Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

When Stiles barges into Derek’s loft, unannounced, on a Saturday morning plagued by scorching heat, unattractively red-faced and sweating through his, thankfully, white t-shirt with one huge damp circle under each armpit, he expects to see Derek either sprawled on his couch, reading the historical detective novels he seems to be absolutely obsessed with lately, or watching one of those black-and-white silent movies that Stiles never understood, nor enjoyed. Or, preferably, working out. Bonus points for doing it shirtless.

Because, even though it never fails to surprise him (and perhaps make him laugh out loud), unless Beacon Hills finds itself in the grip of yet another monster of the week, that’s how Derek Hale usually spends his weekends – lazily and appropriately mundanely, taking into account the fact that he’s, you know, a werewolf . Stiles knows that for a fact as he's the one, more often than not, who has the honor to keep him company during those days, doing research, making Derek watch the most ridiculous videos he stumbles upon and occasionally cleaning for him, all while “bickering like an old married couple”. At least, that’s what Erica would say.

Except, he hasn’t seen Derek for two weeks now, since Stiles’ dad strongly insisted on the two of them finally taking advantage of the Sheriff’s rare time off combined with Stiles’ summer holidays and going on a week-and-a-half-long vacation to the mountains to get some fresh air and participate in a physical activity. Really, it wasn't nearly as boring as it might sound. He always has something to talk about with his dad, but he'd be lying if he claimed that he didn't miss the pack. 

(Especially Derek.)

Anyway, what Stiles certainly doesn’t expect this morning (and seriously, it's way too early for this) is to see someone else without a shirt. To be more specific, a woman. A blonde woman. Standing in the middle of Derek’s loft. Covered with nothing but a white towel with a few stripes of grey in the middle. A towel that Derek got from Boyd last Christmas, Stiles realizes suddenly, swallowing. He watched him unwrap it.

The woman seems to be just as taken aback as Stiles though, which is a bit comforting, with the way she pulls on the towel in an attempt to cover herself further, big blue eyes with black smudges of leaking mascara under them nearly bulging out of her head. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

He swears he hears high-pitched ringing in his ear, all the other noise around him all at once blocked out by the sheer shock and his racing mind already jumping to not-exactly-ideal conclusions of what all of this could possibly mean. 

“So, uh,” Stiles clears his throat, looking away uncomfortably, rubbing his sweaty palms against the fabric of his beloved khakis. “This is awkward.”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, but Stiles is not dumb enough not to notice how pained it sounds. In fact, even the crooked smile plastered on her face, clearly not reaching her eyes is too stiff to be real. “So –“

“I was just, um – I was just looking for Derek,” Stiles explains quickly, not wanting this incredibly agonizing conversation to last any longer. “But I can leave. Yeah, that’s, uh – that’s probably a good idea.”

“He’s in the shower,” she answers, thumb vaguely pointing at the half-open bathroom door to her right, once again instinctively pulling at her towel.

But you just came out of the shower – Stiles wants to object as he involuntarily observes her wet hair dripping all over Derek’s floorboards – and also, the faint sound of water running in the background never stopped, he points out internally, but before those words uncontrollably leave his big mouth only to further embarrass himself, the terrible, blood-freezing realization washes over him like a cold ocean wave on a hot day. He feels as if someone just dropped a handful of ice cubes under the collar of his shirt, the color from his face slowly disappearing, leaving him all kinds of pale and blotchy.

"Right, uh –" He should leave. He should definitely get the fuck out right now .

"Sorry, who are you again?" she asks then, just as Stiles is about to turn on his heel and make a break for it, her suddenly too friendly voice nailing him to the floor. Huh. Maybe she's warming up to the fact that she's almost naked in front of a teenager. 

"I'm a friend... of Derek's," he says, unsure. How much did Derek tell her? Does she know about werewolves? Did Derek even bother to mention that his closest social circle consists of a ragtag group of hormonal teenagers, the majority turning into blood-thirsty creatures with a nearly uncontrollable urge to kill and maim every full moon? Stiles supposes the question answers itself.

"You look a little young," she points out, tilting her head to the side and squinting her eyes suspiciously. 

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, looking down at his feet. The tips of his sneakers are really dirty, now that he sees them. "I guess that's expected since I'm still in high school."

He doesn't mean to say it like that – he really doesn't, especially now that it’s not exactly true anymore since he’s supposed to leave for college once summer break is over, but his mouth is kind of just spewing out words before he's able to stop them and think them through a little more. God, Derek is so going to kill him.

She blinks, raising one of her eyebrows in surprise. He thought only Derek was able to do that. "How – how do you know Derek then?"

Stiles swallows. He fights the need to do something even more incriminating – like laughing nervously. "Just... we kind of... around town, you know."

Really fucking smooth, Stiles. He wants to smack himself in the face. Hard .

"Then how did you become friends?" she continues, obviously not giving up.

He tries his best to give her a smile, forcing the corners of his mouth to turn up. He prays that his facial expression doesn't scream please murder me, at least. "What is this, an interrogation?"

She looks apologetic at that, a sheepish grimace spreading across her face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I guess I'm still a little, uh – shocked – to see you here, and I... Well. Sorry again. Can we start over?"

She looks obnoxiously professional and naturally pretty for someone wrapped in a towel with wet hair and make-up running down her face. Stiles hates it, hates it , but nods anyway, sighing. "Sure."

"Great!" she exclaims, grinning brightly at him. Even her teeth are white enough to blind someone. Fuck his life, seriously. "I'm Hayley," she introduces herself in a tone that is way too cheery for Stiles' liking, extending the hand that isn't currently clutching the towel closer to her chest towards him, in spite of the fact that he's not standing close enough to reach it. 

He takes a step forward, shaking her hand uncertainly. It's smooth as silk, and still a little warm. From the shower, he supposes. "Stiles."

"Stiles," she repeats after him, as if weighing the word on her tongue, letting go and running her fingers through her damp hair. "That's an interesting name."

"It's a nickname, my actual name is kind of unpronounceable," Stiles explains automatically, nervously shoving his hands into the pockets of his khakis.

There's a long, awkward pause before any of them say anything. Stiles guesses they essentially ran out of stuff to politely discuss – and also that, unfortunately, he's the one with the power to save the unpleasant situation by saying his goodbyes, hopping into his jeep and driving off into the sunset, never ever coming back here. In fact, he'd never even leave his room again. It'd be a good idea to somehow block the windows in his room from being open, he reminds himself, just to make sure that Derek won't enter through them like he usually does, because that'd lead to something like an even more painful conversation, only this time with Derek himself. Stiles doesn't have enough capacity in his brain to think about it right now.

The bathroom door swings open just as Stiles is contemplating finally leaving for real. In hindsight, he realizes he probably should've seen it coming, what with the water not running anymore and all that, but he still lets out a shameful squeak that sounds foreign to his own ears (his voice is not that high, okay?) when Derek Hale in all his glory, same as Hayley, enters the room only with a white towel wrapped around his waist, little droplets of water glistening on his rock-hard hairy chest and slowly trickling down his torso and those delicious abs that make Stiles want to bend over and lick .

"Stiles," he says his name, clearly surprised, but it sounds more like a question. He stands right next to Hayley, looking like a couple straight out of Hollywood and Stiles wants to throw up. "I didn't know you were back."

Well. That stings a bit, Stiles is not going to lie here, because he vividly remembers the day when he was leaving, giving Derek a quick hug and telling him they'd be back on the 17th. On the other hand, Derek was obviously rather... distracted doing other things. Or other people, for that matter. 

"Yeah, well." He nods awkwardly, shrugging. "We got back last night and I didn't wanna annoy you at two in the morning. Especially now that you probably were... uh," he gestures towards Hayley, looking more and more uncomfortable with each second that passes. Or with each word that comes out of Stiles' mouth, more likely.

Derek nods, his jaw clenching. "It's nice of you to stop by."

"Hey, he didn't bother you, did he?" He hears Derek ask Hayley, leaning just an inch closer to her. 

What? Okay, Stiles may have a little bit of what you could call a peculiar personality, often lacking brain-to-mouth filter or boundaries when it comes to both personal space and oversharing, but still. Rude.

"No, no, we had a nice chat," she smiles. Based on Derek's rigid facial expression, it's safe to assume he heard the lie in her heartbeat. Which ultimately means that he hasn't told her about his little double life either. If Stiles didn't feel nauseous, he'd probably laugh.

"Yeah, I was just leaving anyway," Stiles says, longingly staring at the front door behind him. " I guess I'll, uh, see you later."

He's never run faster in his entire life.

///

Stiles ends up doing what he does best – research. 

Research in this case stands for very thorough googling all Hayleys in and/or near the town of Beacon Hills, carefully reading through every article that pops out and analyzing every Facebook and Instagram profile he stumbles upon. He even creates bookmarks, for God’s sake, that’s how dedicated he is. Whatever, he's just looking out for his Alpha, right?

It takes a while, way longer than he previously anticipated – who would’ve thought there’d be so many people named Hayley? – until he finds the right one, but he does. He fist-bumps himself in victory.

Her full name, at least according to her Facebook page, but people lie on social media quite often, especially women who are romantically or sexually involved with Derek, is Hayley Johnson . It makes Stiles chuckle almost maniacally, unable to stop as he goes through her page and observes every picture she’s ever shared, including the embarrassing posts from ten years ago that people always forget to delete to make himself feel better. Just a little.

Seriously though, it makes sense that after Kate Argent and Jennifer Blake Derek would prefer to date someone named Hayley Johnson. It’s really sad, looking at it that way, but Stiles would rather not think about it too much. He’d lie if he said that Derek’s unfortunate tragic life has never made him emotional. Or cry into his pillow, thinking about it at night. But that’s normal, right? It’s probably some weird Alpha voodoo shit anyway.

“Stiles?” There’s soft knocking on his door, his dad’s voice echoing in the house, muted by the thin walls dividing them.

“Yeah?” Stiles calls out, unfocused and not even bothering to look up from his precious laptop as his dad steps inside, placing a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezing. 

He leans in curiously, eyes squinting as he watches Stiles’ screen show various pictures of Hayley – Hayley posing on the beach, Hayley sitting on a bench in a park, Hayley in a café, Hayley building a freaking snowman, Hayley clubbing with four other girls, all of them in red dresses that show much more than they cover. Hayley is very active on social media for someone who would be interested in Derek, Stiles concludes. He can’t help it, there’s something fishy in the air, he has a bad feeling.

“Do I even want to know?” his dad asks exasperatedly, sighing, pushing his glasses back up as they slide down his nose.

“It’s someone’s girlfriend,” Stiles replies, monotonous. “Or something.”

“Someone’s girlfriend?” the Sheriff mimics him. “Does that someone happen to have a name?”

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the “p”, shaking his head.

“Fine, let me rephrase that question: Does that someone happen to go by the name Derek Hale?”

Stiles splutters, but quickly covers it by a totally unsuspicious cough, his eyes watering. He turns to his dad, trying his hardest to look as innocent and clueless as possible. The sheriff only raises his eyebrows, arms strictly crossed over his chest. Stiles has to admit, the glasses always make him look a tad more intimidating. 

“ No ,” he says, not looking his dad in the eye. “…Why? Did you see them together?”

“For Christ’s sake, Stiles,” he murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This Derek Hale obsession needs to stop.”

“ Derek Hale obsession ?” he repeats, providing what he would like to call his best impression of someone who’s supposed to look appalled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The sheriff rolls his eyes at that. “Oh, really?”

“Yup,” Stiles squeaks, turning back to face his laptop screen instead. Staring at Hayley’s smiling face doesn’t make him feel any better though. No, in fact, he feels even more guilty of what he was just accused of. Damn his dad for knowing him so well.

“So stalking his girlfriend online, framing him for murder twice , constantly asking questions about him, having him come to our house late at night through your window –“

“Wow, okay, dad,” Stiles stops him right there. The possible continuation scares him. “Fine, it sounds bad when you say it like that. Also, it did not happen in that exact ord– wait , how do you know about Derek coming here?”

“I have eyes, son. And ears too.” Stiles doesn’t like the implication of that at all.

“I’m just looking out for him,” Stiles sighs, biting at the skin of the ball of his thumb. “Do you remember his last two girlfriends? One who set a fire to a house with an entire family inside and one who ritually sacrificed random people?”

His dad makes a face – one he makes whenever he’d like to argue with Stiles further but doesn’t have the energy for it. Or because he knows it would be totally and absolutely pointless, since it’s probably his fault that Stiles grew up to be a stubborn little shit anyway. He puts his hands in the air as a sign of surrender, although his expression is not exactly softer. Stiles doesn’t care in the slightest, he will take what he can get.

“Just… don’t hurt yourself, son,” he says as he stops in the door, looking back at Stiles. He seems almost sad. “You deserve to be happy.”

“Uh, okay? Thanks, dad.” Whatever that means. 

2.

The next day, Stiles is buying groceries like a normal person would – quietly minding his own business (fine, maybe checking out some hot guys passing by but that still counts as normal), disinterestedly throwing stuff he knows he won’t even need into the bright red cart he drags with him and humming Ariana Grande softly under his breath as he caresses a green apple, checking for any bruises. 

His dad told him earlier that he would be stuck at the station until late at night, therefore it would be Stiles’ and Stiles’ fault only if they happened to have nothing to eat in the morning. Yeah, he’d rather drag his ass out of the house, sweating and thirsty in the smothering heat outside, than witness his dad’s judgmental face when he discovers they’re out of toast and butter. Or coffee, for that matter. That would be the death of his precious son.

Just as he’s about to put the apple back though, remembering that his dad actually prefers red ones over green ones for whatever reason, his eyes land on a rather familiar female figure in the vegetables section – surprisingly, not nearly naked this time.

Stiles almost trips over his own feet in an attempt to get away from there as fast as possible, but his unfortunate clumsiness only ends up bringing him some seriously unwanted attention as Hayley looks up from where she’s staring down at the vegetables, her blue eyes shining brightly even from afar as she acknowledges him, waving and giving him a friendly smile.

Stiles has never been an optimist – and even when she turns her gaze away for a moment, he knows he won’t be let off the hook that easily. He discovers that assumption is more than correct (and even worse than he originally thought, perhaps) because he soon notices that Hayley is not alone. No, of course she can’t be clutching a broccoli in her hands by herself, she also needs Derek’s help – or approval, whatever – to choose the best one. Fuck. His. Life.

She says something to Derek, smiling softly. Derek’s eyes instantly search for Stiles in the small crowd of people walking around, and Stiles gives him the awkward two-finger salute. Jesus. He only does it in situations where he’s left feeling very unsure of himself. Or of the people he’s interacting with. Which is, actually, a little sad considering the fact that this is Derek we’re talking about, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s already outgrown the whole phase of being an embarrassing hormonal teenager with a fear boner for a certain Alpha. Okay, maybe not entirely but things were definitely getting better – at least he’s never done the two-finger salute with Derek. Until now, that is.

Hayley being Hayley, obviously – Stiles decides he despises her – drags Derek towards Stiles, her hand clutching the sleeve of his leather jacket so tightly her knuckles turn white. Stiles tries his best not to look at that spot – the spot of them touching – but it’s right in front of him and it’s difficult , especially now that his only other option where to look are their faces. Yeah. Talk about uncomfortable.

“Hi, Stiles!” She grins at him, way too happy for someone who’s just shopping for groceries, but then again, he reminds himself that she’s shopping with her probably-boyfriend who happens to be no one other than Derek Hale himself. He supposes her happiness can be excused. “What a coincidence!”

Her blonde hair looks even blonder up close (and also now that it’s not wet, obviously). Her blue eyes are big and round and sparkly without the unattractive smudges of mascara, reminding Stiles of a pretty Disney princess. Yup, she could totally pass for Elsa or something if you squint your eyes. Except her skin is much tanner than Elsa’s, but whatever. Points are made. Points that make Stiles feel even more pathetic.

“Yeaaah,” he forces a sheepish smile, not knowing what to do with the hand that’s not gripping the cart. “So, already shopping together, huh? Things must be getting quite serious.”

Derek looks like he’s about to open his mouth to either protest or set things straight, but Hayley’s resonating voice cuts him off: “Derek here kindly offered to give me a ride when I called him that I was gonna go shopping. He’s such a gentleman.”

Stiles refuses to acknowledge the suspiciously smug look on Derek’s face. He’s already bound to have a fair share of nightmares about this specific encounter. “Wow, that’s actually kinda surprising for Derek and his usual caveman-like ways.”

Hayley giggles. “He might get a little rough sometimes, but inside he’s a big cuddly teddy-bear.”

Well. Stiles is sort of torn between wanting to know more about their sex life in order to improve his own favorite masturbatory scenarios (starring Derek, unfortunately) and wanting nothing more than to erase this entire sentence from his poor brain forever. If the weird pressure-pain in his chest didn’t make him feel like he’s on the verge of passing out or barfing right on Derek’s precious shoes, he’d mock the shit out of him for standing there and letting his girlfriend call him a “big cuddly teddy-bear”. 

Derek eyes the contents of Stiles’ cart suspiciously instead, picking up a package of instant pot macaroni and cheese. God bless Kraft. He raises his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “I thought you were trying to make your dad eat healthy.”

Stiles grabs it, almost embarrassed. “That’s not for him, that’s for me.”

Derek doesn’t really fight him, letting Stiles throw the package back where it belongs. “You know, you can’t really keep an eye on his diet if you’re dead.”

“Wow, who are you, my dietician?” Stiles says defensively. “It’s not like one package is going to kill me.”

“Keep telling yourself that every time you buy one.”

“I don’t –“

“We could take Stiles out for dinner,” Hayley chips in suddenly, grinning from one ear to another. She doesn’t look even remotely apologetic for interrupting Stiles mid-sentence. He guesses that’s kind of her thing anyway. “I mean, I was going to cook tonight but we could stop by Rusty’s to get some pizza.”

“I don’t think pizza is going to help his case,” Derek says, clearly eager to avoid any more interaction between the three of them. If it didn’t sting so bad, Stiles would wholeheartedly agree. “He’s had enough of those in his lifetime.”

“It’s always so nice to hear you care,” Stiles retorts sarcastically. Then he turns to Hayley. “I really appreciate the offer, but I should probably get home. My dad is –“

Crap. He can’t exactly lie in front of Derek, can he? Still, would he even care? He’d most likely be grateful for any excuse that might get him out of this, all signs point to that. He seems like he’s having a hard time saying no to Hayley though. Who would’ve thought that Derek Hale would be such a pushover?

“We can take your dad, too,” she continues. “The Sheriff’s a great guy, I’d love to get to know him better.”

“No, he’s actually working nights this wee – wait, you know my dad?” 

“Yeah,” she nods, still smiling. “Everyone knows the Sheriff. He introduced Derek and I.”

What. The. Fuck?

“He… introduced… the two of you…” Stiles repeats in disbelief, his voice weak and small. 

He shouldn’t feel betrayed – he has zero reason to experience any sorts of weird feelings of betrayal, for fuck’s sake. He’s sure his dad had good intentions as he always does, perhaps feeling sorry for Derek because he’s well aware of his tragic repertoire of past relationships resulting in people dying, maybe he just wanted to make sure the guy gets at least something good in his life for once, so he introduced him to Hayley here, but still, why would he introduce him to somebody else when Stiles is right there and his dad – 

Okay. Okay. Fine. Breathe, Stiles, breathe. It’s just a stupid revelation. It’s just a small detail – an unimportant one. What does it matter who introduced them? Why should he care that it was his own dad? It doesn’t change a thing, it really doesn’t. Derek and Hayley are still together or whatever their relationship status is – it doesn’t matter if they accidentally bumped into each other like the main couple in every romantic comedy, or if it was the local Sheriff playing a matchmaker. Who cares, right?

Except, Stiles does. He cares – too much, way more than he should. He knows his dad already has his suspicions regarding the nature of his and Derek’s relationship. Or at least, from Stiles’ side. And maybe his assumptions or biggest worries aren’t that far from the truth, but would he really go this far? 

It's like a punch in the gut. Stiles protectively splays his palm over his stomach, suddenly feeling sick. He might throw up for real this time.

“Stiles?” Derek says, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Um,” Stiles swallows, avoiding Derek’s gaze. He can’t look him in the eyes right now. He’d probably start crying or doing something even more stupid. “I – I have to go. My dad, he’s… uh, waiting for me.”

“I thought you said he was working nights?” Hayley asks, confusedly looking over her shoulder as Stiles is trying to escape, feeling trapped.

Derek doesn’t ask questions though, instead he catches him by the wrist, looking at him intently. Maybe it’s some supernatural Alpha power that makes Stiles’ heart rate slow down just a little bit, what does he know. He certainly doesn’t like the strong effect Derek always seems to have on him.

“Let me drive you, okay?” Derek offers, his voice soft. Worried. Fuck.

Stiles shakes his head furiously. “No, dude, it’s fine, you have Hayley here and I –“

“It’s fine, my apartment is just a few blocks from here,” she smiles. 

“Okay, well, you still don’t have to. I’m fine, alright? Have a nice night.”

Derek lets go of his wrist, unsure.

“It was nice seeing you again, Stiles,” Hayley calls behind him.

“You too,” Stiles says, and he’s sure Derek hears the lie in his heartbeat.

3.

Stiles never really thought about it before – in the end, it always kind of seemed out of the realm of possibility, even though Derek did have some girlfriends in the past, clearly. One of them happened even with Stiles already in the picture, so really, he shouldn’t be that surprised when Derek decides to introduce Hayley to the pack. And bring her to a pack night. During which they have to pretend it’s not actually a pack night – more like a friendly get-together. 

Except, Derek has never bothered to introduce any of his previous girlfriends (read: Jennifer, which… okay, Stiles imagines that would be pretty awkward), so he can’t do anything but assume that things are getting really serious between the two of them. It stings – in the worst way imaginable – his chest tight and aching, the nasty pang of something every time he catches them softly brushing their hands against each other or sharing private looks making his insides twist and burn.

So, yeah. It’s a bit of a problem.

Especially as Scott’s nose twitches in disgust, his fist lightly bumping into Stiles’ shoulder in order to get his attention with the words “dude, you stink”. Stiles doesn’t even need a second to think about the meaning of that, immediately coming to the conclusion that he’s probably talking about the stink of Stiles’ pheromones or whatever, stupid werewolf noses. His shower was pretty thorough if he can say so himself, although on the other hand, it’s true that the heat waves never stopped and he’s currently sweating through his t-shirt but –

“Who the hell are you jealous of?” Scott prods, genuinely confused. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No one?” There’s no use to even attempt to make himself sound believable. It’s getting tiring.

“This is not about… Derek, is it?”

Stiles doesn’t dare to say anything to that, but Scott’s super-hearing must pick up on something based on the scandalized look he shoots his way, eyebrows furrowed and brown eyes blown wide. “You realize he’s gonna kill you, right?”

Stiles still doesn’t answer. 

“Dude,” Scott says, almost disbelievingly. “Do you even know her? I mean, I’ve never seen her around town before. And yeah, she’s nice but come on. Being into Derek’s girlfriend is even worse than Lydia –“

It’s safe to say that it’s not an exaggeration to claim that Stiles nearly falls off the couch.  

He doesn’t even know why he’s surprised – werewolf powers are totally lost on someone as oblivious and unobservant as Scott – but it never fails to amaze him just how dumb his best friend can be at times. Still, Stiles decides it’s a little better for him to stay quiet rather than correct him and be forced to tell the truth. The way Erica looks at him from the other side of the couch, however, assures him that he won’t be able to keep this up much longer.

“Scott,” Allison says, smiling. “I don’t think that’s the problem here.”

“Then what –“

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says in a rush. Because it really, really doesn’t.

The pack ends up adoring Hayley – what else could Stiles expect? He scoffs involuntarily, Isaac and Erica snorting at that. 

He’s sure he’s staring daggers every time Hayley gets near Derek (which basically means he’s staring daggers the whole time) like an obsessive maniac, but he can’t help it. It’s like his body is doing the exact opposite of what he wants it to – blend in and enjoy a nice night with his friends instead of seeing red and feeling bile rise in his throat whenever he’s forced to witness something even remotely romantic happening between Derek and Hayley.

He's kind of disgusted with himself.

Even more so as Hayley starts asking them questions in a way that’s unnaturally sweet. Stiles doesn’t buy it for one second, as she keeps wanting to know more about their plans for the future or where they’re going to college. Which, in Stiles’ opinion – not that anyone cares about it – is a little suspicious, but whatever. Thankfully, Lydia takes it as her queue to start her never-ending monologue about MIT, leaving Stiles reassured that the question won’t eventually find its way to him before Derek plays the movie.

“So, Stiles,” Erica suddenly lands on the couch right next to him with a plop, at the spot where Scott was sitting previously – where the hell did he go? – her smile reminding Stiles of a predator, all white teeth and dangerous twinkles in her big brown eyes. “This is interesting.”

Stiles swallows. He doesn’t like where this interaction is going, but he’ll play along. “What do you mean?”

“Hayley,” she shrugs innocently. “I wouldn’t have pegged her as Derek’s type to be honest. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged Kate Argent or Jennifer Blake as his types either, yet here we are.”

“Right,” she nods, all at once seemingly too invested in the conversation. “So what would you say his type is?”

Stiles gives her a helpless look, like he has no idea what she wants from him. “How should I know? I guess he doesn’t have a type.”

“Or his taste is very… diverse.”

“Okay…?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” she pouts. “Don’t you sometimes wish his type extended to skinny brown-haired boys with moles and big doe eyes?”

Stiles splutters, feeling his face heat up. Okay, he might’ve had a vague idea of where this entire exchange would lead – he just didn’t count on Erica being so straightforward. Then again, it’s Erica, so it’s all on him for being so naïve. He coughs awkwardly, which is becoming an annoying bad habit at this point, and tries to calm his racing heart.

Erica raises her eyebrows, amused. “That answers the question, then.”

If she wasn’t a girl and Stiles wasn’t raised to be a proper gentleman at all costs, the Sheriff being extremely thorough in that department, especially once Stiles lost his mom, he’d love to smack that smug smirk right off her stupid face. He settles for an unfriendly scowl instead. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” she winks at him. 

When the movie is finally about to start, all of them rightfully growing a little impatient – The Notebook, as per Lydia’s choice, of course – Hayley suddenly decides to stand up from her seat and suggest that they should play board games instead because, apparently, that’s a much more effective way of getting to know each other better. Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes and say something he would regret, her overly friendly behavior making the hair on his arms stand in disgust. Even though he knows she kind of has a point, he certainly doesn’t think it’s a good idea. Plus, he’s not even sure whether Derek actually owns a board game.

Turns out – Derek does own a board game. Singular, but Stiles guesses that will do. He pulls out an old, particularly dusty box of Monopoly covered in spider webs and God knows what else, warning that there might be some pieces or fake dollar bills missing. Hayley waves her hand at that nonchalantly – “that’s fine, we can always buy a new one” – rubbing his back. Stiles can feel his eye twitch.

Derek sets it up without a word. Stiles is a little taken aback by the fact that he seems to know what he’s doing, always forgetting that Derek actually did have a normal childhood and teenage life like the rest of them before it was taken away from him so soon. He needs to remind himself that this is definitely not the first time Derek is about to play a board game. His heart clenches, watching as he counts the fake money, flipping it between his fingers in smooth movements, his eyes subtly scanning the room before landing on Stiles, just for a few seconds.

Stiles breathes out and gives him a small, supportive smile – something little and private, just between the two of them, his chest aching – before Hayley jumps into the picture and ruffles Derek’s dark hair, without any hint of gel today, in a way that’s supposed to be loving, he guesses, however Stiles can’t help but find it irritating. He has no idea why Derek puts up with her.

Stiles quickly looks away, not wanting to give Derek the chance to see the sudden change in his facial expression. He’s more than certain that Derek noticed it anyway.  

The game goes terribly. Stiles is a sore loser which makes Erica exceptionally happy, as she’s the one in lead and loves to see him suffer on top of all that, closely followed by Hayley, of fucking course, and Allison who is essentially the only one being somewhat humble about it. Hayley is way more competitive than Stiles first predicted. He hates it – but he hates the fact that Derek seems to find it endearing even more, if the soft, small smiles directed at her are anything to go by. He’s going to be sick. 

Still, losing is not a thing that would upset Stiles – he’s not five anymore, okay, he doesn’t need his dad to make surprised faces while pretending to lose – it’s everything else. Everything else meaning Derek and Haley.

Stiles tries hard, really hard – he’s never tried this hard even in Harris’ class, and that’s definitely saying something because he was determined to get that A – to ignore them, to have fun by sticking mostly to Scott and listening to his endless serenades on the today’s flowery smell of Allison’s hair. Clearly, the universe is not having it.

Because as soon as Hayley leaves – “excuse me, I need to use the bathroom” – Isaac wastes no time and immediately lunges at her seat from where he was previously sitting on the floor, squeezing innocently between Lydia and Derek. Derek rolls his eyes but instead of telling him off, he shrugs.

Derek then turns to Stiles almost automatically, the corners of his lips forming what looks like a little smile. It seems like things might go Stiles’ way after all, what with Derek suddenly paying attention to him and all which actually makes him feel even more pathetic that this is all it takes – that is until Hayley gets back to see her previous seat occupied, shrugging and plopping down on Derek’s lap, his big arms wrapping her in a light squeeze instantly, his fingers curling around her hip almost possessively. 

That’s when Stiles decides he’s had enough. Enough of the unnecessary amounts of stupid PDA, enough of feeling like shit every time he is forced to see it happen with his own two eyes, and definitely enough of the pitying glances certain enlightened members of the pack keep throwing his way. That’s the last thing he needs right now. 

He stands up abruptly, catching most of them off guard, including the mighty Alpha himself who just cocks an impressive eyebrow in question, clearly not bothering to use actual words. Whatever, it seems like he has better things to do anyway.

“I gotta go,” Stiles mumbles, refusing to look anyone in the eye, and storms out before he can be stopped by logical arguments and worries. Fuck it. Fuck pack meetings. Fuck Hayley. And most importantly, fuck Derek for being the cause of this somehow.

///

It’s obnoxiously difficult to act mature sometimes – especially in times when you can practically feel something gnawing at your internal organs at the realization someone you might have a slight crush on is most likely in love with somebody else – so Stiles chooses the best possible coping mechanism a healthy teenager would.

He lies in his bed without moving a muscle, his feet hanging off the edge, hands joined together on his chest while loud music plays in his earphones, successfully shutting out the surroundings and numbing the pain just a little.  

Stiles loses track of time after that, his head focusing on one thing – trying his best not to think about Derek. Or Hayley. Or, the worst possible scenario – Derek and Hayley together. Doing stuff that Stiles would really like to be doing. With Derek. Instead of Hayley. Yeah. That sucks big time.

He stays in that position for at least half an hour – judging by the amount of songs he’s managed to listen to without skipping a track (he’s really thankful for the playlist of sad and depressing songs he’s made just in case he ever needed good music to cry to). Which ultimately means that half an hour is also the amount of time it takes for Derek Hale to suddenly materialize in his room.

Stiles is just resisting the urge to sing his heart out when he hears the familiar creaking sound coming from his window. The light night breeze suddenly lapping at his face and ruffling his messy hair is yet another indication that he really shouldn’t ignore. Derek closes the window behind himself without a word, his body too big and dark and unnatural in Stiles’ room. He doesn’t look like he belongs here – because he probably really doesn’t, no matter what Stiles wishes for. 

There’s no sugarcoating what he came here for. That’s just Derek’s style. So really, Stiles is not surprised when the first words to come out of his mouth are: “What’s going on with you?”

Stiles lazily takes out his earphones, looking Derek up and down, and shrugs. He doesn’t feel like talking about it. Especially with Derek himself.

“Stiles,” he tries again, his tone indicating a slight level of impatience. And maybe concern. “I don’t like you running off with no explanation. We’re worried about you.”

“Well, you’re not really the boss of me, so.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow. “I’m your Alpha.”

“Pulling the Alpha card already?”

Derek sighs, almost defeated. Except not really because Derek doesn’t give up. Ever. He’s even more stubborn than Stiles and that’s saying something. Their fights are ridiculous and when Stiles thinks about it, none of them was ever officially finished since both of them are always too proud to admit the other has a point.

Anyway, Derek sinks down on the edge of Stiles’ bed carefully, as if his ridiculous muscles could break it or something, his large hand coming up to touch his ankle. His fingers easily overlap, and Stiles has to tear his eyes off the sight before him, otherwise things are going to take a very different direction. He clears his throat, finding it a little dry, but he knows that moving to get a glass of water would cause them to break the contact, so he decides to be a big boy and suck it up.

It's way too intimate to Stiles’ liking – in this particular scenario, at least. You know, the one where Derek has an entire girlfriend waiting for him somewhere, while Stiles is wallowing in sadness and stupid jealousy. So yeah, that could definitely ruin the mood.

“Does she make you happy?” he blurts out eventually before he can stop himself, completely overwhelmed with the sudden need to clamp a hand over his big, fat mouth, but decides it would make things even more obvious. Not that Derek is completely clueless – he’d be really dumb if he didn’t pick up on any of the weird signals Stiles has been sending him.

Derek seems to be taken aback at that question, his eyebrows rising involuntarily. “Why are you asking me that?”

No, why is Derek asking Stiles this? 

Stiles scoffs. “Seriously, dude?”

If he’s doing this just to mess with him, to have a final good laugh before rejecting him and crushing all of Stiles’ hopes and dreams… well, fuck this. 

There’s a pause. Derek’s looking at him this odd, intense way. He even looks kind of hopeless, almost lost. Like he wants to give Stiles the answer he wants to hear, just to make him happy, but can’t seem to figure out what that answer would be. It’s rare, really, to get to see Derek like this – soft and open. But knowing the probable reasons, it hurts even more. 

Stiles just sighs, throws his hands in the air and shakes his head. “No, forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Derek then takes his hand off Stiles’ ankle, slowly and carefully, almost as if it was painful for him to do it. Stiles sucks in a breath at the lingering touch of Derek’s fingertips, and then whole-bodily shudders at the feeling of cool air on his bare skin. It doesn’t feel right – he feels way too naked without Derek’s hands on him.

“She’s good for me,” Derek says and nods, seemingly satisfied with his choice of words. 

Except, he didn’t really answer Stiles’ question. He decides not to comment on it.

4.

Objectively, Stiles can say for sure that Derek is hot. He is all abs and sharp jawlines and unfairly shaped cheekbones and ridiculous number of muscles he wouldn’t even need for strength, being a werewolf and all that, but still, he insists on working out quite conscientiously, all while rocking the whole tall, dark and broody vibe. He makes it work. 

So yeah – objectively, Stiles knows people find Derek sexy. That’s why he was able to use it to his advantage with Danny back when Derek was a freaking fugitive in the first place. 

The thing is, it was fine when it was only objective-wise – that was when Stiles had things sort of under control instead of leaking weird and confusing feelings all over the place. That makes it significantly harder to deal with. 

Anyway, after that board-game-night-but-actually-a-pack-night-in-disguise-gone-wrong debacle the pack has been walking on eggshells around him, wary and careful, as if they were afraid he would snap his fingers and turn all of them to dust for looking at him wrong. It created some seriously tense and unwanted drama in their dynamic.

So, in order to “make it up to him” (“really, Erica, that’s not necessary at all”, “Stilinski, shut up before I rip out your spine”), Erica – as kind as ever – suggested they should move the next pack night to an actual movie theater this time. 

At first it didn’t seem like such a bad idea – especially because Erica truly did make an outstanding effort to make it sound like it was going to be, you know, just the pack. Which included the regular seven – no wait, eight – people as per usual. He was counting on meeting up with seven other familiar faces, six of them belonging to a group of annoying teenage werewolves (and two humans) and one belonging to a certain grumpy Alpha with murderous eyebrows.

The thing is, he didn’t expect – or at least hoped it wouldn’t happen – to see another pair of cheery blue eyes attached to a person with her octopus hands tightly wrapped around the length of Derek’s right arm, squeezing nearly painfully hard. Derek doesn’t look like he’s in any pain though, but maybe that’s just the werewolf part of him, whatever. The pain that Stiles feels, though, is nearly physical.

He glares at Erica who’s, of fucking course, watching him subtly from where she’s hidden behind Boyd’s enormous shoulder, her eyes hungry for some kind of reaction from Stiles. 

The night gets progressively worse, what with watching Derek buy everything Hayley sets her twinkling bright eyes on and even chuckling fondly when she drops her entire popcorn bucket. She doesn’t even have to ask him to buy a new one. God knows if anyone else from the pack did it, Derek would’ve probably made them eat it straight from the dirty movie theater floor.

“Clumsiness is not so cute anymore when it’s someone else, huh?” Erica whispers in his ear.

As if that wasn’t enough, Stiles experiences yet another shock as he’s just about to pay for his own snacks – when Derek materializes beside him out of nowhere, all brooding and big and quiet like a fucking ghost, be still Stiles’ poor little heart. He pulls out a black AmEx card wordlessly, pushing Stiles’ hands frantically searching for a wallet in the pocket of his pants away.

“It’s okay, I got it,” Derek announces, leaving no room for any sort of argument. Stiles watches silently as the Alpha swipes his card, the cashier ogling at him unabashedly. Stiles can’t really blame her though.

“Um, thanks,” Stiles says awkwardly, Derek handing him his bucket of buttered popcorn and a pack of Twizzlers. He realizes he forgot about soda. “I’ll totally pay you back later.”

Derek gives him a look. “No need.”

“ Okay , then I’ll pay for your food when we go out sometime.” Realizing how it sounds, his face hot, he quickly adds: “As a pack. How does that sound?”

“I don’t need your money, Stiles,” Derek sighs, like Stiles is the one being difficult here. “Just take your snacks.”

“Fine.” If Stiles’ tone comes off somewhat begrudging, he doesn’t think he should be blamed. 

The seating arrangement turns out to be the worst part of this entire rendezvous. 

As the only perpetually single member of the pack – well okay, he and Isaac – he’s already used to being squashed between various couples, in various states of undress, even. Over the years, he’s grown numb to the uncomfortably loud sounds of sloppy make-out sessions taking place right next to him, usually with one person of the couple bumping into him occasionally. Not that they ever cared enough to take it elsewhere. Stiles doesn’t know if exhibitionist tendencies are a package deal with becoming a werewolf, but sometimes it definitely does look like it.

He doesn’t have it in him to look phased in the slightest when he sits down next to Scott, who already has his hands gripped by Allison’s smaller ones, giggling at something she whispers in his ear. He even suppresses the gagging noises threatening to come out, that’s how dedicated he is.

He can feel his dedication dissipate the second he sees that Derek plops down on the seat next to him on the other side. He fakes a smile to return as Hayley grins at him, probably to seem friendly or whatever in case she’s noticed how on edge he’s been the whole time. It certainly does not have the desired effect – it only makes Stiles grit his teeth in irritation.

“Here.” 

Stiles turns to follow Derek’s voice, eyeing a Dr Pepper can in his hands suspiciously. 

“What,” he says, with no inflection in his voice.

Derek cocks a thick eyebrow. “Do you not want it?”

“How did you even – “

Derek continues to stare.

“You know what,” Stiles rolls his eyes, though the flush all at once rushing to his face undoubtedly gives him away. He takes the drink, hating the way the corners of Derek’s mouth twitch. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The movie itself is not that bad – which is a little surprising, considering they let Erica choose this time. Stiles was half-expecting something that would make them cringe so bad they’d want to leave after the first five minutes. That seems to be her usual goal anyway.

Stiles is quite surprised, and honestly a little concerned, to learn that it’s a horror movie. Typically he does his research to make sure the few hours spent in the theater are not an utter waste of his precious time, but today he kind of had his head full of other things to worry about. Such as the obnoxious couple by his side.

Still, a horror film is an unmistakable detour from the types of movies they normally watch together as a group. Mostly it’s cheesy romcoms to torture the less romantic parts of the pack carefully picked out by the female audience, or superhero movies (Stiles and Scott’s go-to choice). Once Derek made them sit through a nearly three-hours-long historical document about the invention of lightbulbs. Stiles knows he did it purely to fuck with them, but it still resulted in him being banned from choosing next time. Or any time, actually.

To drown out the sound of Hailey’s muffled whispering, Stiles shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, crunching as loudly as he can. Scott smacks him in the arm. “Dude!”

“Sorry,” he says insincerely, his mouth full.

“That’s disgusting, Stiles,” Lydia chips in from where she’s sitting next to Allison, and seriously – she’s not a werewolf, there’s no super-hearing there, why does she even care?

He finds Derek staring at him, clearly very amused at the exchange, if the crinkled eyes and subdued smile are any indication. Stiles pointedly looks away the second his gaze drops to Derek’s hand in Hayley’s lap, their fingers intertwined. He can feel his stomach physically sink as his own empty hand curls up in a fist, aching for somebody – for Derek – to hold it, to stroke it with his thumbs soothingly as he’s doing with Hayley. God, he’s so pathetic.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, focusing on the big screen instead. A character is getting brutally stabbed to death, and Stiles thinks that’s exactly how he feels at the moment. 

“Hey.” Derek nudges his shoulder, softly, as if he was subconsciously making sure his werewolf strength wouldn’t hurt the puny human. “You okay?”

Stiles doesn’t look at him, trying his hardest to sound casual. “Yeah, why?”

“You don’t smell so good.”

Stiles scoffs. “Seriously, Derek? I’ll have you know I’ve taken not one, but two showers in the course of today and if I got a little sweaty in the Satan’s asshole that’s out there, then please excuse me if I didn’t bring a deodorant.”

Derek cocks an eyebrow. Stiles ignores how it doesn’t get any less attractive no matter how many times he does it. “Don’t play stupid, Stiles. You know what I mean.”

“ What do you mean?”

“The fact that you smell very upset and…”

“And?” Stiles turns his face to look him in the eyes, the pale-green color breath-taking and shining even in the dark room. Stiles holds his breath. His traitorous need to torture himself has him looking lower, his stomach doing an unpleasant flip to see the situation hasn’t changed.

Derek’s inquisitive gaze follows Stiles’, right to the place where his and Hayley’s hands are still intimately touching. He must realize something, a weird emotion crossing his face briefly, and Stiles prays to whoever is up there for Derek not to be observant enough to put two and two together. His eyebrows furrow as he parts his lips, still not taking his eyes off Stiles’ face.

“Stiles, are you – “

“I’m fine!” 

That causes a few heads to look in their direction, angry and annoyed as they shush them. Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out at a particularly irritated-looking middle-aged woman. 

When Derek doesn’t look away, doesn’t even bother to snap at the people like he normally would, Stiles quickly says: “Let’s just drop it, okay?”, and sinks further into his seat, clutching the popcorn bucket between his legs until his knuckles turn white.

Derek says nothing.

5.

To say that Stiles doesn’t go out of his way to see anyone from the pack – Derek, specifically – after the night at the movies would be true, though certainly a massive understatement. To say that he avoids everyone, including his own best friend, like the plague – that’s unquestionably closer to the actual truth.

Sure, he gets the occasional check-up phone call every now and then, but other than that everyone seems to respect Stiles’ sudden desire to distance himself. He strongly suspects that they all already know what’s going on with him anyway, which is precisely the reason why they’re staying away for the time being. He guesses they don’t want to humiliate him any further. It’s a nice thought, really, except it’s not really so nice when he wonders whether Derek was the one to tell them in the first place. 

It’s only been three days, technically, but still. With nothing to do and with no friends outside of their little ragtag group, Stiles has been bored. He’s barely left his room for other purposes than eating and basic hygiene, and it kind of feels like it’s getting to his head.

He has about a week left until he leaves for college. It’s a terrifying realization – one that has him sitting up abruptly on his bed and reaching for his phone to check the calendar in panic. It’s also a realization that helps him sober up.

He’s only going to be an hour away – that’s not a lot. It’s one of the few reassuring things in his life right now, to know that he’s not staying in Beacon Hills, but close enough to be within reach. It’s incomparable with Lydia who’s going to freaking Massauchusetts, or Allison who’s planning to take a gap year and travel Europe with her dad. 

Stiles looks at all the worried texts Derek has sent him in the past three days that he wholeheartedly ignored, and sighs. He can’t let a stupid, teenage crush ruin the last week of his summer.

He calls Lydia, of all people. But that’s because she’s the one most suitable for his request.

“Are you finally done moping?” is her opening line and really, he has no clue why he expected anything different.

“I think so,” he replies as earnestly as he can. “So. Do you have any plans for tonight?”

“What, moving on already?”

He decides to ignore that little comment, or otherwise he’d be tempted to end the call right there. “Do you remember when you promised that you’d take me to a club to get laid one day?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, what do you think about that day being today?”

“Oh, Stiles. I thought you’d never ask,” she coos. He can imagine the sly smile very vividly. “We’ll be there in two hours.”

“Wait, who’s – “

She hangs up. 

Goddamnit.

///

Two hours later as promised, Stiles is still sitting on the very same bed. This time, however, the sun is slowly setting, creating a cozy dim atmosphere inside his room, even with the lights switched on. Oh, and he also has company. Lady company, to be more specific.

“Stop twitching so much unless you want me to poke your eye out,” Lydia warns him, one of her countless tiny torturous devices tickling his eyelids. “I’m serious, Stiles. Stop it.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a natural physical reaction to have something sharp attempting to obliterate my eyeballs,” he reasons, trying exceptionally hard to stay as still as possible while Lydia puffs out a warm breath that tickles him on his cheek. 

“In what world is this sharp,” she deadpans, probably getting through the final touches when she suddenly takes a step back, undoubtedly admiring her handywork. Stiles has yet to see what the three females currently occupying his room have done to his poor face. 

“How do I look?” he asks curiously. Lydia, Allison and Erica all stand in front of him, examining him with squinted eyes in a way that makes him seriously uncomfortable. Honestly, women. He should’ve known what he was getting himself into when he called Lydia, and yet he still feels like he has the right to complain.

Lydia eyes Allison and Erica expectantly. 

“Good enough to eat,” Erica grins predatorily. “The boys are gonna go crazy over you.”

Stiles blushes at the unexpected flattery. “You think so?”

“Oh, I know so.”

“Seriously, Stiles, eyeliner suits you,” Allison smiles, as kind as ever. “Really brings out your eyes.”

“Um. Thanks.”

“Wanna take a look?” Erica asks, a small pink mirror already in her hands. 

He nods, making grabby hands at it, which makes Lydia roll her eyes and Allison beam sweetly.

See, he’s not sure what to expect out of this impromptu little activity the girls came up with when they first arrived with bags full of reinforcements ready for use. When Lydia announced that they were going to do his make-up, he nearly ran away. From his own house. While he may be into guys and all that, he’s never really… you know. Experimented with any of this stuff. Not that he’s not open to trying new things, obviously – that is the reason why he allowed it after all, right?

Looking at the reflection in the mirror staring back at him, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. He looks… good, if that’s okay for him to say. 

Allison was right – make-up, eyeliner and rich coats of mascara specifically, really does bring out his eyes. He’s not stupid, nor blind – he’s aware that his eyes are easily one of his best features. He can totally rock the whole doe-eyed look if he tries, and the make-up certainly does the job for him. He looks almost… slutty . Yeah. If only Derek could see him now.

“So?” Allison asks. “What do you think?”

“It’s, uh,” Stiles bites his bottom lip. “It’s good. I have to admit, I didn’t expect it, but…”

Lydia smirks, satisfied. “Good.”

“Are we finally gonna dress him up?” Erica asks, her hungry impatience a little concerning.

“I’m not a doll,” he frowns, but still stands up when asked, assumes the position when asked, turns around when asked, letting the girls run around as they pick his entire closet apart while looking for… well, whatever the hell they’re looking for. His clothes are mostly just graphic tees and comfy hoodies and plaid, he has no idea what they expect to find there. Certainly not anything to match his face.

“Here, put this on,” Lydia throws a dark piece of clothing at him.

He looks at the t-shirt confusedly. “This used to be my dad’s. There’s no way it’ll fit me.”

She sighs. “Just put it on.”

Ugh. There’s no use in fighting her, he guesses.

“I look ridiculous in this,” he tells her, his voice coming off a little whiny. It’s way too big, way too loose. The short sleeves are too long, and one of his collarbones is subtly exposed. “It’s so clear it’s too big for me, I’ll wear something else.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lydia stops him with a single motion of her finger just as he’s about to take it off. “You underestimate the power of oversized clothing.”

This is one of the many instances of how the phrase “famous last words” works in Stiles’ life, because to his surprise, Lydia actually isn’t wrong. Not that she ever is, it’s just that he had serious doubts this time.

Approximately an hour later, there's a fairly good-looking guy plastered to Stiles’ back, his crotch basically grinding against Stiles’ ass as they sway in the rhythm of the blaring disco music, hands much bigger than Stiles’ own gripping him tightly by the hips. Lydia, Erica and Allison are watching him from afar, sipping their brightly colored drinks and all giving him a supportive thumbs-up whenever their eyes meet. It makes his cheeks go hot, knowing he’s being so closely observed during his premiere, but the close physical contact makes him even hotter.

He’s sure Erica and Lydia will go down in history as the world's best wingwomen. Without them, he’d never get where he is now. Not that they didn’t have their reservations at first, trying to find the subtlest and most sensitive way to bring up Derek and everything that’s been going on with Stiles lately. But what is there to say? Derek is clearly in a happy relationship. What is Stiles supposed to do? Pine after someone unattainable for the rest of his life? No sir. He knows better than that.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he’s pushed against the nearest wall by the guy – Adam, he discovers – and can’t help but think how the way Derek does it even in a non-sexual context feels much better. 

How bigger and more experienced his hands are, how he has the best-looking beard he’s ever seen compared to Adam’s little scruff. How Adam is too short, same height as Stiles even. How the kiss is rough and all teeth in all the wrong ways, how it lacks any passion that’d set his gut on fire. How Derek makes him nearly lose his mind just by looking in his direction.

He knows what he’s doing is wrong, that comparing someone you put on a pedestal to somebody who can never live up to those expectations always leads to irrefutable disappointment. That it’s not fair of him at all because it’s not Adam’s fault. 

For a moment he’s taken back to the night when Derek came to his room after Stiles had fled from his loft. His head is all of a sudden filled with images and memories of Derek touching his ankle so gently he could’ve cried. He asked Derek whether Hayley made him happy that night – and Derek never gave an unambiguous answer. He thinks about it, the wheels in his brain spinning.

Adam’s lips on his feel too cold, too stiff. The hand placed on his hips is somewhat nicer, he thinks, as he tries to relax into it, tries to convince his traitorous brain that this is what he wants. What he should want.

But his thoughts are all over the place and he can’t stop them. 

He thinks about how Hayley is getting everything Stiles has ever wanted – and really, it all just leads back to Hayley, doesn’t it? Fucking Hayley.

“Wait, wait, stop,” Stiles murmurs into the kiss, pushing his back further into the cold wall to get away. He doesn’t bother to lick the spit off his swollen lips. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

Adam, thank God, actually does take a cautious step back, pointedly letting go of Stiles’ hips and puts his arms in the air as a sign of surrender. His eyebrows are knitted, curls of blonde hair covering the glistening sweaty forehead, pupils blown wide. Stiles almost feels bad. He must’ve thought everything was going well.

“Are you okay?” Adam asks, worry evident on his face. “Did I… did I do something?”

“No!” Stiles exclaims right away. “No, God no. It’s not you, it’s not, I swear, it’s… I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. I’m sorry.”

Adam nods in understanding. “There’s someone else.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement coming from someone who has clearly been here before. That makes Stiles feel even shittier.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles apologizes again. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, you’re a great guy and all, not that I really know you, you know, but…”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “It’s no big deal. For what it’s worth, the person is really lucky to have you.”

Stiles laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, uh. Thanks for that. Really. It means a lot.”

Adam only smiles at him.

“Stiles?” He hears a familiar voice call out, making his blood run cold. Stiles freezes, and Adam must catch his odd reaction, given the concerned look he gives him. 

Stiles turns around, only to find Derek standing there in his leather jacket and tight dark jeans, almost ridiculously out of place with his permanent scowl and clenched jaw in a loud club filled with hundreds of sweaty, drunk people twirling on the dancefloor in the flashing hot-pink lights. For some reason, it makes Stiles mad.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Stiles frowns, though Derek only gestures toward Adam and raises an eyebrow, as if that was an adequate answer.

“Erica called me,” he explains then, stepping closer. Adam takes that as his cue to leave, most likely not dumb enough to stick around waiting for someting that’s now definitely not happening anymore. Stiles watches the crowds of dancing people swallow him.

“Erica called you,” Stiles repeats in disbelief. Whatever he said about her being the world’s best wingwoman he now takes back. “Why the hell would she do that?”

Stiles is perfectly aware that it’s a silly, pointless question. None of the people here – him, Derek or any of the girls – have to pretend they don’t know precisely what’s going on. That doesn’t make him feel better – in fact, it makes him feel downright pathetic, especially with Derek looking at him with this weird, almost sad and pitiful expression on his face.

"Are you wearing make-up?" he asks out of nowhere, and Stiles feels like someone set his entire face on fire. 

“Shouldn’t you be with Hayley or something?” Stiles blurts out before he can stop himself. He hates how hurt and accusing it sounds. “Or are nightclubs simply not her scene?”

“I don’t think she’s the one out of the two of us to have issues with nightclubs,” Derek retorts. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, though his heart involuntarily flutters when he asks: “So why are you here then?” 

Derek looks around uncomfortably, eyes lingering on a pair of clearly not sober people not much older than Stiles aggressively making out in the middle of the dancefloor, gradually making their way toward the closest wall, everybody around giving them dirty looks as they stumble through the masses. Stiles flushes, thinking about what Derek’s reaction would have possibly been to seeing Stiles and Adam in their place just minutes ago.

“Can we take this outside?” Derek asks, raising his voice a little as a new song starts playing. 

Stiles could protest. The stubborn part of him wants to, too. 

Instead, he settles for a little nod of his head. “Sure.”

Outside, Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans – the tightest pair Lydia was able to find in his messy closet, uncaring that he hasn’t worn them since the eighth grade. It was still pretty warm when they first arrived here in nothing but thin t-shirts, but now it’s getting progressively cooler. Stiles shivers, staring at the crescent moon shining above them. 

“Are you cold?” Derek asks, not missing a move Stiles makes.

“It’s fine. Not bringing a jacket is a mistake I’ll just have to live with.”

Now it’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes exasperatedly as he shrugs out of his own leather jacket, placing it over Stiles’ shoulders gently. Stiles gulps, holding onto the sleeves to keep it from sliding off him, trembling once he gets a whiff of the pine-woods-leather smell that’s so entirely Derek it makes his head spin. He resists the sudden urge to bury his nose in it completely.

“Thank you,” Stiles says softly, blushing.

“Look, Stiles,” Derek sighs. “I think we should talk.”

Stiles doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit. But he supposes that there’s no use pretending that Derek is totally clueless, not after the night at the movies. So he just takes a deep breath, nods and braces himself for rejection. He doesn’t think Derek would go as far as call him stupid or be disrespectful and belittling in any other way – he’s too mature for that – but still, his words will hurt no matter how kindly he chooses to phrase it.

“You’re right,” he agrees. He’s not ready. “Listen, I’m really sorry about how I was with Hayley, I know you guys are, like, together and I never wanted – “

“We broke up,” Derek announces. Out of the blue, just like that. Stiles keeps waiting for the punchline to come. It never does.

He can feel his own eyes nearly bulge out of his head. He squeaks: “I’m sorry, what?”

Derek shakes his head and chuckles. “We broke up.”

“You… broke up. You broke up.” What?

Derek looks at him, amused. “We did.”

“You broke up?” Stiles repeats again, pointing an accusatory finger at Derek. “As in you’re not together anymore.”

“That’s what a break-up usually means, yes.”

“So… she’s not your girlfriend anymore. And you’re not her boyfriend.”

Derek cocks his head to the side. “I’m not sure we ever were that official.”

“Bullshit! You guys were, like, so fucking annoying. Always whispering and smiling and touching .”

He’s met with an incredulous smile. “Thanks.”

Stiles’ throat dries up almost entirely, his skin suddenly too hot. He knows Derek and his stupid werewolf ears must hear the rapid rhythm of his heart threatening to jump out of his chest any second, but he doesn’t care. “So uh… why did you? Break up.”

He expects Derek to look away, or drop his gaze to the ground. God knows that Stiles would. 

His breath catches in his throat, however, when Derek continues staring right into his eyes. It all seems oddly intimate, and Stiles frantically wishes for his heart rate to slow the fuck down . He must be reading way too much into this anyway. 

“She wasn’t really right for me,” Derek says then, shrugging. “Nice, yes. It was the change I needed after…”

Stiles nods, wide-eyed. He understands. 

“Still, it would be unfair of me to lead her on.” When Stiles doesn’t say anything to that, Derek adds: “I also didn’t realize the effect it would have on you.”

Stiles splutters, his face burning. “Wow, really ? How is that even relevant? You’re not gonna date for the rest of your life cause I’d be jealous?”

He refuses to acknowledge or think too hard about what he just admitted out loud. The only comfort is that Derek already knew – no harm done.

“Or,” Derek smiles. “I could just date someone who you wouldn’t have to be jealous of.”

“Yeah right, dude, good luck with that. Seriously. That’s ridiculous. Where would you even – I mean, unless you’d…” His throat audibly clicks. The way Derek’s looking at him all at once doesn’t seem so mysterious nor foreign anymore. “Oh.”

“Can I –”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even care at this point.

“ – kiss you?” Derek finishes, smirking. Stiles doesn’t think the subtle hints of crow’s feet in the corners of his pale-green eyes have ever been more attractive.

“Please.”

He’s already out of breath when the tips of their noses touch. The anticipation of something he’s been desperately waiting for since the first time he stepped into the woods looking for Scott’s inhaler is so intense his eyelids involuntarily flutter, too gone to care how impatient he must seem. 

The second Derek’s lips finally do brush against his, Stiles thinks he might pass out.

The kiss is gentle and soft, more like a caress, like a preparation for something bigger. He sighs into it, content and happy and so fucking needy . Derek’s tongue darts out to lick at Stiles’ bottom lip before taking it between his teeth and biting , not enough to break the delicate, pink skin, but definitely enough for Stiles to feel it. He moans, unable to hold those little mewling noises back as he pushes himself further into Derek’s personal space, his crotch catching at a muscular thigh.

He fists his hands into Derek’s t-shirt, holding onto dear life while Derek slowly sneaks under his, big hands warm on his already burning skin. The touch alone drives him mad with need, grinding into Derek’s jean-covered thigh uncontrollably. 

“Derek,” he whines against his wet lips helplessly. That makes Derek let out a low growl, the primal sound traveling straight to Stiles’ dick. “Come on, come on, come on .”

“Wait,” Derek murmurs, their faces still too close for Stiles to catch up and get the memo. His weak attempts to ride Derek’s thigh are stopped by the huge hands gripping his sides, werewolf strength stilling him despite his desperate efforts to keep going. He licks at Derek’s lips, chasing the taste of him on his tongue, before Derek pulls back until Stiles can’t reach anymore.

“What, no , come back, what are you – “

“We should get you home,” Derek says, his voice hoarse. His face is flushed and there is this little crazed look in his eyes that makes Stiles wonder just how utterly wrecked he must look to Derek. 

Stiles’ heart stutters. “Get me – get me home? What? Why? Did I do something wrong?” 

Derek shakes his head calmly, his thumb coming up to gently brush against Stiles’ cheekbone. He leans into the touch, can’t help himself. “No, of course not. You’re perfect.” His finger strokes Stiles’ face as he presses a small kiss on the tip of his upturned nose. “But this is not exactly the right place, is it?”

Stiles swallows. “You mean you want…?”

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“No, no,” Stiles starts. He doesn’t want Derek to freak out, to change his mind. “I… I want to. I really, really want to.”

“I know,” Derek gives him a smile. “I can hear it in your heartbeat. I can smell it on you too.”

“Well then – do you want to?”

Derek’s eyes go a little dark. “I do,” he admits, the words much quieter than the previous ones. Stiles wants to know what’s going on in his head. “Just not here.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees. “So um. Your place? I’d offer mine, obviously, but my dad…”

That statement doesn’t seem to make Derek any happier. “Your dad,” he sighs, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hey, no,” Stiles snaps his fingers right in front of Derek’s face, surprising him. “Don’t do that. I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. My dad’s fine. I’m eighteen now, Derek. I’m legal . I swear to you my dad doesn’t care. Well, I mean he does, but he likes you. He just… he just doesn’t need to hear his only son getting deflowered upstairs. That’s understandable, right?”

Derek chooses to focus on the wrong information though. He squints his eyes at Stiles. “Wait, you’ve never…?”

Stiles flushes, shaking his head. “Wasn’t that obvious?”

“I didn’t want to assume,” Derek admits. “Hey,” he mumbles softly, fingers gently touching his chin and tilting his head up when he drops his gaze to the ground. “Don’t hide from me. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Stiles gives him his best attempt at an unimpressed look, but he thinks he’s too vulnerable right now to make it work. He can’t stop his mind from racing, from making a slideshow of images of all the people he knows Derek has slept with before, and his heart sinks. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Derek replies resolutely. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Stiles nods, his voice small. “So. Your loft?”

Derek chuckles, giving Stiles a little peck on the lips. “Let’s do it another time, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

+ 1

Stiles always thought that being in a relationship that requires some sneaking around and hiding in closets and other small spaces would be fun – perhaps not in the long run, but a temporary amount of time is definitely doable. More than doable, actually. It sounds exciting .

He tells Derek as much as they’re lying on his worn leather couch in the middle of his loft with pitfalls in places where the betas most likely spend way too much time sitting on it, Stiles’ feet propped up in Derek’s lap as he rests his head on the armrest. It’s all so weirdly domestic – Stiles is even wearing spare sweats he now keeps at Derek’s place, along with his own toothbrush – it makes Stiles’ heart ache in all the right ways.

Derek smiles incredulously at his words, tickling his right foot. Stiles squeals like a little girl – no, scratch that, he lets out a low, rough, manly laugh – and tries to get away, flailing, but he stands no chance against Derek’s super-strength pinning him down. Just by grasping his ankle. It’s inexplicably arousing.

“Well, try being in a secret relationship around werewolves to see how it works out,” Derek says, big thumb rubbing Stiles’ malleolus. 

Because, well, they’re not in a secret relationship, thank you very much. Sure, they never really did the thing where they’d stand up in front of everyone hand in hand to announce the big news like Stiles has always imagined, but there was no need for that, not really, considering that all his friends have either heightened senses of smell (meaning they can definitely smell Derek on Stiles and put two and two together), or they’re simply observant enough (read: Lydia). 

Most of all, the majority even expected it to happen. Stiles was certainly surprised to learn that information.

“Yeah,” Stiles pouts, kicking Derek softly in the chest. “You guys just gotta ruin all the fun.”

“Ruin all the fun, huh?” 

Stiles’ heart leaps in his chest in anticipation as Derek grips his ankle tighter, and then fucking yanks Stiles across the entire couch until they’re squished together, Stiles’ ass touching Derek’s thigh as his legs fall limply across the armrest on the other side. He gulps when the tips of Derek’s brush lightly against Stiles’ thighs, traveling higher and higher until they finally settle on his hips, the grip much tighter. 

“Is this your idea of a counter-argument?” Stiles taunts, though his voice comes off shaky already. “Cause I gotta say, it’s not doing much.”

“Hm,” Derek makes this weird sound in his chest, almost as if he was purring. Like a freaking cat or something. “You’re right.”

Stiles grins, their faces now inches apart. He can feel Derek’s warm breath ghost across his mole-dotted cheek, the subtle hints of dark chocolate and mint in it somehow making it even more attractive. Sue him. “I know. I’m always right.”

Derek smirks. “Are you now?”

“I’d say so. I’d also say you wanna kiss me right now. Would I be right about that?”

Instead of answering, Derek wastes no time and dives right in, pulling a muffled little moan of surprise out of Stiles. He’s pretty satisfied with this turn of events though, because frankly, he has no idea how long he’d be able to keep up the whole charade of playing coy while appearing unaffected. It’s impossible to be unaffected anywhere in the vicinity of Derek.

Stiles returns the kiss enthusiastically, their lips sliding together in a remarkably controlled motion. Stiles hums happily when Derek playfully nips at his lower lip before redirecting his attention from Stiles’ mouth to the corners, to his chin, prepping kisses all over his jaw until his tongue finally reaches the hollow of his throat. Stiles whimpers against the touch, hands clumsily pawing at Derek’s hair to get closer, to get lost in him. The hands on his hips press into the delicate exposed skin even harder – Stiles half-expects some bruises to form once they’re done. He couldn’t care less.

Derek pulls the entirety of Stiles’ weight straight into his lap in one swift motion, large hands palming and kneading his ass, and holy God the cocky display of physical strength would’ve made Stiles roll his eyes only if he wasn’t so turned on. 

Rocking against the hard, muscular body he’s currently straddling, Stiles fists one of his hands in the collar of Derek’s henley, whining. “Please tell me you’ve got lube stuck somewhere in the couch for emergencies.”

Derek only laughs, kissing the side of Stiles’ neck lovingly. “No, no, why’d you stop,” Stiles pouts.

When Derek does not, in fact, resume kissing him, Stiles gives him a dirty look, opening his mouth to let out a litany of protests and horny begging. He’s even ready to pull the “I’m leaving for college in two days, we gotta have as much sex as possible” card, though considering that he’s already made a very detailed plan of how often he’s going to visit even during the week, Derek knows damn well he has absolutely nothing to worry about. Shame on Stiles for not keeping it from him long enough to use the excuse.

That’s when the front door to the loft opens with a loud bang, and Stiles buries his face into Derek’s shoulder in defeat. “ God why !”

“You have exactly five seconds to stop whatever you’re doing! In case you’re not interested in an audience, that is!” Stiles growls upon hearing the undesired sound of Erica’s aggravating voice while Derek rubs soothing circles into his back.

“Get the fuck out!” Stiles yells back, making no attempt whatsoever to get off Derek anytime soon.

“I warned you,” she says as soon as she gets closer, plopping down on the couch right next to them, uncaring of the fact that Stiles is currently seated in Derek’s lap. Boyd and Isaac at least have the basic human decency to seem a bit more reluctant to step inside.

Derek sighs. Stiles looks at him, waiting to be pushed off or at the very least asked to get off, but instead Derek’s hands tighten around him. Stiles blushes at that, his stupid heart skipping a beat to let all the werewolves around him know.

“What do you want?” Derek asks them finally, raising an eyebrow.

The mischievous glint in Erica’s eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by Stiles. “We met someone.”

“Good for you,” Derek grunts and Stiles grins into his shoulder. 

“Hayley,” Erica declares happily, her gaze never leaving Stiles. “I thought you’d wanna know.”

Stiles gets that Erica is simply trying to rile him up, probably expecting some remnants of jealousy to be clinging to Stiles like a parasite to this day. It wouldn’t be out of character for him either – they all know that he has a tendency to get a little obsessive. 

Derek has been very careful not to mention anything involving Hayley – or anyone else, for that matter – ever since that night at the club. Stiles is thankful for that, he really is, since it’s one of those thoughtful little things that Derek does in his own silent way of caring. Most people don’t pay attention to that, but Stiles does. Still, he doesn’t deem it necessary.

In fact, he hasn’t thought about Hayley in days. It’s almost like she never existed.

He can feel Derek’s eyes on him, the corners of Erica’s lips twitching.

“Okay,” he shrugs in response. Boyd and Isaac shift uncomfortably.

“She also told us to say hi,” Erica adds, cocking an eyebrow. “To Derek.”

“Okay,” he says again.

Erica must see that as some kind of a challenge. “She looked very hot, too.”

“Objection, relevance?”

Derek chuckles. 

“She was still wearing that expensive necklace Derek bought her. Do you know which one?” Then she looks at Derek: “Do you remember it?”

“What is your point here, exactly?” Derek asks, his face scrunched up in visible pain.

“God!” she exclaims. “You guys are so boring. And you,” she points an accusatory finger at Stiles, “you were much more fun when you were jealous.”

He smiles dopily. What can he say? With Derek looking at him the way he is right now, he beyond any doubt doesn’t need to be.