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Stiles has discovered that there are two types of guys in his frat. Well, there’s all the brothers, who are there to have a good time, party hard, get laid, and emerge at the end with a degree and hopefully a job opportunity. And then there’s the president of Omega Delta Tau, Derek Hale, who is there to get an “education” and “enhance his resume” and doesn’t have time for silly things like fun. Derek is also hotter than the sun and was voted Mr. Greek by the sororities last spring, but that’s not important right now. The important thing is that Derek Hale lives to suck the fun out of every situation, especially those involving Stiles. And Scott. (Because they realized freshman year that living in different dorms was basically intolerable, so they decided to rush together. Amazingly they managed to both get bids from ΩΔΤ and now they’re actually brothers.)
“Stilinski! Keg stand!!” Jackson yells over the crowd spread across the backyard of their house, his eyes a little glazed and his hat on sideways. Stiles can see Derek sitting on the porch swing next to Lydia Martin, Jackson’s sometimes girlfriend, Scott’s long time crush and President of Sigma Alpha Zeta, both of them surveying the party with the most judgmental expressions he has ever seen. Derek’s eyes catch his, and he shakes his head in warning. He should know better by now, because all that does is make Stiles want to do it even more than before. He doesn’t even like keg stands, but he definitely likes pushing Derek’s buttons. Especially if it gets him pushed up against a wall and growled at. Because that’s a thing that happens sometimes. Stiles may or may not try to make it a thing that happens more often.
With that in mind he pushes his way through the crowd made up of his half naked brothers (why they all seem to have their shirts off he doesn’t know) and dancing girls, determinedly ignoring the voice inside his head (that sounds annoyingly like Scott) reminding him that he doesn’t even like the taste of beer, never mind drinking it upside down at the urging of Jackson.
“Stiles, I don’t really think you should do this…” And okay, maybe that is actually Scott warning him, but Stiles can still feel Derek’s pretty eyes on him and there’s no way he’s backing down now.
That’s the last coherent thought he remembers having, three hours later, while wandering aimlessly down Greek Row. He’s 67% sure that he successfully completed the keg stand, because he probably would remember Jackson making fun of him or something. Honestly though, he’s not even sure how he got here, or why he’s meandering down the street, alone, and not in his bed. He can see the familiar green porch light that distinguishes the ΩΔΤ house from the other’s, and smiles. Home sweet home.
Except, he really, really needs to piss, and the house is like forever away, and there’s no way he can hold it. There’s a shiny black car parked on the street just a little ways up, and there’s just something about it that draws Stiles in. It’s the perfect barricade for peeing behind, so he sidles up to the driver’s door, ass to the road, and unzips his fly. He’s just letting out a contented sigh when a very familiar voice growls, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” out of nowhere.
Stiles frowns and looks around. Seeing nobody, he continues to pee. “What the fuck Stilinski!!” The door he’s conveniently peeing against slams open, knocking him backwards. He stumbles, trying to keep his balance and ultimately failing, ending up on his ass on the asphalt, looking up at the most intense murder eyebrows he’s ever seen. “Why the fuck would you piss on my car?” Growls Murder Brows, taking a menacing step forward. Never one to take life threatening situations seriously, Stiles leans back on his hands and grins.
“Hey baby,” he winks. “How you livin?”
“I’m standing in your piss and your dick is hanging out Stilinski, now is not the time for you to attempt to flirt with me.”
Stiles frowns. That is just rude. He’s not attempting to flirt, he’s successfully flirting. How does this guy even know his name anyways? “I tried to warn you about the keg stands.” Murder Brows continues, his face suddenly much closer and his voice gentler. Big warm hands close around Stiles’ biceps, pulling him up to his feet. “You need to go to bed.”
“You need to be in m’bed,” Stiles slurs, tucking himself back into his jeans with one hand and leaning heavily on Murder Brows for balance. “Waz yur name hot stuff?”
Murder Brows just huffs and begins to drag Stiles towards the ΩΔΤhouse, one hand hot where it’s curled around his waist. Apparently, he’s not going to get an answer to his question, but he doesn’t really care right now. Murder Brows’ arm feels strong and sturdy around him and he smells faintly of beer and mostly of black ice air freshener and a familiar laundry detergent.
He manages to only stumble once on the trek up the front walk, and the steps up onto the porch present quite the challenge, but eventually they make it through the front door. “How’d you know I live here?” Stiles asks suddenly. He’s not supposed to let strangers into the house. Derek would be so pissed.
“Because I live here too dumbass,” Murder Brows growls. Stiles forces himself to look up into Murder Brows’ face, squinting at the thick eyebrows and sharp nose and stubble swimming before him. Oh. OH.
“Der Bear you’re so hot,” he grins, feeling pleased with himself when Derek, because of course it’s Derek, scowls.
“Just shut up.” Is the only response he gets, although Derek continues to carefully guide him around the sleeping (or more accurately passed out) bodies scattered around the first floor. The staircase presents another challenge, especially when each step seems to move right before his eyes.
“Der,” Stiles whines, closing his eyes hard and then opening them as wide as he possibly can. “Der, you gotta, you gotta make the stairs stop movin’ like this.” He glares hard at the step in front of him, slowly picking up his foot and attempting to set it down, even though his vision seems to be tilting steadily to the right. It sounds like Derek grumbles something suspiciously like fuck my life under his breath, and then suddenly the whole world is tilting and Stiles finds himself with a face full of the best ass on campus. “Yer lucky I don’t feel sick yet Sweet Cheeks,” he mumbles, punctuating the statement with a sharp slap to Derek’s ass.
All this gets him is being dumped back onto his feet and a big hand on his shoulder, spinning him towards what he thinks is his bedroom door. His closed bedroom door, with a sock on the door knob and a piece of notebook paper taped right at eye level. He squints at it, the letters dancing across the page to the tune of Downtown. “If I only had one helmet I’d give it to you…” He hums, swaying backwards until he hits a solid wall of muscle. “Wassit say? The letters are dancin’ too much.” There’s a loud sigh and then Derek leans over him and starts to read.
“It says - Stilinski don’t you even so much as think about opening that door or I will stab you with my stilettos. Find somewhere else to sleep. I bet Derek has room in his… Oh fuck her honestly.” Derek growls, crumpling the paper up and tossing it on the floor. Stiles just blinks because he’s not really sure who her is and why she is threatening him or why he can’t go into his own bedroom. He doesn’t remember Scott talking to anyone, but then again he doesn’t remember a whole lot of anything. Also, the walls kinda seem like they’re spinning and he’s 74% sure they’re not supposed to be doing that.
Without any warning he’s getting dragged down the hall and led into a different bedroom. Derek’s saying something to him, but he can’t really focus, eyes bouncing from the two vaguely familiar people laughing in one of the beds to the annoyingly neat desk that he kind of wants to spread papers all over to the big hands tugging his admittedly smelly t-shirt over his head and replacing it with one that smells really good. The hands push him down onto the bed and then pull off his shoes before tugging the blankets up over him. He gets a flash of abs and chest hair but then his head hits the pillow and everything goes black.
Stiles doesn’t want to wake up. The blankets are wrapped around him in a toasty cocoon and the air against his face is just cold enough and the pillow his head is buried in smells like heaven and wait… He doesn’t dare open his eyes, instead breathing in deep and trying to acclimate to his surroundings based on scent alone (what? He and Scott wanted to be werewolves when they were 15 and used to practice identifying things based on smell. It’s a valuable fucking skill). The pillow smells like the laundry detergent down in the basement laundry room that the pledges are using this year, but on top of that is a shampoo that is definitely not the brand that Scott and Stiles share. He lets out a low groan. He can’t even remember anything that happened last night past Jackson goading him into doing a keg stand and Derek glaring at him from the porch swing.
His hands are throbbing too, which can never be a good sign. Cracking one eye open he pulls his left hand in front of his face, grimacing at the little rocks amazingly still embedded in his palm. He flicks his gaze up in front of him, only to find he’s facing the wall, which isn’t very helpful in figuring out where he is. Steeling his nerves he rolls over.
“Oh shit,” he whispers, both eyes now open and staring at the bed on the other side of the room. Erica Reyes is sleeping peacefully, blankets pooled around her waist and wearing a football team sweatshirt three times too big for her. Which means that that bed belongs to Vernon Boyd, which means the bed Stiles is in belongs to no one other than Derek Fucking Hale.
How the fuck did this happen?
He fumbles for his phone on the bedside table, dread only growing when he see three missed calls from Scott, ten texts from Scott, and three texts from Derek. Of course, he opens his conversation with Derek immediately. Scott can wait.
Derek Hale: you are a giant moron
Derek Hale: but for some reason I kinda like you. so meet me at Daily Brew when you wake up.
Derek Hale: if you puke in my bed you have to wash the sheets on top of washing my car.
Stiles grins to himself. Derek admitted to liking him. In writing.
Me: so is this like a date?
Still smiling too widely, he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, even more so when he realizes he’s wearing Derek’s shirt from Rush 2013. Derek likes him.
Derek Hale: depends on whether or not you agree to wash my car or not
Me: can i do it in a speedo?
Derek’s cheeks are still pink by the time he gets to the coffee shop. (They only get pinker when he realizes Stiles is still wearing his shirt).
It’s totally a date, by the way.