so high on his face that if this were a comic, they would fly off. Instead, they just judge Stiles from their perch near Derek's perfectly sculpted hair. Stiles finds victory in the way that Derek fumbles a bit for the lapels of his leather jacket, and then finally gives up and decides to just cross him arms.

"Thank you," Stiles says demurely. "It's too early to deal with your chest right now. I felt like one of them was going to poke me in the eye. Now, what are you doing here?"

Derek doesn't even open his mouth before Stiles determines that whatever it is will be bullshit. So he just keeps going because this conversation started out ridiculous and will continue to be so. Stiles might as well just give up.

"You know what? I don't care. The answer is walking me to class," Stiles says, adjusts his backpack strap and stomps off.

It's haughty and a total Jackson-douche move but Derek follows.

They're half-way across campus before Derek says anything. (Although to be fair, Stiles thinks Derek spends most of their walk preoccupied with sniffing Stiles, like he can track the geography of Stiles' week since Derek last saw him. He doesn't know if that's possible but it seems like a creepy skill Derek would acquire and hone in the night like Batman, sexy, threatening voice included.)

"I'm going out of town."

Stiles hums, sticking a piece of muffin in his mouth and speaking around it. "I see that, dumbass."

"No," Derek says slowly. "I'm going to see someone."

He blames the early morning for what happens next.

"Like a date?"

It's like Stiles can see the words tumbling out of his mouth and desperately tries to suck them back up, shove them into his mouth and eat them so that no one will ever be able to see them. He can't though. They're already out there, confusing the world and Derek. Stiles stares at his feet and keeps walking until Derek's hand is on his arm, jerking him to a stop, ceasing any chance of escape from the awkward hell his mouth has created.

"No. Not like a—like a date," Derek says with intensity, looking straight into Stiles' eyes and staring. Stiles feels like he's supposed to be getting something from this stare—some sort of telepathic message—but all he can think about is how pretty Derek's eyes are. They're reflective in the light, not like the artificial glare catching his Alpha red, just bright and catching in the sun. Stiles hasn’t really noticed them until now. Honestly? They kind of look like an eye inside of an eye, like a turducken or something.

"—but I can't send Boyd or Jackson because it's Caldara territory. I should be back in Beacon Hills by Sunday."

Stiles blinks. "Okay?"

Derek squeezes his arm. Not in a threatening way, just a sort of squeezy way and it upsets Stiles' delicate mental state.

"Are you going to stop by on your way back?" Stiles asks before he can truly understand the question.

Derek squints at him in the sunlight and says, "Like a date?"

"Wait," he says, trying to claw his way out of the foggy headspace that comes with Derek's strange breed of flirting. Something is going on here. "Wait, are you trying to distract me? Is this dangerous?"

The relaxed and sun spilled look on Derek's face disappears. "No. Everything will be fine."

"Derek, you should take someone with you. Boyd or Scott."

It must be the wrong thing to say because Derek lets go of his arm. Why couldn't he be completely okay with Derek traipsing off to a different state for a weekend and possibly getting himself killed?

"Don't worry about it, Stiles."

Stiles steps into his space, really wishing he could have Derek's hand back on his arm and not be arguing, but that's really not an option. "Derek."

He gets an eye-roll for his trouble. "I said it's fine," Derek growls, a smile appearing at the end, more of a facial spasm really, but it's enough for Stiles to kind of forget how disaster and death always follow Derek's reassurances.

"Sooo, are you gonna stop by on your back into town?" Stiles asks.

"You're going to be late for class."

"Come on," Stiles shouts, smiling and waving his muffin around. "Making plans with me won't steal your mysterious and stalker-like quality of appearing in my room to scare the shitballs out of Oliver. Speaking of which, do you want to explain about the beanie wearing during the sleep staring episode?"


Stiles does actually have to get to class, so he lets Derek have his clipped answer unmolested and the rest of Stile's muffin. Stiles very specifically doesn't think about how warm Derek's fingers were when they brushed his during the muffin exchange.

By the end of the day, he has about a million saved texts in his drafts that all amount to him worrying about Derek but not wanting anyone back in Beacon Hills to know that Derek and him have a thing... an ambiguous information sharing thing that makes Stiles share muffins and say ridiculous things. But it's still a thing.

He ends up shooting off a quick text anyway.

to: SourAlpha
don't be stupid.

It doesn't make him feel any better, but after class he digs in Oliver's closet and finds a nice, soft beanie to cuddle with while he tackles a paper for Women's Lit class.


Stiles tries his best to maintain his sanity for the rest of the weekend. He does all his homework for the next week, too nervous to go out drinking with Oliver just in case something happens. It would really not be good if he was hammered when shit was going down. Saturday night is a lost cause, and he knows it before the sun even goes down. He heads to the grocery store to get Ollie chasers and picks up Mountain Dew and the largest bags of Doritos and Cheetos for himself. He waits around while Oliver pre-games, helping him decide on what outfit to wear before he hunkers down to play some WoW.

It takes him a while to get settled, his mind on Derek's current welfare and how he is probably bleeding and snarling in a field somewhere, but eventually he lets himself relax and raid all fucking night. He lets the furiously simple trash talk occupy him as he sucks on his Dew and licks cheesy remnants off his fingers.

At 3am, Oliver comes stumbling home. He smells like cigarettes and shame, so Stiles supervises a shower, just in case Ollie accidentally tries to drown himself on account of being a drunk idiot. Ollie is tucked away, naked, but Stiles could only do so much. Ollie is snoring by the time Stiles shuts down his computer and falls into bed.


Because Stiles is an idiot, he decides that calling his dad on Sunday is a perfect way to kill some time. This is a serious lapse in judgment. Just because his father was never clued in on werewolves by his own devices doesn’t mean he's a bad detective. He knew something was wrong, but because his dad has the best, biggest heart in the world, he trusted Stiles to either work it out or come to him. Stiles knows that he didn't willingly go to his father to confess. No, he was very carefully and masterfully emotionally blackmailed and tricked into telling his father what was going on. Because his dad is a badass sheriff that doesn't need an interrogation room to make Stiles sing until he's blue in the face.

The point is? His father looks for weak spots and then presses his advantage. Stiles falls for this every single time, whether he's five and has eaten (and therefore stolen) a box of Mike and Ike's before they get to register at the gas station or he's eighteen years old and away at college, not even knowingly hiding anything.

Yeah. His dad is that good. Utter bastard.

"Listen, son," his dad starts, and Stiles makes a noise not unlike the ones that have been coming from Oliver's broken and hung over body for, like, three hours.

He should hang up the phone.

"I've been meaning to say something, but I haven't been the best at interrupting the steady stream of words coming out of your mouth."

"But now?"

"Well, you seem..."

"To be in a weakened state due to slight emotional distress, and you're going to pounce because you’re a predator?"

Stiles can hear his father making his confused but not in the mood for your bullshit face. It's a face that Stiles remembers a lot from high school.

"No. Just, I think I should apologize."

"What? No! For what?"

"A while back, I dismissed you pretty unfairly and, in my defense, this was during your lying sack of shit phase," his father says. "And I was wrong. I should have... realized that even if you were lying to my face, there was probably a little bit of truth to it."

That is not at all specific.


"Hear me out, now," his dad interrupts with a gruff sigh. "I've loved you through law-breaking, werewolves and what felt like never-ending puberty."

"Oh god."

"And I'm gonna love you forever. Nothing is going to change that," he finishes firmly. "Now, I'm sorry I didn't believe you before and that was wrong of me. So if you want to try again, I'm willing to listen."

"Dad, I really get it, but I have no idea—"
"Your porn, Stiles. I'm talking—"

"Oh god," Stiles groans and literally wants to die. "Dad, god. How did this even happen?"

Awkward silence meets him. Yeah, Stiles would bet good money that his dad is as red as him and wishing that they were both weren't having this conversation. Stiles thought that the Werewolves Are Real conversation was the worst.

He's rethinking that.

"Stiles, under the bed is not the safest place for anything, especially your secret stash of gay porn."

"Please stop saying porn."

"Stiles," his father says.

"Okay! So, um... apology accepted?"

Stiles prays that someone pulls the fire alarm or a very hungry, homicidal werewolf jumps through his window. Where the hell is Peter Hale when you need him?

"Good," his dad finally says. "Is there anything else you wanna talk about?"

"Oh god. There's more?" Because his dad still has his interrogation voice out, like he knows there's more. Stiles better figure it out quickly and end this charade before his father gets impatient and says "porn" again.

"It's more bisexual than it is full on Ricky Martin gay?"

But his dad makes a strangled sound and says, "No! I mean, fine. But Jesus, Stiles, I just meant that now would be a great time to mention if you were dating anyone..."

"Dating anyone?"

"Beacon Hills is not a very large town, and I notice when people are skippin' town often, Stiles. Especially when this someone drives a very conspicuous car and spent the last three years hanging around my son, usually wearing leather and a wife-beater. Don't think I didn't notice! I notice things! I'm the damn Sheriff!"

Literally Stiles' worst nightmare.

"I am not dating Derek," Stiles hisses, miserable and yeah, now he's thinking about Derek. Stiles is not emotionally prepared for this conversation. His father sighs. It's put-upon and tragic.

"Why are you whispering?"

"I don't know," Stiles all but yells. "Dad, I'm not—"

"It's fine if you don't want to tell me. You're in college now and I understand that you're not going to be comfortable telling me everything about your life, especially your underage drinking."

Stiles snorts. "Now you're just making wild accusations trying to hit the broad side of a barn."

"And I didn't go into this blind, okay? I asked Melissa and she said she always thought you two were funny together," his father says, defensively.

"I will literally do anything to make this end."

There's a pause, like his dad is thinking. Then, "Is he there, now?"

"Not yet," Stiles because he's weak and vulnerable and dammit! His father is so fucking crafty. "I mean that—shit."

"Language, Stiles."


"All right! But this conversation is nowhere near being over," his father says. "Just remember that I love you, no matter what kind of stupid but safe shit you're doing with Derek Hale."

"Oh god, why is this still happening?"

"And that I don't care if he's the werewolf king, okay? I've got a gun and several trigger happy deputies that would just jump at the chance—"

Stiles buries his face in his keyboard. "Dad, it's not like that."

"Like hell," his dad says. Stiles needs to hang up now.

"I really need to go," Stiles mumbles. "I need to go and not be having this conversation right now."

"You brought this on yourself."

"Oh sure, blame the bisexual."

"Not like that! By dating Derek Hale and not telling me about it," he says. "He's older than you, you know? And not human."

"'Cause that's news."

His father huffs and, yeah, this is a bit more familiar ground.

"Your mom always liked the bad boys," his dad interrupts.

Stiles balks. "Dude, she married you."

"I looked better in a leather jacket than Derek Hale."

"Stop saying his full name like you're a judge reading out a sentence, jesus, and I'm going now. Thank you for this emotionally traumatizing conversation. Really, thank you. Goodbye now."

"Love you, kid."

Stiles smiles, despite his mortification. "Love you too, Dad."

After his dad hangs up, Stiles just lies there and listens to Ollie snore. Stiles takes a few breaths, resisting checking his limbs to make sure he's come out of this conversation intact. 'Cause that's ridiculous, especially since Stiles is actively waiting on Derek to return from the Caldara territory (for the record, Stiles looked them up and they're not the happiest bunch). The Caldaras aren’t like Hale tragic or anything, ‘cause Stiles is pretty sure that Derek takes that prize by miles, but they're based in a small down just over the Nevada border, and from the looks of it, they run the town. From local doctor to half the deputies, they're all related to the Caldara pack, and that doesn't bode well for a quick or easy escape.

It's almost one in the afternoon, but he's exhausted. Not that he's done anything but shower and take out all the empty Dew cans and other casualties from the night before. However, he is seriously not anywhere near the mental capacity to understand what just happened with his dad, and his phone is eerily silent. No texts. No frantic messages from the pack. No voicemail saying Derek’s gonna pass on the visit and just go straight back home. Nothing.

Stiles can't tell if it's a dead silence or just a normal, busy silence.

He falls asleep trying to remember what kind of old school porn magazines he had stashed underneath his bed, and hoping his dad had the decency to put them back. Some of them are vintage.


Dinner is quiet, mostly Oliver entertaining the gaggle of girls he's charmed in his weekend exploits. Stiles tries to concentrate on who they are, especially the ones who aren't falling all over themselves to laugh at Ollie's super lame jokes. He still hasn't heard from Derek, and it's getting dark. Not that Derek can't drive in the dark but still... he’s probably dead.

So they eat dinner, and it's gone eight by the time they get back to the room.

"You alright, man?"

Stiles looks up from where he's checking his email. "Yeah, of course. Just you know."

"Obviously not. Is it your T.A. hook up? He hasn't come around this weekend." Ollie is surveying his closet. "You can invite him over, if you want. I'm going over to Libby Hall to watch a movie with some people. Or you can come, man. Whatever."

Stiles shakes his head. There's no way he'd be able to pay attention to a movie right now. He could barely even feed himself at dinner, let alone navigate a social situation. He shrugs a little and pulls the beanie down a little further on his head.

If Oliver wants to wear this beanie to movie night, he's gonna have to wrestle it off Stiles' head.

"Suit yourself," Oliver says. "Text me if you need the room, yeah?"

Stiles nods, already putting in his head phones to listen to some music while he edits his paper. They fit snuggly over his ears and provide a pretty good soundtrack to watching Oliver try on shirts with various pairs of tight jeans that all look the same to Stiles. Eventually, Ollie sprays some cologne on his crotch, the very last stage of Oliver's unofficial getting ready ritual, and he leaves with a jaunty little wave.

It only takes five minutes before Stiles caves.

to: SourAlpha
dude, where are you?

He makes sure the ringer is on loud and checks the time again. 9:45pm. He doesn't expect a prompt answer. Derek is good with his phone compared to Scott, but he's still a bossy werewolf, so Stiles changes into boxers and climbs into bed with old episodes of Arrested Development and attempts to snark his way into calmness or at the very least, sleep.

At 1:57am, his phone rings.

Stiles almost drops it while trying to pick it up. Even though his eyes are crusty, he can see the caller ID clearly.


"Open the damn door," Derek growls. He sounds alive but pissed. Stiles leaps off his bed, scrambling to get his feet underneath him and across the room to yank the door open.

"How'd you get in?"

Derek doesn't answer, just slouches into in the room and immediately collapses when his limbs have cleared the door. Stiles flicks on the lights, barely sparing a thought to Ollie as he does so. He doesn't hear him groan so there's a good possibility that he's still out at Libby Hall.

Stiles is more worried about the bleeding werewolf snarling and snapping with long fangs. Thankfully, Derek’s face is still predominately human, brow bone clearly present and accounted for.

Thank goodness for small favors.

"What happened?"

Derek growls, but Stiles doesn't give a shit. Derek is bleeding thickly through the tatters of his black t-shirt. His leather jacket is missing and Stiles wants to spend time examining the sturdy look of Derek's shoulders but god, there is so much blood.

"Derek, oh god, this is so bad," Stiles says, kneeling down with his hands out, as if he could just push the blood back into Derek's body. "What—what—fuck, do you have a plan, or was the plan get here and bleed out?"

"You need to put these in the wounds."

He shoves a pot in his hand. Deaton's handwriting is scrawled on the top, and when Stiles screws off the top, it smells strongly of herbs and stringent medicine. Derek didn't stop at Beacon Hills before coming here. No. That must mean that he brought it with him, like he prepared for the wounds.

"You sonofabitch," Stiles curses, lifting up Derek's shirt and seeing three, deep, gushing stab wounds welting Derek's stomach. "Who did this?"

Derek glares through the pain.

Stiles stares right back and bares his teeth. It's the only thing Derek seems to be able to understand. Derek stares back, blank pain and frustration, before he growls and throws his head to the side. Stiles resists the urge to poke his finger into one of the wounds and twist. He really would. Just to punish Derek but ew, god, blood is so gross.

"Who did this, Derek? The Caldaras?"

There is a sturdy silence and then, "Vampires."

"Holy fuck. Vampires are real? Jesus Christ." His mental panic about vampires is going to have to wait because Derek is still hemorrhaging.

He isn't gentle when he strips Derek of his shirt. Derek hisses and growls like a feral cat, but Stiles is trying really hard not to panic. There is a lot of blood. Oliver is going to be upset.

"Stiles, calm down," Derek says.

"Calm down? Are you insane? You're bleeding out all over my floor. And, shit, those are holes in your stomach, Derek. Holes. And jesus fuck, my dad—this is literally the worst thing. You're going to die and what, what—"

Derek's fingers are hot, a crushing pressure on his wrist. Stiles realizes he's shaking.

"Stiles, breathe," Derek says, calmly. "The salve will heal me."

"You're sure?"

Derek nods, but doesn't let go of Stiles’ wrist until he's taken a few steadier breaths. Derek wouldn't have come here if he didn't think Stiles could do this—save him from thickly oozing wounds that he got from a vampire.

"We are having words," Stiles curses out. "So many words after this."

He uses Derek's ruined tee to mop up the blood as much as he can. Derek's cheeks have gone pale when Stiles stops to wash his hands, scrubbing hard before he returns to stick his fingers into the gummy pot of salve.

"You're lucky this smells nice," he threatens and then closes his eyes and slathers the first wound as much as he can. He gags a little bit because the flesh around his fingertip gives, snagging a little on his nails and oh god.

But almost immediately, Derek sighs.

"Is it—" Stiles stops, biting his lip. "Is it working?"

Derek nods. His head bangs on the side of Ollie's desk, and Stiles moves on. He wipes as much blood away as possible, then forces the salve in as much as he can stomach. It seems to work miracles. The first medicated gash seals up but turns a sickly purple color. Stiles assumes that's a good thing. It better be because it's not like they're swimming in options.

The last wound to treat is less deep but slices dangerously close to Derek’s nipple.

"If they were to have cut this off," Stiles says, jabbing at the unmarred nipple. "I wouldn't have let you in. I would have let you bleed out there in the hallway and get picked up by drunk sorority girls."

Derek wisely doesn't say anything. He does smile, though, and it makes Stiles want to jab a pencil into his newly healed wounds. It would serve him right.

After using a wet cloth to clean dried blood from Derek's beautiful abdominals, Stiles pulls him to his feet and drags his lazy feet to prop him up on the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't speak," Stiles spits. He's too busy tackling Derek's belt, letting his jeans pool around his ankles, and then wrestling with his shoes because Derek ties his shoes in double-knots. "I hate you so much right now."

Derek just nods, standing there in his black boxer-briefs, and Stiles takes a breath to prevent complete hyperventilation.

"Get into bed."

He stomps off, not even checking to see if Derek can make it up onto the top bunk. He needs to clean up the room before Ollie decides to come back and either call campus police immediately or ask super awkward questions about Stiles' sex life. At this point in his day, he's not sure which would be more painful.

It takes a furious ten minutes to clean the floor and dispose of Derek's t-shirt in the dumpsters outside his dorm like a particularly shameful condom. When Stiles gets back inside, he's chilly and still pissed off. The adrenaline of Derek's arrival is starting to wear off, and Stiles is realizing it's two in the morning and there's a werewolf sleeping in his bed. He sends a text off to Oliver, warning him about their late-night guest, but doesn't expect a reply. It's late and Ollie's probably found a bed or a floor to sleep on.

"I can't believe you," Stiles grumbles when he gets back. "Seriously, you actually lied to my face. Oh Stiles, don't worry about me. I won't get attacked by vampires and end up bleeding to death on your doorstep. Filthy liar."

Lying down, Stiles sees Derek shrug. It's nothing more than a muscle twitch, but Stiles notices. He also notices how Derek’s not taking up the entire twin bed—well, he is—but he’s scooted over to the side and is only using one pillow.

Even though Stiles has a firsthand account of what a pillow hog Derek is.

Stiles pauses. He thinks about climbing up and sliding next to Derek, feeling all his too-hot skin. Then he thinks about the bloodied shirt he just threw in the dumpster, the salve and the almost panic attack. He decides he's still pissed. Almost dead werewolves don't get cuddles when they do stupid fucking shit.

"I'm not rewarding your bad behavior," Stiles declares. He even wiggles his finger to make the point, but Derek doesn't seem to be looking. "That's like the first thing they teach you when you get a pet."

"I'm not a pet."

The defense doesn't have any heart to it. Stiles just rolls his eyes and climbs into Oliver's bottom bunk. It feels weird to be this close to the ground after spending so much time on the top bunk, trying not to crack his head open on the ceiling all the time, but the sheets are soft and there's enough pillows that Stiles can really sink into them and try to relax.

Ten minutes ticks by, and Stiles isn't asleep.

He doesn’t know why he does it. He honestly has no idea what compels him to break all the rules. He doesn't even think. There isn't a moment of hesitation. One minute, he's listening to Derek breathe, humming a little bit to the television at times and the next, Stiles is pushing away blankets that smell like Oliver's cologne and palming himself through his boxers.

Maybe his brain is shorting out. Maybe he's has fucking trauma that is expressing itself in sheer insanity. Maybe he’s in shock having seen all that blood and those gaping gashes over Derek's really fucking attractive body. Maybe Stiles is still a horny teenage tired of sorting through all the stupid feelings and just wants to get off.

Whatever. All he knows is that he's got a massive boner and it's not helping him sleep because erections are not lullabies, okay?

He can practically hear Derek's nostrils flare. Stiles' boxers are still on, but his hand is jacking himself beneath the fabric, his wrist straining against the elastic. Stiles bites the whine that begs to be let loose.

Above him, Derek growls.

The low, consistent growling sits on a frequency that vibrates straight through the bunk and makes the head of his dick leak. He's close to coming already, only a handful of hasty dry strokes propelling him forward.

"Stiles," and maybe Stiles is imaging things—maybe his dick has seriously fucked up his sensory judgment—but he swears he can hear the hitch in Derek's breath. It doesn't sound like in control Alpha Derek. Just Stiles' name, strained and dark, makes Stiles moan, quiet and helpless. He kind of chokes on it, coughing and curling forward as he strokes harder and faster.

The sound of his dick in his hand is so loud, it even drowns out the heavy rhythm of his panting and the rocking of the bunk. The force of his elbow bumping against the mattress and his hips driving up, sticky skin barely making the slide easier, is making the entire bunk rock.

Stiles thinks that, yeah, he probably could have predicted that because these bunks are made to make college freshman embarrassingly introduce themselves to adult conversations like, "So I banged a stranger underneath you last night, was that cool?" Inappropriately, Stiles thinks about Mrs. McCall's rule: If you can't have a rational conversation about it, then you shouldn't be doing it.

"Fuck," Stiles grits out. It's not a whisper but it sounds like it could be with all the other sounds that are roaring in his ears. He really just wants to come. His body is jack-knifing off the bed into his rapid fist but it's not enough. He's riding the edge hard, straining over himself to hear Derek's heavy breathing.

He thinks about a wank he had in the showers—about Derek's fingers. It's enough to make him whimper, gasping as his other hand creeps down his straining belly. He's never.. not by himself. Then again, he's never wanted it this badly—never wanted anyone like he wants Derek. For him to kiss Stiles and bend him over, slick him up and...

Stiles fingers fumble at his balls. It's awkward. His arms aren't really long enough to get the right angle, and Stiles seriously needs to come.

"Fuck," he says, frustrated. "I'm not—I can't get one in."

"Jesus, Stiles." The bed shakes, like maybe Derek hit it or pushed his body against the mattress or jostled the universe with the sheer force of his Derekness. It doesn't matter because the jerk of the bunk jolts Stiles' hand and one clammy finger slips right inside him. It's not like his asshole is a slippery wet cunt. God it really feels nothing like that but yeah—fuck—just as good; he's sweaty and desperate and there's precome tickling his balls, smearing onto his wrist.

"Oh god oh god," he whines out, fucking his finger in and out of him a total of three times before he sort of impales himself, hole clenching down on the base of his middle finger and sort of like... fluttering. He comes with heady spasms of jizz smearing all over his stomach, which actually hurts because he's coming so hard. His balls ache and he cups them, wiggling his finger and gasping.

In the aftermath, Stiles pulls his finger out with a clearly audible 'pop' that makes Derek snarl in response. Stiles is still buzzing on his orgasm, cock weakly twitching against his belly with wet coughs . He just can't bring himself to care. He just fingerbanged himself... well, a little—maybe banged is a little over zealous—but there was definitely some thrusting, and it made him come so hard. He's going to have to do some serious porn searching because it is definitely not thoroughly explored.

Stiles giggles and cleans his belly off with a sheet that he is definitely going to have to wash because god. This is Oliver's bed. Poor Ollie. Although, to be fair, he's probably getting some with another person right now and not just getting some with himself while another person not so stealthily listens in. Stiles doesn't really feel too bad. But that might just be the post-orgasm high he's got going on.

"I'm going to have to do laundry," he says, slurring a little and then giggling.

Holy shit.

"Stiles," Derek says, voice gone flat again and indistinguishable.

"Yeah," Stiles pants out. "Yeah, wow. Okay, that happened."

Derek snorts and Stiles just breathes. His boxers are sticky, but he doesn't care. He just jerked off in Oliver's bed, in response to Derek almost dying, all while Derek was up above him, definitely listening in and certainly not pretending to be asleep.

So many bro-codes have been broken.

"Go to bed."

It's a simple command, accompanied by what Stiles assumes is a patented full-bodied, eye-roll that the Hales are so fond of, but Stiles just smiles in the darkness and obeys.

"Night, Derek."


Stiles wakes up to find Oliver asleep in the top bunk and Derek long gone. To be fair, it's fifteen minutes to noon, and Stiles realizes that he didn't want to see him anyway. Because regardless of whatever strange, jerking off thing that happened in a fit of adrenaline—and most likely a symptom of dangerous amounts of exposure to Derek's nipples and face—Stiles’ is still pissed.

It takes him Oliver's load of laundry and chewing off the fingernails on his left hand to realize just how completely pissed off he still is. The rest of the pack may have selective memory when it comes to Derek and really stupid decisions, but Stiles doesn't. The fact of the matter is Derek lied to him and the result could have easily been death. What if Derek hadn't been able to get Deaton's salve on his wounds in time? What if the vamps decided that Derek really is as tough as he looks and went with cutting him in half or putting more than just three, massive, Kill Bill worthy wounds in his chest? What if Stiles had panicked or not been around or any number of possibilities, and Derek had passed out? What if Derek had died, simply because he couldn't communicate because he was rotten to the core?

"Jesus," Stiles mumbles, jerking the hot sheets out of the dryer and stomping up the stairs to the dorm. Oliver is on a Skype call with his parents, which would be hilarious if Stiles wasn't in such a mood. He makes the bed and Febreezes the sheets, laying the comforter back over and tucking it in tight the way that Ollie insists because it "traps and locks" the scent of Febreeze better.

He had washed his own sheets, too, but even while he's stretching them over his mattress, he knows that it isn't any good. He can still smell Derek on them—or well, his mind thinks he can smell Derek on them—which might actually be worse because Stiles is becoming a creepy werewolf. There is nothing more disturbing than emulating all the less desirable traits of his packmates. Don't even ask how many times they've argued over soap and supposedly unscented candles or if pineapple has any effect on the smell of jizz. Now Stiles is seeing all those ridiculous arguments thrown back in his face because he can’t stop smelling Derek on his stupid bed linens.

Whatever. His sheets smell like Derek, and it's not improving his mood.

"Dude, can you have sleep apnea when you're awake? ‘Cause I don't know if you're breathing right now or just trying to swallow your pillow whole," Ollie says.

Stiles yells into the pillow. It's a traitor and doesn't give into his demands, simply goes on smelling good and Dereky. He should have used bleach.

"Is this about the T.A.?"

It's just—it's not fair. So they're doing this thing, right? It's not a dating thing or a sex thing. It's some weird place in between where Derek visits way more than he needs to, and Stiles jerks off a lot, sometimes with an audience. But it's still a thing. It exists. And it can't keep existing or turning into other things like sex or feeling or making out or hand holding or whatever if Derek is fucking dead or if Stiles is too busy having a panic attack or being so pissed off he could eat the face off a werewolf to give a fuck.

"Did you blow him and then he gave you a B?" Ollie continues, unprompted. "Because I hate to break this to you man, but just like slobbering on it isn't really doing the job. If you want the A, you have defs got to put in the effort—really commit to eating that dick."

"Would you shut up?"

Oliver doesn't care that Stiles is livid. He peaks over the side rail with a flat expression that borders on concerned, like when the ice cream machine in the dining hall makes that chugging noise and threatens to withhold its sugary goodness.

Stiles huffs. He's still pissed.

"Here," Ollie says, but Stiles doesn't have time to sit up before Oliver is practically crawling up the side of the bunks and reaching over to smash a beanie on top of Stiles' head. There are rough fingers in his ears for too long, and it's all cattywampus, but it startles a laugh out of him. Oliver pops back down, studying his work with a very serious face.

"I'd let you suck my cock for an A," he says. "The beanie really works for you."

"You are so fucking weird."

Oliver shrugs. "Wanna play FIFA? I've got some beers left over. We can day drink."

Stiles pretends to think about it. He's got a class at 4:30pm, but it's just a lecture and Stiles hasn't missed a class yet. It wouldn't hurt to take a personal day, get himself situated with whatever is going on in his head and sync it up with his dick. He's determined to be an adult about this, which fucking sucks, but requires him to actually think and not just double-dose on Adderall and bitterly passive-aggress his feelings all over Derek until one of them stumbles upon their maturity and fixes it. He's played this game with Jackson so many times, and it doesn't end in sex or anything but hostility and childish urges to shave everyone’s pubic hair off in the middle of the night. Or run them over in his Jeep. Or choke them with his dick. (In his defense, he had that dream once, and Stiles didn't even get to come before Jackson turned into the Kanima and ate his entire lower half, legs and all. Like, Jackson is such a douche that he can't even behave himself in Stiles' dreams enough for Stiles to bust a nut on his stupid, pretty face. God.)

Some light drinking would calm him down. He's pretty freakin’ aggro right now.

"Yeah, but no drinking when he yells ‘Ballack’ or we'll be drunk too fast," Stiles says and then that's settled. He pulls out the bean bags and gets the Xbox ready while Ollie digs the beers out of the back of the mini-fridge, sliding cut, decoy cans around the PBRs. Getting caught by campus security is such a bitch. Nothing intense, just a $200 alcohol class that's held on two Saturday mornings in a tiny room, which wouldn't be bad, if it wasn't for the fact that so many people are hung over or still drunk from the night before, and it's a small, poorly ventilated room. They haven't been caught yet, but they've heard the stories. It's better to just outsmart them with Coke can sleeves.

"Don't cheat," Oliver bitches, already selecting Spain and trying to act like he isn't a predictable fuck.

"You know I'm gonna kick your ass with my Bavarian monsters. You're just asking for it, you Barça cock-sucker."


Stiles expects this week to go on just like all the others have. Same script, different fucking day. There's homework and class and books that Stiles is pretending to read (hey, he dominates the discussion anyway so bag of dicks across the face), and Oliver being Oliver in every way physically possible, while Stiles goes through the motions of not having almost-panic attacks over bleeding werewolves with feelings.

Although this is what Stiles expects, it is not what Stiles gets.

At six thirty, in the damn morning, Stiles gets a text.

from: SourAlpha
We should brunch this weekend!

It's such an absurd text that Stiles assumes he's dreaming, despite hearing Ollie groggily flail-scream (it's something Ollie only does while sleeping but so often and furious that it shakes the bunk and causes Stiles to wonder how Oliver would handle a pack sanctioned cuddle). He rolls over and goes back to sleep. He's a little hung over but only in the gassy, bloated way PBR leaves him and not in the way that makes him want to crawl out of his flesh and never feel feelings ever again. It's mild enough that he easily goes back to sleep.

He wakes up hours later to a barrage of texts, and Oliver cursing, trying to put his jeans on, despite already having put shoes on. Stiles can only focus on one thing at a time, though, so he watches Ollie for a few spellbinding minutes before he stumbles out the door with his jeans (mostly) on, without any of his actual learning utensils for class (except for his body) and leaves Stiles alone with his blinking phone.

5 New Messages.

There's no voicemails, so no one is dead, but Stiles is still wary. Curiosity wins out.

from: SourAlpha
that wasn't me
from: SourAlpha
brunch is a dumb concept
from: SourAlpha
from: SourAlpha
i hate everyone
from: SourAlpha
but I could come up this weekend

The thing is Erica enjoys relishing in other people's terrible life choices, even if it involves her very own Alpha. So she could be responsible for the brunch text. The all caps defensive of brunch is most likely Isaac, possibly aided by Lydia (and grudgingly encouraged by Jackson), while Boyd either read a book or let Erica rub his feet because he's secretly a pregnant woman the way Erica caters to his every whim... even when he doesn't speak. (Strangest thing in the world. Stiles still can't get Erica to be nice to him on his birthday.)

It's all standard insanity, but the fact that it exists means that the pack is now officially in the know about Derek's visits. Which Stiles had assumed from the beginning, but obviously nooooooo, Derek can't do anything easy. Everything has to be mysterious and a big freaking secret. But teasing Stiles of his crush on Derek seems a little too cruel for them, given everything they've been through over the years. If this were two years ago, would their pack hold this against Stiles, throw it in his face and then mock him openly and loudly about it while his father was in listening range? Without a doubt. But they had progressed, man. They had grown.

Which just means... they think something is fishy with Derek's constant visits. Maybe Stiles is projecting but Derek's hesitance in the last text and not a) downright denial of coming down for another weekend and/or b) that maybe he's a little clued in on how last week’s visit might have left Stiles feeling a little not so open to pack visits.

Stiles takes a day.

He goes about his expected day. He does and doesn't do all the things he thought he would and then, finally, after getting into a rather colorful argument with Oliver about women's underwear, Stiles feels like he's in a good enough place to text back.

to: SourAlpha
You could if you asked, specifically, what you wanted.

"Take that, you ungrateful bastard," Stiles says with a flourish. He leaves his phone in his room so that he won't obsessively check it all the damn time, and then get mad when it vibrates and it turns out it's just Ollie sending him a message from right across the table.

They go to dinner (it's Tuesday, duh), and afterward, Oliver bemoans his unholy need to inhale fajitas at such a rate, petting his food baby with cooing noises that make people from the surrounding tables give them strange looks until Stiles takes matters into his own hands and forces them both into a walk. They walk around campus because it's chilly, and his dad always used to say that a nice brisk wind in your face is all you need to clear your head and make space for new ideas.

New ideas like Derek as some sort of boyfriend material.

Yeah. It's a brand spanking new idea. It's not even in the ballpark of what Stiles would consider real world. They'd come a long way from the potentially murderous, leather clad creeper Derek. Hell, they've progressed steadily since then, moving from untrustworthy, bite-happy Alpha to some sort of modern werefamily—except being Alpha didn't strictly correlate to father figure and more hovered in the area of mentor and general bringer of badass. But that's a long way from boyfriend.

Even though Stiles has been jerking off to filthy fantasies of Derek since he was 16 and thought that he had some sort of regression issues with his father being the Sheriff—because hello, masturbating that much to images of possible murdering convicts was not normal. Turns out, Stiles was just jerkin' it to a werewolf. So yeah, fantasies and possibly contrived and projecting sexual attention aside, that's all still not in the same realm of boyfriend material.

When they get back to the room, Stiles abandons his homework for Call of Duty, but he can't focus on Nazi zombies because his phone is blinking. Like a fucking booty call at 3am or a siren's call or the howl of an Alpha.

"I am so dick-whipped," Stiles mumbles, pressing pause, much to Oliver's utter despair and unlocking his phone.

from: SourAlpha
Sunday. Be ready at seven.

"Is that the same face you make when you come? Because that manic glee mixed with naughty school girl is kind of turning me on—which is freaking me out, so can you stop?"

Nothing like a little bit of Ollie to bring Stiles back down to earth.

"Nah, man," Stiles says, pocketing his phone. "That's the face I make when I dick your brother."

"That's not funny, man! Just because you two are the only fags I know doesn't mean you should date! THAT'S HOMOPHOBIC."

They're both laughing too hard to do anything more than get themselves munched on pretty hard by Nazi zombies, but Stiles is in too good of a mood to care.


The prospect of actually going on a date with Derek is pretty fucking confusing and ultimately terrifying. Stiles has never been on a date. He's "hung out" with people before. He's made out with people in the backs of movie theaters, in one memorable dingy alley, and once gotten really drunk, fell into a stranger's pool and tried to give an underwater blowjob. But he's never been out. On a date. With anyone.

Which, although pathetic, doesn't seem to matter too much because, well, it's not like going on a date with Derek is going to be comparable to any other outing. He's never slept with anyone as hot as Derek before, on a purely shallow level. The only comparable situation he has is the one time Lydia let him buy her gelato while Jackson was late meeting her because Danny was having a crisis about lacrosse gear or boys or something that Jackson actually cared about because Danny is Danny. She spent most of the time speaking about things a little beyond his intellectual level then asking him about her nail polish. It was a surreal experience.

It's hard to think that doing... a thing with Derek is going to be anything like that.

Luckily, he has several days to panic about this.


Friday morning, he sends a text because even though Derek may have severe issues with communication, Stiles is a fucking Stilinski, okay? His father did not grunt and growl his way to the top of the food chain at the Sheriff's office. He worked his ass off and that meant communicating like a boss.
to: SourAlpha
I'm still pissed at you. Date or no.

Stiles pre-werewolf trauma, kind of like Before Christ and After Christ but with more fur, would have totally been a full blown panic attack after Derek's bleeding frenzy on his floor... just after a flagrant display of distrust and lying. Post-werewolf Stiles thinks he did pretty okay with only having a slight panic attack and then an extreme jerk-off session, but, still, the cause of such intense bad shit could have been avoided if Derek learned to use his words or even let Stiles remotely close to what the hell was going on.

If Stiles is going to... whatever with Derek, he's not going in blind, alright?

There's no response but Stiles isn't really expecting one.

The week ends and blends into the weekend. Stiles goes out hard Friday night, hitting a party with Ollie and his hipster friends. They both get pretty hammered, steal a tri-cycle on the way home and fall into a small, stagnant creek on the walk home. It's absolutely fantastic. Stiles still thinks about home, rambling a bit at the end of the night about how Oliver should come to Beacon Hills and meet his pack. Ollie's enthusiastic, albeit drunken, response is to howl and shout at a group of people walking on the outside of the street. But Stiles doesn't text Derek, only sending a short text to Scott when he finally collapses into his bed, listening to Oliver fling himself into his own bedding below.

Saturday, he does homework and only thinks about Derek fifty-billion times.

He only has to jack off twice, and Oliver congratulates him on his restraint over dinner.


"Dude, are you throwing a fit about clothes?"

Stiles glares from his epicenter, t-shirts and pants fanned out around him. Oliver is looking confused and pissed, but Stiles is starting to think that these are simply the way Ollie' face looks when at rest.

"I might be having difficulties deciding on what to wear. On a date," he adds. He then realizes he's clutching a pair of boxers in his hands, pushed against his chest like he's praying.

Oliver whistles or, well, makes a noise with his mouth, because Oliver can't whistle. He's fundamentally impaired. He claims it's from eating too much lady pussy (yeah, he calls it that but Stiles finds it less offensive and shocking than fella pussy—try and unsee that, try). But they both know it's just because sometimes the world is kind enough to spare them from the horror.

"Stop," Stiles finally says. The noises were getting weird (again).

"The T.A. is taking you out?"

Stiles frowns. "I guess? I don't really know what we're doing. He's not really someone who uses his words effectively."

"Right? I still have nightmares from all the growling and sexy staring he was doing when you were sleeping that one time," Ollie says, shuddering. "I thought you were going to wake up pregnant. Or I was. Or that he was going to eat that beanie and then throw it up in your lap like a naughty puppy... I think it's all the stubble."

"Are you on drugs?"

"No," Oliver says, leaning down to sort through Stiles' clothes without asking if his help is needed. "But you worrying about your fashion is starting to freak me out."

"Well, find me something that says ‘I'm not trying too hard because I'm still pissed at him but still look nice.’"

Oliver rolls his eyes. "No fucking pressure."

Stiles ends up in a tight grey t-shirt that is definitely not his but smells like his detergent, jeans, a red and black flannel that is soft and warm and, of course, a beanie. Stiles is so distracted by tying his shoes, he almost agrees to wear eyeliner. By the time he's dressed it's 6:45pm, and he's really glad his hair is short enough that he doesn't have worry about styling it, like Derek does—and seriously, does he shop at the same place for hair care products as Jackson does? Because it really does stay alarmingly well. Once, Stiles witnessed both Jackson and Derek take down a horde of witches trying to become eternal and, although they were both covered with blood, bile and a mysterious white substance that was probably brains, their hair was creepily immaculate when they were done. Not a single strand was out of its place.

"Does pomade cost a lot?" he asks, searching for lip balm. Oliver laughs and says, "And you accuse me of substance abuse. You're the one muttering about haircare products and sort of gyrating your hips. Disturbing, man. Straight up disturbing."

Stiles doesn't get to formulate a badass reply because there's three slow, forceful knocks that legitimately embody the sound of someone five seconds away from taking off. Because this is probably a shit idea. Change is scary. Werewolves are evil, definitely a little murderous, less than stable mentally and pretty much everything Stiles thinks about, even when he isn't jerking off.

Which is why he crawls over Ollie, because he isn't moving fast enough to get out of the way, so that Stiles can answer the door.

Derek looks good.

Duh is the first thing Stiles thinks after that astute assessment, but god, it's so true. Derek looks scruffy, stubble still there, but he smells like after shave and soap and leather. Not just because he's been wearing a leather jacket since he came out of the womb, but also because he drove hours from Beacon Hills to Stiles' dorm, several times and, you know, for a date.

"This is a date," Stiles says because his mouth is probably an extension of Scott, which is what compels him to be so idiotic.

Derek frowns, eyebrows climbing all over each other to claim prime frowning real state on his forehead. But his mouth isn't set—it's grim and twisted—but that doesn't mean anything other than Derek is either thinking really hard or not thinking at all.

It's one of Stiles' favorite faces.

"Stiles, close your mouth," Ollie says from somewhere behind him. "You're drooling. And killin' the mood."

"You're ruining the mood," Stiles mumbles, but Derek picks up the slack and growls, "Shut up.” Stiles assumes he's talking to Oliver because there is a whole lot of cursing and whimpering going on behind Stiles. He's tempted to look, but Derek's face is right there and it's distracting.

Stiles rocks back and forth, heel to toe. He pulls his hand back from where it's totally reaching for Derek's face. No matter who or what Derek might be, Stiles thinks it might be a little weird and too creepy if he just started out their date-thingy by rubbing his hand all over Derek's face.

But for the record, his palm could fit nicely on Derek's face. Stiles has a big palm to go with Derek's, you know, big, wolfy face.

"Soooo," Stiles starts, once the door has been shut and he's following Derek out of the dorm. "Where are we going?"

Derek looks like he's going to shrug and then he says, "Apparently, the pack has feelings about this."

Stiles flushes; he can feet the unexpected heat on his cheeks, already a bit uncomfortable because, fuck, what if they're all super unhappy about it? What if there is some strange, werewolf rules about dating? What if they suddenly decide that even though Stiles is super awesome, their instincts are too hard to ignore, and they can't have their precious Alpha dating a weak human? What if they feel the over whelming need to rip out his intestines and send them to his dad? What if Scott feels this way?

Irrational. Scott would never do him like that.

"What? No," Derek says, looking at Stiles like he's the one with an undead uncle and a furry problem. "You know them. They all have opinions." Derek says it darkly, halted by his car, and Stiles gets a look at his face. He's being sarcastic. That's what that wry twist of his mouth means. Stiles switches from defensive to gleeful in three seconds. So many mood swings and they're not even in the car yet.

"Do you want to guess?" Derek says.

Stiles lets himself grin. Derek's face is still frowny, but he's smiling, and it's so, so hot. Stiles watches him get into the car and then does the same. The leather is exactly how he remembers it. Stiles would like to think that Derek is going to let him program his seat settings soon.

"Alright," Stiles says, settling into his seat and letting the soft leather remember the shape of his ass. "Give me my choices."

Derek's staring straight ahead, but Stiles thinks it's more to prevent him from grinning too hard and giving the answer away than from awkwardness. Stiles' own teeth hurt from smiling so hard.

"Traditional," Derek says gravely. "A nice dinner and a horror film."

Stiles makes a face. "Like we don't get enough horror on the daily, man. But I'd give my left nut and say Jackson, because he's secretly a romantic and also has a sick sense of humor."

Derek nods.

"Hell yes! Hit me!"

This time, Derek pauses with his head tilted, and Stiles giggles. He totally looks like a dog when he does that, like that tumblr with pictures of dogs with signs around their necks of the shameful things they've done. Derek does it when he's trying to get the words right. To be honest, it's not something Stiles sees a lot since Derek is mostly about doing and less about thinking and doing. He's a do-er. Stiles is not going to complain about that because now he's thinking about sex. And the doing and being the done.

Derek throws him a look, exasperated and irritated, like he knows Stiles' mind is wandering to dirty places. Stiles wonders if Derek can smell his dick when it twitches. That's such an odd thought.
"Pumpkin patch with accompanying hayride," Derek says flatly.

"Oh man, that's so hard! I feel like it's totally Boyd, but then Erica is always doing shit just to confuse me, so I'm going with Erica?" It's totally a question, and when Derek turns to look at him, he knows he's got it wrong.

"Dammit," he grumbles.

"You're not all wrong," Derek assures him. "Erica bullied Boyd into replying."

"She's such a minx."

"I'll tell her you guessed incorrectly."

Stiles pats Derek's shoulder and says, "Thanks, buddy." The resulting eye roll is too hilarious, and Stiles grins some more at Derek's really handsome face.

"Do you want to hear the last two?"

"Ooo, there's two more?"

Derek pauses for a few seconds and then nods. "One is not really an option and more an inevitability, given... the circumstances."

Stiles claps his hands. "Alright."

"Skip dinner and go straight to manicures and pedicures with ice cream," Derek sasses with a completely straight face.

Stiles howls.

"Oh my god! Isaac," he pants between laughter. "Isaac! Totally Isaac! That one isn't even up for contest."

Derek shrugs, "He even gave me directions to the highest rated one in town." Stiles continues to giggle, imagining Isaac trying to give Derek Google Maps print outs, searching for a place near Stiles' dorms that had at least four stars.

When he's got his giggles mostly under control he asks, "What about the last one?"

Stiles doesn't miss the way Derek just slowly licks his lips, relaxed dude one minute and definite predator the next. It's so fucking hot. It's hotter than Derek's car can handle, frankly, and Stiles is feeling a little warm—flushed with arousal and the general proximity to Derek, willingly flirting with him. This is so much better than texts.

He leans forward, pulling his knees up a bit into the seat and says, "Go on then. Tell me the last one."

It's more of a demonstration really.

Derek's mouth is warm, partly opened and pressed kitten soft against Stiles'. He moves, slow and barely there for a few seconds, marking the outline of Stiles' mouth before the shock of actually kissing Derek Hale, resident badass Alpha, wears off, and Stiles gets with the program. He presses forward a little too hard and the hand that's supporting him on the console slips. It sends him tumbling, his upper body invading Derek's space in the most uncomfortable way because now Derek is marginally taller than him and his hand is mashed up against the seat belt holder, the leather caving underneath his sweaty palm.

It's a really good kiss.

Derek's tongue is hesitant at first, which makes Stiles back down fast. He doesn't even know, okay? He's got all these questions in his head, about Derek's life and experience and just—fuck, Stiles wants to know everything about him, but he doesn't want to scare him away. Especially with too aggressive kissing because, yeah, the kissing is definitely something that should continue. Obviously. More. Like, now.

Soon enough, Stiles is practically whimpering with the effort it's taking him to restrain himself and one hungry tongue sucking sends Derek mouth into a rolling aggression. It's coiled power and balls-out tongue fucking and, yeah, it's amazing. It's like being inside a porno, but without the weird music or the hairlessness. Stiles can't help but moan and whimper, mostly for breath as Derek ravages his mouth. But also because Stiles is thinking about Derek and his hairiness and, wow, Stiles can hardly believe how much of his inner dialogue is airport romance novel worthy.

When they pull away, Stiles is breathing heavy and unattractive, making him hope his breath smells good. Derek is looking like he might just want to stick with the last plan—which by the way, Stiles knows is Lydia's. Because she's the best thing that has ever happened to humanity, and Stiles can say that without feeling guilty. Lydia Martin totally is. Besides, Derek isn't human.

Then, Derek goes and kisses Stiles' cheek a few times, chaste and sweet, like he hadn't just forcibly tilted Stiles' head a certain way, fingertips pressing to move his jaw, so that Derek could fuck open Stiles' mouth with his tongue.

Stiles shudders. He's feels feverishly turned on and about to climb over the gear shift, propriety be damned, because he doesn't want to stop. He's pretty sure that lap sitting will ensure that kissing and possibly grinding will commence. Instead, he goes back in for more kisses. Derek's lips are so soft and his stubble hurts. It physically pains Stiles, too rough around his swollen mouth and feels a little gross when he puts his tongue on the scratchy and wet hair there, but also kind of hot—in a hauling lumber kind of way. He briefly wonders if Derek could sprint them both back to the dorms, while still making out at the same time. Werewolf powers have to be good for something, like navigating sidewalks and buildings whilst making out at the same time, right?

"Stop," Stiles says, pulling away with greedy teeth nibbling at Derek's lower lip. "You've got to stop because I'm way too turned on for first date status."

Derek blinks, looks down at Stiles’ crotch and then backs up with an arch of that stupidly wonderful eyebrow.

"Shit, can you actually smell my dick?"

"Stiles," he says, low and rough, but he's smiling again. It's kind of a smug smile, the little shit. Stiles is still totally into it.

"I'm not joking about being turned on," Stiles says, butting his head against Derek's forehead a little. Derek just snorts.

"Stiles, you get turned on when Isaac makes us watch 'Say Yes to the Dress'," Derek says snidely.

He can't help himself—his lips just wander, tasting Derek's jaw line and then back up to steal a few more kisses before he defends himself. "Boobs look so good in white. Everyone's do—I bet yours do. Besides, there is nothing hotter than nipples and unprotected sex."

"Do I even want to know how you got there?"

"Commitment, yo. Those nipples are trussed up in white and that's usually all signs pointing to monogamy, and that, my friend, is a wonderful land full of lube and condom-less sex—even if it is before PTA meetings."

Derek's kissing him before he can even pretend that half the shit coming from his mouth isn't just giddy bullshit because they're making out in Derek's car like the teenagers they never quite were. It's still a little sloppy, but Stiles doesn't care. It's mostly his fault anyway. Derek keeps growling a little, tiny purrs of implied instruction that Stiles completely ignores in favor of doing all the things he's wanted to do with his mouth against Derek's. The list is long: it dates back to being sixteen and hate-jerking his dick to orgasm with thoughts of coming so hard onto Derek's smug, expressionless face that he got come in his eye.

It's possible that Stiles had some angst about Derek's Alpha decisions back in the day.

It's also completely possible that they don't make it to any of the packs date-night ideas (because Derek does whatever he wants anyway, despite most people's advice, and Stiles gets super sleepy after coming in his jeans).


He knows it's a shit thing to think, but he's honesty surprised when he wakes up to find a naked Derek still in his bed. It's demeaning and an accurate reflection of his self-confidence, but it's still shitty. It’s not like he thought, Man, Derek is totally going to skip out on me after taking the remaining vestiges of my v-card. Or that Derek would finally admit, in his own way, that he was sort of into Stiles and not going to play dumb anymore on account of Stiles going to college. It's hard to imagine that Derek would go through all this work to sleep with Stiles, and it not be a thing. Like, if that were true, then the dating thing would have been weird, right? So it's not a logical thought that Derek would slink off before Stiles woke up because of mysterious werewolf reasons (although, let's be honest, nothing about Derek or werewolves or Stiles' life since Scott got munched on has been logical). He just thought that Derek would be more of a creep out of bed in the middle of the night because he actually is a creature of the night, and Derek generally sucks at conversation, let alone morning-after conversations.

Because there is definitely an after to be had.

Stiles' ass isn't sore because there wasn't anything more than two fingers up in there, which hey, not unusual, but it was someone else's fingers this time. Take that penetrative-virginity. And take Derek's fingers it certainly did.

How he restrains his hysterical laughter is a super-human feat.

Stiles' attention is drawn away from admittedly immature thoughts to the flex of Derek's back and shoulder muscles as he lies on his stomach, mostly pressed up against Stiles, because, hello, dorm beds are not big. (His elbows can give evidence to this. Ouch.) Sun is streaming into the dorm room, hitting Derek straight in the face and manfully cascading down his back, only stopping from spot lighting his perfectly toned ass because Stiles' Captain America sheets are keepin' the peace by clinging. It's pretty fucking epic. And crazy hot. Apparently Derek just finds the newly positioned sunlight annoying. He frowns in his sleep, lips looking puffy and pouty, as he growls a little bit and shoves his head underneath Stiles' pillow.

Stiles manages to ignore the pain from Derek's forearm ramming into his armpit because Derek is hiding from the sun by shoving his face underneath a pillow, naked in Stiles' dorm room bed.

For the first time in Stiles' life, reality is cooler than his dreams and his life isn't in danger. Stiles never thought that would happen. Usually the awesome factor involved life or death situations.

"I am so winning right now," he says, mostly accidentally. He has about three seconds where he panics about his body being naked when Derek is laid out, a wine-heavy, Greek god, but he gets over it to press closer and sweep the pad of his thumb under a naked shoulder blade, skirting a swirling inked spiral and down, down, down to where Captain America is preserving a national, supernatural, treasure.

Derek's skin is so fucking smooth. Logically, this makes sense because magical healing powers means shiny new skin cells that are smooth as a baby's belly, but it's new to Stiles and still surprising. As are Derek's back dimples. Stiles doesn't remember seeing them the many times he's seen Derek shirtless.

A sleepy grunt comes from underneath his pillow.

"You have class?" Derek's voice is gravel rough, similar to the night after the full moon, and Stiles takes pride in knowing that his dick did that.

"Not 'til four-thirty."

Then he places a kiss in the middle of Derek's spine, in the curved arch below his tattoo because he can do that. Awkward morning-after conversation pending, Stiles is allowed to touch Derek in a sexy way now.

Derek hums and Stiles can feel it. He watches as Derek's wild post-sex, bed-head makes an appearance for the four seconds it takes for him to turn his face the other direction and reinsert his head underneath the pillow, away from the sun.

Because Derek isn't leaving.

Stiles feels himself beaming a grin at Derek's back, even as his dick starts to ache from being hard for too long without any attention. As if alerted to Stiles' dick problems, Derek mumbles, "You should beat off."

He stills his hand from where it’s tracing the tattoo on Derek’s back. So yeah, that was a little awkward. What, it’s totally okay for them to have morning-after intimacy cuddles, but morning sex is a no-go? Stiles is totally going to protest that. He really is. Derek can't just sleep with him, still be here in the morning and expect Stiles to keep his dick to himself. Well, he can because Stiles can totally respect Derek's body agency, but, man, that sucks.

Another grumble and a contented hum rumbles underneath Stiles' fingers.

"You should come on me," Derek says, still sounding sleepy and rough, like he wants Stiles to beat off against him in the morning sun, but he's not going to put any effort into contributing to the sexy-times because he's comfortable.

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, leaning forward to kiss at Derek's back. "Just anywhere? You'd... um, like that?"

Stiles doesn't sound sexy. He sounds confused.

Derek just spreads his legs and says, "Yeah, before your roommate gets back."

Which is how Stiles ends up rubbing his dick between Derek's ass cheeks, poking at the fullness of Derek's balls and then totally smearing the head of his dick all over Derek's hole, precome pooling there and totally going inside. Stiles is almost ready to beg, the ridiculous "baby, just the tip" literally about to come out of his mouth, when he shoots his load in long, embarrassingly noisy strokes over Derek's round ass cheeks and watches it drip down between them too. He makes an absolute mess of Derek's balls and sort of falls in love with them, but he'll have to pick up on that train of thought when he isn't coming his brains out, choking out groans and beating off his cock so fast and hard that he's afraid he's going to get tennis elbow.

Stiles pants against Derek's shoulder, eyes glued to the sloppy mess of Derek's skin and the way his dick head is still sort of just resting against Derek's entrance, like its acquainting itself and thinking about moving in.

"S'nice," he hears Derek say, rumbling beneath him. "Smells good."

"Oh, my god. I knew you could smell my dick!"

Derek doesn't respond, just wiggles his hips a little and sighs. Stiles curses to himself and nibbles on a mouthful of soft Derek skin.

"Give me like two minutes, and I'll get you off, man. I just need to recover from my mind being turned into mush by the incredibly power of your ass," Stiles says.

"S'okay," Derek says, reaching back to pull Stiles down until the entire front of him his pressed up against Derek's come-covered, sticky back. "I can wait."

Stiles falls asleep like that, dick still sort of nestled between Derek's cheeks, spunk drying them together as Derek hides from the sunlight, and Stiles tries to wrap his mind around the turn of events. It occurs to him, wildly, that maybe keeping him updated on the pack was more of a secondary motive these past weeks... like this thing between them was more than just a manifestation of pack updates, more primary and planned. But then that sort of blows his mind again and so Stiles gives up.

He gives into the softness of Derek's skin, the sleep-musk of sex (hell yeah) that Oliver is totally going to bitch about when he comes back from whatever hole he slept in last night, and falls asleep with his hands wiggled and trapped beneath Derek's bulk, head awkwardly pillowed on Derek's shoulder.


The next time Stiles wakes up, he's dying of hunger and it looks like Derek and Ollie are having some sort of weird stare off. Derek's still naked, which is pretty awesome because nipples! He's sitting up and glaring down at Oliver, who is aggressively Febreezing the air, hip-cocked and bitch-face totally out.


Derek doesn't make a sound but his nose twitches. Oliver points his finger at Derek and makes a hysterical hiccup.

"Your T.A. is refusing to put his dick away," Oliver says. "And he scares me. And I'm hungry. And I really need you to wake up and just, like, get your shit out of the way and listen to my life because I totally transcended third-base with Douchebag Lisa last night."

Stiles frowns. "Doesn't she have a boyfriend?"

Oliver does his signature flail, spraying the air again and gesturing. "Yes! Yes she does and guess what, Stiles? I let him suck my dick last night. My dick. In another man's mouth. YOUR GAY IS CATCHING."

"Whoa, hold up," Stiles says, putting his hands out in what he hopes is a calming move. "Was Douchebag Lisa there, while the blowjob was happening?"


"Well, were you more into the dude between your legs or the breasts?"

Oliver looks at him like he's an idiot. "Have you seen Douchebag Lisa's tits? What the fuck kind of question is that!"

"Right. I think you've answered your own question, Ollie. Did you have questionable heterosexual sex with Douchebag Lisa and her cock-sucking boyfriend? Yes. Does this mean you've caught the gay disease? Nah. I think maybe more of a passing virus. Just a cold, really," Stiles finishes, looking back to Derek for a little support.

Derek has moved from pissy to shocked and a little expressionless, like he's afraid to move even his facial features for fear of getting involved in Oliver and Stiles' roommate weirdness. Or he’s trying to figure out if Oliver is offensive in a way that involves malicious intent or simply just stupidity. Or like he’s contemplating how he’s going to hid Ollie’s body.

"So we're still secure in my heterosexuality?" Ollie asks the room.

Stiles stops staring at Derek's nipples and the mass of rolling muscle that is his chest and stomach that leads to more flesh that Captain America is keeping from Stiles' ogling.

"Ollie, if you look at Derek and want him to put on underwear then I think it's safe to say you're still in hetero-land. Although, man, that's always subject to change, okay?" Stiles says, nodding a few times as if to convey that if Ollie wanted to try a gay slice of life, Stiles wasn't going to judge.

"This is a safe space," Stiles adds. Oliver glares.

"It's not safe when I'm afraid Derek—if that's really his name—isn't going to poke out my eye with his dick..." Ollie swears some more. Then he sweeps the room with more air freshener.

Stiles looks back at Derek and grins. "I will admit that it is imposing enough to incite fear," he says and barely restrains from licking his lips because Derek doesn't look like he has any problem having sex right now, present audience be damned. Stiles fears for Ollie's mental state.

"This is what is going to happen," he says, not taking his eyes away from Derek. "Ollie, I'll let you take Betsy to the concert this weekend, and I'll buy you lunch if you give me the room for like, an hour."

There's a beat of silence before Oliver says, "You'll air it out? Because it smells so much like spunk and man in here that I'm having flashbacks to all those high-school gym locker rooms I was never in."

Derek growls, hand reaching for Stiles' crotch before he can even shout a hasty, "Yes, yes, go!" and confirm that Oliver has left the room and taken Stiles' keys with him.

The kiss is sloppy, tastes mostly like morning breath, but Stiles lets Derek tackle him back to the bed anyway. He can't tell if it's all the stubble or the nakedness that is making him so complicit. It might be the leg hair. He's still really hungry but sex. Sex is happening.

"It smells awful. Artificial lemon and chemicals," Derek bitches, biting into Stiles neck.

"You seriously don't have room to talk," Stiles replies. "You have my dried, crusted come on your ass."

Stiles gropes it, just to make a point, pushing their bodies together and thrusting up. Derek's only response is to growl, grind their dicks together and suck a hickey onto Stiles' neck.

Stiles has nothing in the face of such a solid argument.


Derek goes back to Beacon Hills, and there is no conversation. There is no discussion of future sexual encounters or the fluttery feeling in Stiles' stomach or really anything but Derek making out with Stiles against his Camaro, bitching about whether or not they're going to tell Boyd's family about the things that go bump in the night, and then Derek disappearing with a roar and a smug smile.

Stiles doesn't feel like a conquest. He's too busy feeling awesome about getting laid and not just listening to one of Oliver's many misadventures after one too many PBRs and taking pills from that shady dude who Stiles swears doesn't live actually in the dorms.

For once, it’s nice for something to work out. That he finally gets to live a little like he's an actual college student and not like a teenager who has been dealing with things vastly above their maturity level. It isn't as if he was pining away for tall, dark and wolfy, but after spending years trying to get Lydia to even remember his name, it's nice to be noticed. Even if it took way too many near death experiences and freaking Scott to get Stiles anywhere near his goal of hooking up with someone beyond a one-night stand.

Although to be fair, this might be a one-weekend stand. Or some sort of pityfuck. It seems unlikely, but Stiles isn't counting it out of the picture. He's just too busy riding out his high to think about it too much.

Stiles isn't insane, okay? It's not like there haven't been signs or that he couldn't feel that there was at least something between him and Derek beyond an appreciation of badassery and pack. It's just that most of the time, the signs were interspersed with demons trying to kill them or power hungry werewolves looking to devour baby-faced Scott or homework getting in between any real effort that needed to be put into Derek.

Derek doesn’t fool him for a second. He is high maintenance. First, there is the over whelming fear that he's just going to get fed up and eat you. That never goes away. Stiles has just learned to roll with the fact that his face might be eaten off at any moment, without any real notice. Then there is all those facial expressions, many of them based on the patented Sour Wolf Face (sold separately) and evolving in all manners from there. They are so many of them and misinterpreting them could lead to death, or if you're like Stiles, realizing that you've suffered through a severe case of blue balls when you could have at least been getting handjobs before you went to college.

Poor missed opportunity handjobs.

His dick actually aches in their memory for about three seconds before he realizes that he needs to get his Calc review done. Stiles isn't sure if he can live through Calc 101 without turning himself into a Kanima and revenge fucking the entire class. Or possibly just functions.

He leaves whatever thoughts about Derek, his freakishly delicious naked body and how that all relates to Stiles behind and heads back to the dorm.


He doesn't start feeling like a shitty conquest until Wednesday, but by Friday, he's full of self-loathing and pretty much wants to join the Argents and kill werewolves for the rest of his life. Except for Scott because there are just lines Stiles can’t cross. Even thinking about maliciously going after Scott is just so wrong and pretty much the evilest thing in the world. His rage is pretty fucking focused on one emotionally constipated werewolf.

There has been nothing but radio silence from Derek since he sped away with Stiles' hopes and dreams, however wet they may be. Not a freaking word. When he spoke with Scott over the phone the other day, Stiles casually inquired as to whether or not Derek was lying in a ditch somewhere cut in half or possibly bleeding to death by vampire wounds. But Scott said that Derek seemed pretty good after the last pack meeting—although, Scott wouldn't be surprised if he had a stomach ache from the meatloaf Derek had ordered because his mother said the diner failed their last two health inspections and didn't Stiles think that was something that Allison would want to know?

Like that's what Stiles was after. Christ.

Any subsequent subtle probing was pretty much impossible because Stiles doesn't really initiate too much contact with Boyd or Erica, obviously not Jackson. And if you start asking Isaac questions and he doesn't understand what you want or what the right answer is, he gets nervous. Nervous Isaac is all bouncing curls and Why would you do this to me blue eyes, and Stiles doesn't have the heart for that kind of shit, okay? It's best to leave Isaac out of the Spanish Inquisition a la Alpha Booty Call for fear of breaking the kid’s heart. Or him losing his mind and plucking out all of Stiles' eyebrows the next time he comes home. Whatever. Stiles knows that Isaac has pretty much Jackson levels of issues, but he can't feel hostile around them, only mild cooing noises and head patting. (Don't worry, Isaac exploits the hell out of this, and Stiles is waiting for it to start annoying him. Isaac doesn't even like him that much. Conniving shit.)

Besides, it's not like they don't all know about it anyway. Maybe they had some sort of separate pack meeting without Scott about the topic of Stiles and Derek's date, the subsequent sexy-times and how they were going to proceed in breaking Stiles' spirit like the fucking collective Borg show they are. Because... reasons? Maybe Boyd made a power point. Or maybe not. Either way, they knew something was happening between Stiles and Derek, and now, well, the absolute nothing from Derek is a pretty loud and clear message that either it wasn't any good or Derek was just looking for a little relief.

Stiles is pretty fucking pissed that Derek decided to drive all the way out here, where there is history and feelings, to get that relief. He totally stole Stiles’ first-date cherry and now he’s being an asshole. Surely there was a town between Beacon Hills and Stiles' dorm that could have helped his dick out but what the fuck ever. Maybe Stiles is overreacting.

He resolves himself to a weekend of re-examining his life choices, which he might as well do at the library because the three-hundred pages of reading he needs to get done aren’t going to just jump inside his brain with pleasure. Unlike the way Derek just jumped inside his pants.


He's halfway to the library, backpack groaning under the weight of his books, when he sees Derek creeping under an old willow tree. It's hard to miss him, really. The familiar leather jacket looks just as hoodlum against the college campus as it does in the highschool parking lot or in the middle of the woods. Stiles spares a few seconds to think about how attractive Derek looks, and how Stiles has always wanted to rub his dick all over that leather jacket before he breaks into a run.

Because there is no way Derek is here willingly and that means...

"Holy fuck, who's dying?" Stiles pants, hands on knees, as his book bag flings itself off his shoulder. "Is it Scott? I knew it. I knew he sounded weird Tuesday when he was asking about if all those rumors about syphilis eating your brain stem were true! Oh god, have you called his mom? Shit, oh god. Oh god."

Stiles is close to hyperventilating when Derek steps on his toe and says, "Stiles, shut up. Everyone is fine."


Derek looks incredibly shifty and Stiles narrows his eyes. "Everyone? Even Isaac because sometimes he's not okay and you can't just like, let him cry it out. We've talked about this."

"What? No. Isaac is fine. No one cries."

Stiles catches his breath enough to stand up straight, but instead of correcting Derek to say yes, Isaac might be a big, bad, blood-thirsty killer, but he is also a kid with a metric fuck-ton of issues that rival Derek's (which is impressive considering Peter even exists), and that with all those issues come a lot of feelings. But instead Stiles says, "Then what the hell are you doing here?"

The surprised look on Derek's face does little to curb how pissed Stiles is.

"Look, if everyone is okay and, you know—thanks for the heart attack there, asshole—then what are you doing here?"

Derek blinks at him, mouth open a little in confusion that Stiles does not find cute, and then he frowns, hands finding their way into his leather jacket, looking exactly how he did when Stiles first spotted him lurking in the woods that day with Scott. Except here, he looks unsure and less like he's about to maul someone for trespassing and/or murdering his sister regardless of evidence. Man, those were awful times.

"I thought," Derek starts before stopping and looking remarkably like he’s passing gas. "We’re doing a... thing?"

"Present tense, Derek? Are you sure?"

Stiles feels himself flush, feeling foolish and small because he didn't mentally prepare himself to confront Derek about sleeping with him last weekend, and then things going back to normal, like nothing happened, like it was no big deal. It just makes him feel like he’s no big deal.

He just wants to go to the library and angrily dominate his homework, think about Derek's stupid face and how much Stiles just wants to touch it. And man, isn't that fucked up?

He knows it’s crazy. Fuck. It’s only been a week, and it’s not like they’ve been talking all the time, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s not going to act like he’s not hurt when he is, regardless of how much his crazy is showing.

It doesn’t change anything, and Stiles thinks that’s actually kind of the point.

"Listen, I know you're not really that familiar with humans or anything, since all the ones you actually put any effort into knowing are dead, but—okay, that was mean. Just... not all of us are robots of angst and doom. I have—humans have feelings," Stiles says firmly. "So just go home, alright, Derek? Leave me alone for awhile. I’ll get over it."

But Derek’s here now, still looking confused and just as hurt as Stiles feels, and it doesn’t make him feel any better. The ache in his chest doesn’t just disappear after he’s said his little piece, so he just turns and goes inside. Stiles makes it all the way into the library and up to the fourth floor before he realizes he's shaking.

Did he just fuck this up? Is he going to be out of pack now? Wednesday is Halloween. He's not been here three months and it's already gone to shit. One minute, he's finally thinking they're getting their life sorted, and the next, it's in shambles and he's making a fool of himself in the quad. Super classy. College has made him even more emotionally unstable. And now, he's going to be excommunicated from the pack, and his only friends are going to be Ollie and his dad.

The panic doesn't come. It stays easy to breathe and easier to get out his books, stare at them for a few minutes and then crack them open because it's not easy to think about what is going on beyond being angry.

He feels used and stupid and really fucking ashamed of himself.

It's a nasty, horrible feeling.

Of course that's when Derek shows up.

"We should have gone to dinner," is what he says, which really isn't enlightening at all, and now it's Stiles' turn to stare at him. Although, to be fair, Stiles is doing it with a gaping mouth and tipped back onto just two legs of his chair because he's asking for trouble. Derek isn't even trying to speak in a whisper.

"Boyd was making a case about telling his parents, and the Johnson Pack was moving through and without you there as a human buffer even them just passing by created tension," Derek continues. He's still looking confused but the eye contact is consistent and chasing, like he knows what he's doing but is just generally shit at it.

"This is a library."

Derek cocks his head. "Clearly. And obviously I didn't get what I wanted last weekend."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"That's not what I meant," Derek growls out. He runs one hand through his sculpted hair and then over his face, rubbing a few times as if he can wipe the slate blank and try and put up something different. "Stiles—"

"Are you seriously yelling at me in a library for not letting you put your dick in my—"

"No," Derek says, hand coming up to stop the words from Stiles' mouth. "Don't."

They stare at each other in silence. Stiles is processing, but it's not happening very quickly. Usually, when Derek is having some sort of conversation, Stiles works extra hard to make sure everything comes out all right, does a lot of puzzling out what Derek really means with the help of his face and previous experiences, and generally does seventy percent of the communicating himself, but he's so lost here. He's fighting through all the bullshit of the entire week, and now he's got these ideas. It's hard to reconcile those notions with Derek, here and breathing and always saying the wrong thing. It's hard to remember that Derek's broken, but he's not out for the count and that last weekend was pretty great.

"I don't know why you think that or why you feel like this," Derek says, again with the not whispering. "But it's not what I meant, Stiles. We should have gone to dinner."

"Dinner is not some sort of magical fix-it," Stiles whispers back, hoping to set an example. "I still would have felt like I was doing the walk of shame from hours away this week since you didn't bother to call or text or say a single damn thing."

Derek growls. "I was busy!"

"Yeah, well, if you're so busy, then why do you keep showing up here? Shouldn't you be doing something else? Don't you have something else you should be taking care of that is more important that hanging around here and making you think that you like me?"

"Yes!" Derek shouts, throwing his hands up. "I do, Stiles. I do have things I should be doing, but I'm not. Because I'm here spending time with you because I want to. For some asinine reason, arguing with you in a library is preferable to being in Beacon Hills when you're not."


Luckily, Stiles’ mouth can run without his brain because he’s still processing. He’s a multi-tasking master, but fighting, processing Derek’s backasswards communication, having feelings and being aroused in a library is really difficult to do simultaneously.

"I thought you said you're here on pack business."

Derek rolls his eyes and says, "You're smarter than that."

Stiles doesn't know why he's being stubborn or mulish or fighting this because Derek is right here, looking warm and agitated and really beautiful, despite the fluorescent lighting of the library—which for the record, is totally not fair—but he is. It all feels too good to be true. There's got to be some sort of catch, and now that there isn't... This communication malarky is horrid.

"I'm sorry."

Stiles blinks. "What?"

"I said, I'm sorry," Derek repeats. It doesn't even look like he's chewing on glass, which is how he usually looks when delivering apologies. Many things have changed about Derek since when they first met, but apologies still aren’t Derek’s finest skill. "I should have dated you, properly, so you wouldn't feel like this—like I took advantage of my pack. That's not what I meant. I just got distracted."

"How?" Stiles pushes because he can. Derek's face is frustrated but open, and he's trying, dammit. God, they are both so stupid. It's sometimes amazing that they make it through the day without miscommunicating themselves to death.

It's Derek's turn to look his version of embarrassed. Stiles recognizes the signs over the hammering of his own heart: fidgety fingers, shifty gaze, voice going slightly higher than it should given Derek's bad boy act and Derek's neck goes a pretty pink—it's just hard to tell because of all that rugged scruff.

"Why were you distracted?"

Derek snorts, like he knows Stiles is being a brat, but is going to give in anyway. "When I come here, you still smell like me—like pack. It's not long enough for it to fade completely but you still smell like here, too, like your ridiculous roommate, and it's hard not to just mark you as mine."

"You jumped me because you needed to scent me?"

Derek squints, like he's thinking about lying and like he wishes this conversation was never happening—like contemplating time-travel or torture—before he defends himself. "You should smell like pack. Regardless of what is happening between us."

"Yeah but seducing me is not the way—"

"It's overwhelming, Stiles. You have to know—it's just," Derek says, shaking his head. "Wanting you gets mixed up, and it was too tempting to stay and make sure you smelled like mine, not just pack. I'm sorry."

"So, this is a Derek thing and not... an Alpha thing?" Stiles says because fucking cards on the table.

Derek frowns, looking like he wants to eat his own face. Stiles just raises his eyebrows because sharing time is still in full swing, and there is no way Stiles is going to let Derek slink off into a corner now.

"Answer the question!"

"Fine," Derek growls. He shifts his feet and says, "Yes. Yes this is about me."

"And the pack was just an excuse?"

Derek glares. "You're still pack. You need to know what's going on."

They stare at each other. Stiles breathes deeply and just wills all the shit clouding up his brain to go away. It was a trick his mother taught him, close your eyes and erase everything; take a deep breath and find what you're feeling now--nothing else, just now.

"Sit down," he says and Derek does. Stiles is almost surprised he didn't pop a squat right there on the carpet. "I'm still pissed at you for not calling this week. But let's be clear? I want you here."

Derek nods, and Stiles finds himself nodding back. "I'm not dropping everything, though. I still have to do my homework."

"Fine," Derek says, but Stiles still eyes him warily for the first five minutes. He's organizing his notes and finding all the scrapes of paper he wrote random bits of his paper on. Derek has picked up Stiles’ book on vampires that had floated into his backpack after the debacle of two weeks ago. He's reading it with a small smile and an incredulous state of eyebrow judgment because, yeah, that book is definitely not 100% accurate but nothing is in the supernatural business. It's a lot better than just waiting for Derek or god forbid, Peter, to fill everyone in on the baddies of the week. (Stiles is hoping Canada is so nice that it just makes Peter rot. There is no way nice, polite, Moose-hugging Canadians would put up with Uncle Undead. They would be so kind to him that it would put him back into the grave. At least that's what Stiles is hoping for because Tumblr seems to think Canadians have this super-power.)

After a while, Stiles can't stand it anymore and clears his throat. "So do I?"

"What?" Derek says without looking up.

"Do I smell like you today?"

Stiles watches, but Derek’s eyes don’t move from the page. He's not reading, the little shit, but his small smile twists into something a little softer—still smug as shit—but softer around the edges.

"You still smell like that weird ass—"

"His name is Oliver and he's actually super cool."

"But yes," Derek continues. "You smell like mine."

Stiles is a little mesmerized with the smiling and the smug gratification all over Derek's face so he just stares for a bit and takes it all in.

"You smell like pack too," Derek says, finally whispering now that Stiles has given up. "But also of me."

"And you like that, huh?"

Derek's eyes flick up to him for a moments but soon go right back down to pretending to read. "Do your homework, Stiles."

He does actually manage to get a huge chunk of his work done before it all devolves into poorly contained footsie and while apparently the fourth floor librarian has no problems with Derek and Stiles shouting about their feelings, she has all sorts of objections to footsie turning into over the jeans foot-jobs.


At half-eleven, Oliver comes home and says, "Are you guys having dude sex?"

"No," Stiles shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. "And I don't understand why not!"

Beside him, Derek is reclined in his bed, eyes fixed on the nature documentary about deep sea squid. Stiles glares at the side of his head for a few moments before turning back to Ollie.

"Apparently, we're not having sex tonight," Stiles says bitterly, but he doesn't mean it. Although his dick is pretty pissed and refuses to stay even halfway soft, Stiles likes the sentiment of it all: last weekend, sex fucked it up. It got in the way and into Stiles' head and really did a number on them. So, he gets it. Even if he was hoping to try out make-up sex.

"Why are you back so early?"

Ollie shrugs and then strips out of his clothes, pulling on boxers that have too many holes in them and not even staggering. "That frat with the porch and the vomit smelling urinals is having a party tonight, and I couldn't bring myself to stoop that low, even for quality lady sex."

"That's frightfully mature of you," Stiles says and elbows Derek when he snorts and rolls his eyes.

"I think I'm growing as a person," Oliver replies, settling on the lower bunk and rocking the whole thing as he gets comfortable. "Or maybe that week old pizza I ate wasn't covered with green olives after all."

Stiles smiles and makes an affirming noise, while Derek looks horrified while pretending not to listen. He's not very good at it. Especially since there is nothing horrifying about baby squids in the sunlit shallows. He is such a judgy cunt—just because he can't understand Oliver's brilliance doesn't mean he needs to comment on it.

"You sacking out?"

Oliver makes a noise that is definitely his I'm building a blanket burrito out of my duvet, wake me when I need to feed sound.

"Night, man," Stiles says and then stares at the side of Derek's face.

After thirty seconds, two raised eyebrows and a not very gentle nudge, Derek also says, "Good night, Oliver."

"See, that wasn't too hard," Stiles condescends.

Derek doesn't respond. However, he does wrangle Stiles rather roughly into being the small spoon and steals the pillow before Stiles can even recognize his sneaky retaliation. By the time Derek is done, Stiles can barely see the TV and he can already tell that he's going to be too hot being wolf cuddled this hard.

"Dude, I can't believe we're cuddling like Scott and Allison and not even getting any play right now. I have it on good authority that Allison demands a strict sexy-times regiment. It must be an Argent thing." He doesn't sound aggrieved or dedicated to the tangent. Yeah, it is sort of unbelievable because Stiles is so freaking horny but it's not unwelcome. It's kind of neat to see Derek, permanent scowl and protective leather jacket armor, stripped down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs (distracting, that), lying in Stiles' bed to watch movies. He's still sort of scowling, looking tough despite the setting, but he doesn't look out of place, either. Stiles isn't sure what that means, but he knows how safe he feels when any sort of werewolf cuddling is going on, let alone here with Derek—make up cuddling is pretty bomb and Stiles is a noob at this, but he's fairly certain that bodes well for make up sex.


He doesn't startle, but he will admit to nuzzling a little into Derek's arms and making a stupidly pleased sound—which, embarrassing—but, hey, Stiles' outlook on their relationship has done a one-eighty in the past four hours, and he's allowed to be a little in awe of how much they can at least get the cuddling part right.

He still can't believe he's fallen asleep this fast though.

"Stiles," Derek says again, soft and a little wet against Stiles' neck.

"Hmm, wazzit? Mmm, busy."

"I'll be here in the morning," Derek says, firm and nonchalant, like it's a casual fact and not Derek's way of saying: THIS. WE'RE DOING THIS. IT'S A THING. BETWEEN DEREK AND STILES. I'M NOT GOING TO CALL IT A RELATIONSHIP. BUT SOMETHING OF THE NON-PLATONIC SORT. TOTALLY HAPPENING.

Stiles falls asleep with Derek slobbering all over his neck with a grin on his face that's smug enough for both of them.


Saturday usually is a day of sleeping off hangovers or eating them away or drinking them away—all while playing video games. But since Derek actually wasn't lying about needing to be doing other things, Stiles rearranges his schedule because Oliver is going to an art opening two towns over, and Derek is more than likely going to drive back late that night and not stay until Sunday.

Stiles charitably gives Ollie the keys to Betsy and tells him to come home late.

Derek refuses to eat breakfast—or brunch, really—in the dinning hall, since apparently Derek is a lazy bum all mornings and not just post-orgasm ones. This is because he's "an adult, dammit," but Stiles is more or less skeptical about Derek's motivation. Whatever. Let the wolf keep some of his secrets.

They get greasy plates full of food at the diner on the other side of campus. It's not full of hung over bodies like the one closer to the frat houses just off campus, but older couples and groups of old friends (literally, these people are ancient) fill the booths and counter seats. They have to wait, but it's worth it to be tucked into a corner booth. It's super sunny out, even though it's a little windy and approaching cold with a vengeance. The funny thing is, Derek always looks like a movie vampire when he's not in Beacon Hills. Generally, Beacon Hills has this creepy, forest town vibe going on, and Derek fits that. However, when he's sitting in a diner full of geriatrics, he looks like a vampire that is braving the sun and isn't happy about it.

Even though there are hash browns.

The silence is comfortable, but once the waitress brings Stiles his coffee, he's feeling a little more talkative. He prods and pokes and mostly provokes Derek into conversation with whatever means he can. It's fun and meaningless because, hey, no one is dying so Stiles can take his time unraveling Derek despite his piss-poor conversation skills. He's like a particularly stubborn plastic casing on a Christmas present, like an action figure with those stupid little zip-ties or an oddly shaped USB that's been vacuum sealed into its packaging.

"So do the Hales and the Johnsons go way back? Did they try and eat any of you—but to be fair, I think we should stop holding territory meetings in the woods. The ambiance is there, I feel you, I do, but I also feel like those woods make the supernatural blood-thirsty. Did you make some sort of pack alliance? What's their Alpha like? Are they a super big pack? Do any of them want to take Jackson off our hands?"

Derek blinks, sighs a little as he hunches in on himself, and says, "One question at a time, Stiles."

"You need to step up your game, Derek. I'm sure you can woo me into a non-platonic agreement and update me on pack business at the same time," Stiles says snidely, but the effect is ruined because he hits himself in the eye with a stray piece of grapefruit that launches itself from the table by way of Stiles' spoon.

The food comes quickly and after the initial silence of "Food now. Conversation later," Derek does actually fill him in on the past week of Beacon Hills, Werewolf Edition.

Because Stiles never wants to accused of being boring, they don't go back to the library to do homework even though there is plenty to be done. Instead, Stiles makes Derek haul two huge bags of laundry down the stairs to the tiny laundry room in the basement.

"I knew this would be your scene," Stiles says, after closing the lid on the last washing machine. "It's all creepy and cobwebby down here."

"I live in a normal house now."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Normal? Okay, maybe for someone as traumatic as you."

Derek's lips twitch, and Stiles is suddenly aware of how secluded the laundry room is. He can't help but feel just a little bit turned on with Derek sitting on a washer, thighs straining in his jeans and leather jacket lying next to him to reveal broad shoulders that Stiles desperately wants to put his legs on.

"I'm not traumatic," Derek says, but he's smirking now. His hands reach out and snag Stiles' by the plaid over shirt he's wearing. It's not his because there is no way in hell he would ever spend money on this color of yellow, but it's super soft, and Stiles tends to steal it when he can. He lets himself be pulled along, only stumbling over a box of dryer sheets until he's nestled in between the v of Derek's legs that hit him right at his waist.

His hard-on is pressing against the cool metal of the washer, and it makes his hips twitch forward.

"Yeah," Stiles says, "You are traumatically hot."

"That's not sexy."

"Shut up, Derek. My brain has gone from doing laundry to melting into a puddle of soon-to-be resolved sexual tension," Stiles says as Derek bends down to breathe on his face. Stiles has to close his eyes because Derek is too close, and the temptation to just stare means that Stiles will be crossing his eyes to keep taking Derek in: the sheer bulk of him, somehow bigger with his trim waist centered on the washer that fans out and out and out, revealing thick thighs and firm calves that Stiles desperately wants to nibble on. Even Derek's feet are big, hanging down the back of Stiles' own slim thighs like a promise.

"Even your feet are turning me on," Stiles moans helplessly, and Derek huffs but Stiles can feel him smiling against his cheek. "How is that possible?"

"I like your feet."

"What? What does that mean? How do you even know that?"

Stiles really does want to know but he's also distracted by how his palms feel as the press up Derek's thighs. He's so warm, the heat from his body emanating through the soft, worn in material and literally making Stiles pant for it.

"You have big feet," Derek says, flat and emotionless even though he's sniffing Stiles' cheek and practically nuzzling him with his entire face.

Stiles feels his toes curling in the tips of his shoes and says, "Isn't that my line, Big Bad Wolf?"

"I don't think Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf made out in a laundry room."

And yeah, there's a hint of opened mouth kisses, barely there, but Derek is dragging his mouth along the bottom side of Stiles' jaw, and he can't help but lean into it and tilt his head because, more, holy god more.

"I'm pretty sure Red and her Wolf were into some dirtier stuff... like messing around in laundry rooms," Stiles says, open mouth rasping in breath when Derek takes a patch of skin and sucks lightly. Because Derek doesn't play fair, it turns rough so quickly that Stiles' head is spinning, the tight, hot suction of Derek's mouth marring the skin behind his ear and turning his belly into liquid need. "I'm pretty sure we should fuck right now, Derek. Like, anytime would be good for me."

Derek pulls off and makes a bee-line for Stiles' mouth. The kiss is all Derek, tongue sweeping in and flattening out to touch all the surfaces he can reach and practically counting Stiles' teeth, while Stiles just whimpers and lets him, mouth eager but passive to the cradle of Derek's hands and the rough scrape of his beard.

"God, Stiles," Derek says when he pulls away. "The things I want to do to you."

"With me, you creep, but that doesn't matter. Let's do it. Let's get on that train right now. My body is totally ready."

Derek laughs, but doesn't release Stiles' head so he can start taking off clothes.

"I think we should wait," he says instead because he's a crazy mother-fucker who lives to torture Stiles and turn his balls into blue orbs of doom.

"What? Why?" Stiles whines.

Derek doesn't answer and the fog of lust clears a little bit without Derek kissing him. Then Stiles realizes that he's actually trying to pressure someone into having sex with him and that's so fucked up.

"No, I mean, that's not what I mean," Stiles corrects, patting Derek's thighs. "If you don't want to, I'm not going to be like pressure you."

"Relax. I do want to," Derek says, frowning. "But we should slow down."

A very impatient, immature part of him wants to say fuck slowing down, but the part that felt hurt earlier in the week because of shitty communication and too much sex without slowing down and resulting mind-fuckery—that part of him understands. He sighs, though, disappointed, and says, "Yeah, no. Yeah. You're right."

But that doesn’t stop the kissing.

And Stiles can’t tell if he wants to stop because he’s going to come in his pants or because he wants to respect Derek’s decision to take it slow. It’s probably a little of both. The thing is, he’s getting some mixed signals here. Derek’s tongue isn’t less aggressive and there is definitely some moaning and a lot of groping and just...

Stiles is going insane. His dick is going to explode.

He takes it as long as he can before Derek bites down on his lip, and Stiles sort of just loses whatever is left of his self respect. He needs to come. Or Derek needs to leave so that Stiles can jack off right here because he can’t walk. He can only hump the washer between Derek’s legs and let Derek tongue fuck his mouth.

"Can you," Stiles pants, pulling away. "Can you just—god, Derek, fuck—can you please, can you please make me come?"

It's pathetic, but Stiles doesn't care.

Derek answers with a hissed, "Yes" and a two handed grab to Stiles' ass that has him lifted off the floor, and his dick pressed hard against the washer. He gasps, silently working through a roll of pleasure.

"We’ll just keep our pants on, right?"

Derek doesn’t answer, but Stiles assumes it’s the plan.

"I want to hear you," Derek says, one hand squeezing Stiles' ass, and Stiles wants to cry he’s so turned on.

"Fuck, sorry. I just—years of silent masturbation."

Derek hums, as if that's an interesting thought, but Stiles is too distracting by how he's moving his hands up and then shoving them down the back of Stiles' jeans. It's skin on skin, and Stiles jerks, practically slamming up to grind his dick on the washer. The new position has Derek curling over Stiles' shoulders and brings his mouth up to the tip of Stiles' ears.

"Did you think about me then?"

It's a quiet question but the arousal is plain. It's dirty and honest. The way it tumbles out of Derek's mouth sounds like a secret confession, like Derek thought about it.

"Yes," Stiles chokes out, forcing his mouth to work.

Derek licks at his ear and sets up a steady, washer pounding rhythm of lifting Stiles by his ass cheeks and making him grind his way to orgasm, pants on and shameless in the public laundry room. Stiles figures Derek's werewolf creeperdom will alert them if anyone is coming.

Other than Stiles.

Because that is definitely going to happen soon.

"What did you think about, Stiles?"

He's whispering, casual and relaxed, but Stiles isn't fooled. He can feel the strength of Derek's forearms as he clenches around the meat of Stiles' ass in his hands, and Stiles moans, just for Derek.

"What did you think about?"

Stiles whines, struggling to focus. "Fuck, Derek, I just—"

"Did you come all over yourself?"

"Derek—yes, you know—"

Stiles bucks in Derek's hands because they've gone still. He's caught between the heft of Derek's hands and the unforgiving wall of the washer. Why is he stopping?

"Because I did," Derek says, voice broken. "I thought about how it would feel to slip my fingers in your mouth and then fuck you with you them, between your legs, until you begged for my cock until all of Beacon Hills could hear you. I thought of how good you'd be, sitting on my cock and sucking on my nipples until you came—too young to be anything but tight, and the way you'd crave my dick inside of you. I wanted to come inside you until it splashed out onto your thighs—Stiles, I—"

"Fuck, fuck, oh my fucking god," Stiles curses, pleasure rocketing, and fuck, he's going to come. There's no way to stop and he wants to. He wants this to last but he can't. Now with Derek's voice and his hands, and Stiles' dick is screaming, ready to jerk and soak his jeans, reenacting one of the many mornings of wet-dreams induced by Derek.

"Dammit, Stiles, I still want that. I want to hold you open and fuck you full—fuck you until you're mine."

It's the ghost of Derek's fingers over his hole, just a hint of those thick, absurdly soft fingertips over the sweaty, secret place between his cheeks, and he's coming. It's three years of sexual tension and teenage angst that has him groaning into Derek's collarbone, twisting his shirt between his hands and riding the washer until it hurts.

He comes his fucking brains out.

It's completely undignified and, yeah, sort of creepy considering if they had followed through with their desires, they would have been walking a seriously thin line on consent and laws. But wow, Stiles doesn't want to examine why it's still so hot. Maybe it's because Derek waited. Maybe it's because even though Derek was probably alone in his big house, jerking his dick so hard that it felt like it might fall the fuck off with how much he wanted it (experience, yo), Derek still waited.

Stiles wants to take back all the things he ever said disparagingly about Derek's patience. It's totally understandable that his first resort was always KILL IT DEAD because he was using all his patience on not nailing Stiles' jailbait ass.

"Did you really," Stiles pants. "Think all that."

Derek breathes out a few times and says, "Yes, but Stiles?"


"This is better."

It's the best thing to say. It's the only thing to say and Stiles fiercely wants to climb up Derek and make him stay here, make him do all the things he thought about and more—but all he can do is smile and smooth his hands over Derek's face.

"Forget the no pants rule," Stiles says. It's like Derek's dick is calling to him.

"What? No."

"Man, I have never said this out loud before, but I really need to put your dick in my mouth. I'm not really seeing a situation where I don't choke on your cock right now, which involves me taking off your pants, and I don't even care. Fuck being adults. Let's just do it," Stiles says and then scrambles to get his eager but clumsy fingers to open Derek's fly.

"No, just - here," Derek says, frustrated and god, so hot, as he grabs Stiles' head with one hand, adjusts his crotch with another and forcefully guides Stiles' head down until his mouth is breathing on the tip of Derek's dick through his jeans.

"Now suck."

Derek's mouth gets stuck around the ending consonants, and they sound harsh and derogatory on his lips. Stiles can't get over how much of a turn on it is, but Derek doesn't wait for Stiles to catch up, just pushes his head down and he goes with it, pressing his open mouth to the bulge and sucking the fabric covered head into his mouth. Stiles doesn't know whether to be proud or disappointed when Derek comes hardly a minute later, hips jerking off the washer and almost giving Stiles a bloody nose. He sucks through it though, feeling the pulse of Derek's cock through the jean material, like phantom spunk on his tongue.

Stiles pulls back after there is a whole lot of twitching against the wet material, and his own jeans are starting to get uncomfortable. He surveys his work. There is a massive wet spot from Stiles' mouth, but it just fans out in an uneven circle. Derek's come trickles and soaks into his jeans and that wraps around, like some sort of tourniquet of debauchery.

He is vividly reminded of before, when Stiles had come on Derek’s ass, and his come had soaked Derek’s balls.

Stiles is sex stupid. At least, that's the story he's sticking to because instead of saying something suave and attractive, he says, "I want to suck on your balls, dude."

But because Derek is awesome and totally understanding, he only frowns, looking gravely serious and replies, "Next time."


Stiles wants to give them points for being adults and waiting to take the penetrative dick to ass sex until they're ready to move forward in their mature relationship.

But they pretty much last one week of drunk, slutty texts from Stiles, followed by awkward pop lyric texts (from "HEY I JUST MET YOU, AND THIS IS CRAZY, BUT HERE'S MY ASS VIRGINITY SO DICK ME BABY" to "RACK CITY, BITCH. WEREWOLVES ON MY DICK") and moody silence on Derek's, before Stiles is getting laid out on his dorm room floor and fucked with so much anal lube and prepping that he's convinced he's going to be ready for cock for the remainder of his life.

"Oh god, put your dick in me forever," Stiles says after about the tenth thrust in the fifth position they've tried that finally feels right. He has rug burn on so many places of his body. It’s actually a little unreal and perhaps pathetic that it took them so many tries to get into a position that was good for both of them. Maybe they’re bad at sex. Stiles doesn’t care.

"Romantic," Derek growls out, but, hey, it doesn't stop him from screwing him so thoroughly that Stiles gets rug burn on his nipples.

Afterwards, Stiles sprawls out, starfish style, on top of Derek's body and falls asleep with Derek's fingers idly playing in the crack of his ass. It's disgusting and a little rude, but Stiles doesn't care because sex and reasons.

(That's how Ollie finds both of them passed out, Stiles snoring and drooling on Derek's shoulder, and Derek with two fingers buried knuckles deep inside of Stiles' officially devirginized hole. Although there is a lot of swearing, flailing and embarrassing noises made, no one gets hurt and despite Oliver's piss-poor attitude, he still buys Stiles a "Happy Sodomy" cupcake the next day.)


November is a blur of long weeks filled with school, partying with Oliver and trying not to wish away his college experiences so he can see Derek. It's not every week that they get to see each other, but some are better than others. Oliver is a champion about making himself scarce, and when he's not, Stiles learns that Derek's tinted windows are useful for more than just stake-outs and stalking.

Stiles does eventually get his mouth on Derek's balls, and Derek manages to come all over Stiles' face like a dog peeing on every bush to mark his territory. Only the bushes are Stiles' moles and it's not peeing because they've not even done all the vanilla sexy-times on Stiles' bucketlist to move on to the kinkier side of life. It happens more than once, and it's clearly a thing for Derek, even though he refuses to admit it. (Once, Stiles wakes up to a face full of jizz. He literally almost drowns because Derek is jerking off onto his face, into his sleep-slacked mouth and even on his eye lids and lashes. It's totally and completely creepy but Derek doesn't apologize, just stares and stares and stares and rewards Stiles’ plethora of patience by practically fisting him until dorm security shows up to make sure no one is being murdered by pleasure.) They have sex just as much as they fight, and they have conversations about meaningless shit all the time. The good, serious communication is there too, but it's tucked into movie nights and slow kisses. There’s conversations about Derek's frustration with Scott and his uneasiness with Argent's new found friendliness, and it's hidden in the way Derek's mouth finds Stiles' neck at night, even if he has to move Stiles' beanie with his nose to get to it.

Stiles is pretty sure it's their version of holding hands. He tries to ask Erica, but she makes fun of him and somehow this results in Boyd sending him a pack update on his parents with an attachment of an article entitled, "Topping Your Top: Tips for Fucking Your Dominate Partner For the 1st Time!"

It gives his computer a virus and causes Isaac to resort to sending him texts with pictures of cats for weeks.

They make it through November without killing each other, and by some mutual understanding, end up spending Thanksgiving at Stiles' dorm. It takes a lot of lying to Scott, but Stiles' dad is working every day after, during and leading up to Thanksgiving so Stiles doesn't feel too bad for ordering a massive delivery of Chinese and having sex all over his dorm.

Stiles discovers a new obsession with Derek's hips in the low light of Thanksgiving Day. They're sleeping off their MSG hangover, talking about the insanity of Black Friday and how Jackson is threatening to make the rest of the pack in Beacon Hills drive to the nearest real city and make a go of it at three in the morning—it's a nice, naked moment when Stiles discovers the massive veins that lead down the cut of Derek's muscled hips like little bulging, twin, blue roads guiding Stiles to the intersection of balls and uncut dick. (Stiles is eerily acquainted with Derek’s foreskin. They’re pretty much besties now with how many times Stiles has absently played with it because, hey, it’s like a beanie, only for Derek’s cock and made by nature! Also, Derek makes a really good noise when Stiles tries to put his tongue inside it on the daily.)

He only notices the veins because he's obsessed with the bulge Derek's got from his Chinese food baby. He looks like he has a bit of a tummy, which is hilarious because Derek's so freaky ripped, but in the weird light of Stiles' room and the inhuman amount of Chinese food digesting in his body, Derek definitely has a bulging tummy that is even more pronounced when Stiles is focusing on the vein road maps, and what it would be like if he was stretched enough to take Derek’s cock and a couple of fingers.

When Derek eventually leaves, Stiles feels a little weird about it all, like he already misses Derek, and isn’t that sappy and fucked up? But Derek still drives back to Beacon Hills, calls Stiles when he gets home and there is still fantastic, if a little sad, phone sex.

A week later, Stiles starts making finals studying binders and takes Oliver with him out to the nearest respectable sex shop to buy a dildo. Even though Stiles knows that no Derek during finals is a good thing because failing out of school is stupid, he’s going to miss Derek’s grumpy face looming in his dorm room. And his dick. And the way he always bitches for like three hours when they try to rent a movie or even try and pick something streaming on Netflix.

The day before his first final, Stiles makes his first amateur porn to distract him from the information exploding in his brain. Not enough Aderall in the world would make him feel better, but Ollie goes off to his first final and leaves Stiles to stew in his own fried brain. Recording a video of him sucking on a dildo, smacking it against his cheeks like Derek likes to do with his own cock and coming all over himself so that the webcam can pick up the gritty detail of his come sounds is the perfect distraction.

It also causes Derek to show up after Stiles’ last final and fuck him against the wall of the Econ building’s fourth floor handicap stall. There is babbling about finals over a quick dinner, and Stiles gets the best blowjob and fingerblasting of his life in the back of Derek’s car because Ollie is studying, and Stiles respects that. Derek sucks him to orgasm not once but twice. It hurts the second time, his balls feeling like they are exploding, and Derek’s fingers curling inside of him until Stiles does actually cry a little bit. He blames it on the stress of finals, but it feels so good to get so thoroughly fucked, fed his own come and then slapped in the face with Derek’s dick a few times.

Stiles is a pile of half naked, spunk covered, sleepy boy limbs by the time Derek is hitting him in the face with his cock, but he just takes it. He loves the way Derek uses his body sometimes, never ashamed to show Stiles what he needs even if it is a little weird... like how Derek’s got a little obsession with how Stiles’ cock is a tad bit bigger than Derek’s. They don’t talk about it, but Stiles’ is bigger, and when Derek isn’t focused on fucking Stiles’ ass, he’s focused on taking care of Stiles so thoroughly that he is literally spent. His cock is soft, lying against his thigh and too done to even be sensitive. Of course, that means that Derek is feeding Stiles his own come by way of messy, aggressive kisses and jerking off over Stiles’ body. He’s looming and taking up all the space in the back of the car, but Stiles feels too damn good, relaxed and safe, that he makes as many approving noises as he can and lets Derek jerk off over him and his tiny, floppy cock.

Derek predictably comes all over Stiles’ crotch, teeth against Stiles’ neck and rubs his spunk into the crease of his thighs as they cuddle in the back of the car. Eventually, it gets late enough for Derek to drive back, and Stiles realizes that while he was dozing, Derek had licked them both clean.

"Freak," Stiles says, into Derek’s mouth before he leaves. "You’re such a pervert."

Derek just hums, gets into his car that must reek of sex and says, "Study," before he peels out of the parking lot.


Four nights later, Stiles is playing BioShock for a break in studying when his phone goes off. He flips it open, expecting to see a frantic text from Scott or a faux-bitchy text from Lydia. Instead, it's from Isaac.

Derek's drugged up on werewolf cold medicine the text reads, and Stiles frowns.

When he opens the pictures, it's a photo of a snotty, sick Derek passed out in a what Stiles can only assume is the deepest, cold-medicine fog of his life because there is no way he would ever let the pack actually get away with photographic evidence.

It's not that Derek doesn't let his pack see him vulnerable. But he most certainly doesn't let anyone know that he sleeps in a twice stolen beanie, actually belonging to a tragic hipster who thinks he was Kayne's brother from a different mother in a past life.

When Stiles is done giving himself a moment to process it all, he leans over and shows Oliver. He laughs so hard he falls off his perch and says, "That grumpy-ass bastard is so dick whipped."

Then he holds his hand out for a fist-bump and belches around his parting words on the subject: "PBR?"


This time, when Stiles leaves for college, there is no half-panicked drive to Derek's house because he's already at Derek's house. Well, his dad still thinks he's at Scott's, but he's definitely not. Scott's house wouldn't mean him getting fucked, rough and wetly, against the tile of the shower stall until he's pretty sure he's going to drown himself from trying to scream with this much water involved. And Scott's house doesn't let him drag Derek back into the bedroom, skin still pooling water droplets, so that Stiles can sit on his face. It's his favorite position because he gets to watch Derek's dick bounce on his stomach, while Derek spreads him wide with his hands and licks the come he just put there out with slick, loud noises. Stiles knows that it's a favorite of Derek's because Stiles' dick drags and catches on Derek's throat. He's pretty sure it's a wolf thing, but there's some sort of submissive permission in the way Stiles gets to leak and rub his messy dick all over Derek's neck, getting his come leaky hole eaten out and watching Derek get hard from it until he's gripping Stiles' thighs in frustration, growling against Stiles' hole as he fucks into him with his tongue.

Stiles tries to hold out. He really does.

"Fuck, stop," Stiles pants out, fingers holding onto Derek's nipples like a lifeline. "We need to—fuck, right there, Jesus Christ, Derek."

Derek eventually pulls away and bites down the on curve of Stiles' ass. The curve of his cheeks are beard rough, burning from the sting of Derek's stubble that match the soreness of his mouth, too. Even his hole feels extra sensitive from the prickle and tease of Derek's unforgiving stubble.

"Bastard," Stiles says, although he's shoving back, not able to get enough. "It's going to be uncomfortable to sit down for days."

Derek laughs, hot breath ghosting over his hole. "Oh yes, I imagine it will be."

Stiles can't help but find a way to kiss him after that. It should be really gross, and it sort of is because Derek's mouth and chin are so wet from making a mess of Stiles' ass, but he doesn't care. They make out as Derek plies Stiles' hole with lube. And, finally, Derek presses, trying to get Stiles to turn over from where they're just grinding against each other.

"Noooo," Stiles says. "I want to ride you 'cause I won't be able to soon."

Derek frowns. "Stiles, I already told you—"

"And I believe that you'll be up whenever you can be, you ass," Stiles says, smacking the bare skin of his shoulder. "But I can't be on top of you like this in the dorms. I'll hit my head on the ceiling."

Derek looks like he's imagining it.

"We could just fuck in your roommate’s bed," Derek supplies.

"For the last time, Oliver is his name. We're not going to do anything sexual in his bed! And he's actually—Sonofabitch, fuck, that's good."

Derek is pushing his way inside, dick head wet and blunt as it fucks up and seats Stiles completely. It's an unrelenting push into his slick, worked hole. He can't help but spasm and gasp, moaning as Derek sucks a hickey onto his neck, Stiles' head knocked back in the pleasure of Derek filling him up until he's just shy of too full. His hole is stretched wide at the base of Derek's dick but even then, even as Stiles feels like he's too exposed, he still wants more—hips already fighting to move and get more of Derek inside of him until they're both drenched in come and sweat.

They don't make love because that's stupid, but, here, thighs straining and sweat trickling down the backs of his knees, it's different from the rough and orgasm screaming of the shower.

For once, Derek's mouth isn't running about whatever filthy sex act he wants to do next. Maybe this is because Stiles needs to hit the road in a hour, and if something comes up next weekend, or the next weekend, their time together will be cut a little shorter. The reality is that the migratory packs will be making their way through Beacon Hills in the spring, and Derek will have less time to come up and visit. It also might be because Derek's dick is a little tired for the marathon of sex they've had.


They kiss, sloppy, and Stiles feels a little needy, desperately clinging to Derek's shoulders and neck until his nails break the surface, only to have it heal beneath his fingertips when he pulls them away. He wants to stay here, pressed close to Derek's chest where he can hear him breathing. He wants to be able to have sex whenever he wants, goading Derek into trying new positions or just getting roughly fucked up against the front door or bent over the living room couch. He's going to miss surprise blowjobs and lazy morning sex. Of course, he is. But he's going to miss everything else, too. Like sneaking Derek into his room to watch movies or play board games, or watching Derek read trashy romance and Agatha Christie novels as the sun sets in Beacon Hills, and his dad comes home from work, nodding to Derek like seeing him in Stiles' room is normal and safe.

"God, Derek," Stiles moans, broken and already teetering on the edge, memories and emo-misery creeping him to the edge. Derek just rubs against his face. His nose presses into the side of his cheek and slides up, cool on Stiles' sex-hot skin, nestled behind Stiles' ear.

"Give it to me, fuck, please," Stiles says and, yeah, maybe he wants it harder, maybe he wants Derek to jerk up into him and come hard until Stiles is leaking and aching for more—maybe he wants Derek to fuck him until he's so full of come that the next time Derek comes back, it's slick and ready for him to use Stiles up, come buried so deep inside of him that Stiles never smells like anything but Derek's claim.

But he also wants the careful bite of Derek's human teeth because it's a promise worth getting.

There are never any fangs. There are never any too sharp teeth when Derek is seconds from coming, always finding his way to Stiles' neck, no matter their position. There is only the flat, stark promise that Derek will always be human enough for Stiles. That this is more than just instinct to keep his pack close, or feral lust or any dozen of wolf excuses, but that this—them—is a human need to be cared for and care for someone in return.

Stiles feels wild for it, his orgasm hovering on the edge of his concentration as Derek nips and licks at his neck. The cool feeling of his nose rubbing over his neck and ear just makes Stiles feel hotter, bucking and twisting in Derek's lap and bouncing himself, eager and greedy, over the swelled length of his cock. In the moment before Derek's humanism, Stiles is drunk with feral need. Perhaps it's a promise from Stiles too.
It finally comes. Derek's teeth sink into the tender, beard-burned skin of his neck. Stiles is already floating, the heady combination of Derek thrusting up, wide palms crushing his hips as he forces Stiles to be impaled on his cock, knees literally lifted off the mattress, as he comes with rough growls and hoarse moans that Stiles feels to his very bones.

He comes too. He always does, cock twitchy and jerking between them, making a mess of their chests and bellies so that they drip with his come.

Later, they will shower, and Stiles will have to drive back to school alone. He will be in a horrid mood, bitchy and angst filled. Derek will call him halfway through, and Stiles will be an asshole. Derek will be a jerk right back, and they'll fight for three days before Derek calls, vulnerable and rough sounding, and says something honest enough for both of them to stop being colossal fuck ups. It won't be easy. There will be times when Stiles thinks that Derek doesn't want him, and Derek will think that Stiles is only fucking him because it's another way to truly be pack without taking the bite, or that Stiles wants the bite and thinks this is the only way he'll get it. They both have baggage, and, eventually, there's some fallout with Scott that involves a lot of shouting, puppy dog eyes and a lot of broken things.

But if there's one thing that Stiles knows about how hard it is to be a werewolf groupie, it’s that everything is absolutely worth it. There is no doubt about that. Even when he's on the brink of death or fighting with Derek about something stupid or, hell, even when they're fighting about the shit that matters—even when things are at their worst, Stiles is sure that this is what he wants: family and pack and so much love that they might die from it.

For now though, Stiles gasps out "Derek!" and "Oh my god!" because he's been fucked within an inch of his life. His hips twitch in Derek's grasp, and his hole clenches around Derek's dick, inexplicably wanting more, and, eventually, Derek will loosen up and let Stiles grind down, circling his hips and using Derek as one big prostate massager. Stiles will whimper and plead for Derek to stop, but it's his hips pressing down, and Derek grits his teeth, over sensitive but gagging for the contact and Stiles' body, as he absolutely murders Stiles' prostate with the wide head of his cock that refuses to soften inside of Stiles’ needy hole.

Stiles will come for minutes, body crying out with over stimulation, as he shakes and melts into Derek's arms. He'll pulse wet, weak streaks of come between them, and Derek will feed it in his open, whimpering mouth because Derek is a fucking pervert, and Stiles honestly can't get enough of it. He'll eat it up, and let Derek fuck his mouth open afterward. Before his shower, Stiles will be subjected to more thorough rimming, and he'll never tell anyone, but he'll cry. It's because his hole is sore with the stretch, and Derek's mouth is bristly and his dick just wants to be left alone, but Derek will lick him with broad sweeps of his tongue. This time, it's to make sure the come stays inside Stiles, pushing it back in with the tip of his tongue, feeding it back inside Stiles' fuck worn hole, until he's satisfied. Stiles blames it on the over stimulation, but a little crying during sex always does him some good.

It's not goodbye sex.

It's thank god we got our shit together and will get to do this until (our inevitably untimely) death or unhappiness sex.

Or as Oliver would say, It's Beyonce and Jay-Z sex, dude. That shit is real. And how can Stiles ever really argue with that?