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Fantasy Football

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“Hey, man,” Boyd calls as he strides up the bleachers towards where Derek’s sitting.

As casually as he dares, Derek closes the sketchpad he has balanced on his knees and drops his forearms over it, sandwiching it against his thighs. Boyd doesn’t know he draws and he’d like to keep it that way.

“What’s up, Boyd?” He asks, tugging the brim of his U.C. Berkeley baseball cap lower over his eyes.

“Not much,” Boyd says, as he flops down on the bleachers next to Derek. “What are you doing back here?” He sits forward and scans the crowd, his eyes skimming over the strangely dressed players on the field.

There are about twenty kids sprawled across the stands; some doing homework, a few just hanging out, one girl who’s smoking. Derek curls his lip every time the light breeze drags the smoke in his direction. There is also, however, a small group down in front carrying posters, banging on cowbells and singing songs. They’re all dressed in robes and scarves, despite it being late spring.

“What the hell is going on down there?” Boyd asks, his brows arched as the two teams move around each other.

“Uh, I have no idea...” Derek lies, tugging on the brim of his cap again. He knows exactly what’s going on here, and has for months.

He stumbled upon the university’s Quidditch Club two semesters ago but had only really started following its progress once Gryffindor got their new chaser. Derek’s eyes flick towards the players, finding number 24 easily and watching him streak down the field in the strange little hop-run all the players have to do, the long dark handle of his broom clutched snugly between his lean, muscular thighs. Derek presses his sketchbook down onto his lap, letting the bottom edge dig, almost painfully, into his crotch, successfully quelling his burdening arousal.

He and Boyd watch in silence for a while--well, Derek watches number 24, his fingers itching to reopen his sketchbook and get back to drawing the player. He isn’t exactly sure what Boyd is watching. Currently, Gryffindor is up by over thirty points, with number 24 sprinting down the field in an impressive display of agility to fake out the keeper and throw the quaffle in for another five. Derek resists doing the little fist bump and whispered woohoo he normally does when 24 scores.

“This is going to sound strange, but don’t you think 24 would make a good receiver?” Boyd asks, his sneaker tapping against the metal floor of the bleachers as he thinks.

Internally, Derek groans. He’d love to have 24 receiving for him. He’d love to have 24 laid out flushed and sweating, chest heaving, catching everything Derek could throw at him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek draws a slow even breath before he responds, pushing the image of number 24’s flushed, smiling face out of his mind.

“I guess... I haven’t really been paying attention.”

“Maybe you should?” Boyd points his chin down at the field expectantly.

Derek clears his throat as 24 high fives a pretty brunette girl. His face is flushed, the dark spots of his moles standing out against the red blush that's layered over his normally pale skin. He’s sweating, and Derek can see the way his fluffy brown hair is darker at his temples and the nape of his neck. Derek swallows and almost chokes as his mouth floods with saliva, wanting to taste the chaser’s salted skin.

The game sets up again and the referee tosses the quaffle into the air. The moment the ball leaves the refs hands 24 is already leaping for it, his reflexes and timing impeccable, snatching it easily. Derek grits his teeth as the guy's thighs flex, well-defined muscles twitching in an effort to keep the broom snugly tucked into the vee of his thighs. He hits the ground and does a beautiful fake-out; twirling, spinning around the other chaser and deftly dodging a squishball batted at him from one of the opposing beaters. 24 barrels down the field with long elegant strides and Derek has to drag his eyes away as his temperature rises from what is, quite frankly, an obscene display.

“Well?” Boyd pushes, his brows arched.

“I mean, I guess.”

“You know Liam is graduating right?”  

“Of course I know. I have to know. I’m the quarterback.” Derek rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but do you also know Coach is putting out feelers at local high schools to recruit a new receiver as it is, so….”

“So why not bring him someone with some talent instead of a freshman who has something to prove?” Derek fills in with a sigh.

“Yeah, well, think about it, the kid has some skills. And we need the talent.” Boyd smacks Derek on the shoulder as he gets up. “See you at practice.”

“Yeah man, see you.”

Derek sits in a daze as Boyd disappears back towards campus. He loses track of time and the score of the game, he’s so consumed with the idea of having to talk to number 24, let alone playing football with him. The whistle on the field blows harshly and Derek jumps, eyes lifting in time to watch the Gryffindor team swarm his boy, number 24 enveloped in bodies, shouting and cheering.

Absently, he flips open his sketchbook, sighing over the half-finished drawing of number 24 mid-sprint, face cracked into a smirk as he throws the quaffle. Derek snaps the book closed–just one of many half-finished sketches he’ll never get a chance to complete. Quietly, he slinks from the stands and slips off back towards the gym. It’s a hike from the forgotten, forlorn backfield the Quidditch Club plays on, but Derek needs the distraction. The back of his neck still burns with embarrassment at being caught out there by Boyd, but at least he didn’t catch on that Derek was there for number 24 more than he was for the game.

He trots up one of the sloping hills, sketchbook tucked under his arm. He’ll get an upper body workout in before football practice this afternoon, and maybe exhaustion will help keep his mind off number 24’s long legs and perky backside.

Derek divider

Yanking the helmet from his head, Derek snarls, “That's the third fucking interception today, Greenberg!” He turns his attention to Coach. “You’ve got to be kidding with this! Put him back at tight-end!”

“What do you want from me, Hale? He's the best we’ve got right now,” Finstock snaps back, slapping his clipboard down onto the bench. “You think I like this? You think I want Greenberg! GREENBERG, THREE LAPS FOR BEING, WELL… YOU !” Coach shouts and then runs his palm over his forehead and into his hair.

“Hale’s got someone,” Boyd offers and Derek's eyes go wide with panic before he can school his expression.

Flinstock turns narrowed eyes on Derek as the rest of the team comes off the field for water.

“No. I don’t,” Derek grits out around his clenched teeth. This cannot be happenin g.

“You do…?” Flinstock says, eyes wide for a moment. “Hale, I don’t care who it is, if they’re a better wide receiver than Greenberg I want them, yesterday!”

“Coach, I don't have anyone!” Derek says as firmly as he can manage but Boyd once again calls his bluff.

“Number 24, dude,” Boyd says like he’s being fucking helpful, like Derek didn’t immediately think of number 24. Like Derek isn’t constantly thinking of number fucking 24. “You know, from last week, that strange shit with the brooms.”

“Are you talking about Stilinski… from the Quidditch club?” Jackson says, his face pinched, streaks of sweat and dirt smeared over his temples.

“No.” Derek grunts.

“Yeah,” Boyd says at the same time. “Do you know him?”

Derek groans, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.

“I mean, I guess I do. We went to Beacon Hills together, he was on the lacrosse team. I heard he was ok until he hurt his shoulder.” Jackson lifts his water bottle and squeezes it a few inches from his mouth like the tool he is, instead of just drinking from it. “I was a starter before I transitioned to football, so I didn’t really pay attention to who was warming the bench or why,” he says dismissively.

Derek sees his window and jumps for it. “Bum shoulder? That sucks, guess I don’t have someone after all.” He grabs a towel and his water bottle ready to make his escape.

“Lacrosse and football use a completely different set of muscles, he might be open to playing for us,” Flinstock says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Talk to him, Hale. I don’t care what you have to do to get him out here, but I want to see him next practice. Put him through his paces.”

“Coach,” Derek grunts.

“Do it, Hale, anything it takes or I’m starting Jackson against UCLA.”

“‘Bout time,” Jacksons interjects, a smug grin on his face.

“You wouldn’t,” Derek snarls, tossing his towel down.

“I would, I will. We’re dead in the water without a receiver who can catch what you throw and you know Greenberg… GREENBERG, GET UP! Flinstock charges out onto the field, shouting at Greenberg about his stamina. The poor kid’s on his knees tipped forward, his helmet to the turf, arms spread out to his sides. Derek can almost hear his wheezing from here. He looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over and sure enough, as coach gets to his side it only takes a small boot to his butt to have Greenberg flopping flat and starfishing out in the middle of the field.

“Don’t bother with Stilinski, Hale,” Jackson says, smirking around his water bottle. “Just forget about him, you know I was made for first string anyway. It's time you learned your place.”

“You fucking…”

“Derek.” Boyd slaps a hand on Derek's chest stopping him from engaging Jackson. “Don’t listen to Whittemore, he’s an idiot. Isaac and I will come down to the back field when you talk to this Stilinski kid. We’ll have your back.”

Having support is not what Derek is afraid of–if anything he’d prefer if Boyd and Isaac weren’t there to see him embarrass himself in front of number 24… Stilinsk i . Even just knowing his name sends butterflies swooping through Derek’s stomach.

“Fine, whatever,” Derek snarls, because fuck his life. He couldn’t just make it two more years watching 24–Stilinski–from the safety of the bleachers, could he? No, of course he couldn’t. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath, storming after the rest of his team towards the locker room.

“Okay!” Isaac says a while later as he flops down on the bench next to Derek. He’s got a towel wrapped around his hips and he smells like coconut shampoo. “I hear we’re going on a recon mission?”

“We are not going on a recon mission,” Derek states, tossing his jersey in the footwell of his locker with more force than necessary.

“But Boyd said…”

“I don’t fucking care what Boyd said. I’m the quarterback of this team, you guys listen to me.”

“Yeah, but we aren’t on the field right now so… what’s going on? Are we getting you a new receiver or what?”

“We are,” Boyd chimes in as he rounds the end of the lockers, pulling his shirt over his head. He’s already in his boxers, freshly cleaned from the showers, and if they weren’t such good friends Derek would take a moment to admire the thick muscles of his thighs. But they are, so he doesn’t, turning back to his locker and trying not to bang his head against the low shelf in frustration. “Just gotta figure out when they play next,” Boyd finishes, coming to stand on Derek’s other side.

“Tuesday,” Derek says without thinking, then grimaces, internally groaning.

“ Ooookay …. Isaac stretches out the word and Derek sighs.

He’s got their whole season memorized, he knows the days they practice, who they’re playing and when their games are. Derek also knows that number 24, the brunette chaser (number 11), and one of their beaters, a blonde girl (number 69), had to petition the student council twice to keep their practice time on the backfield. Derek didn’t understand why the school was giving them such a hard time–that field’s crap anyway, and no-one uses it, not even the D3 soccer team.

“So tomorrow then,” Isaac pushes, leaning back to catch Derek’s eye as he tries to hide his head in his locker again.

“Yeah, I guess. I saw a flyer earlier…. In, uh, the quad.” Derek scrambles to cover his blunder. Gryffindor plays Hufflepuff tomorrow and those are Derek's favorite games. Hufflepuff always has such good strategies, and their plays are complicated, but their stamina is low. Number 24– Stilinski– always runs circles around them.

“ Riiight … Isaac says, again, drawing out the word. Derek can feel him and Boyd exchanging looks behind his back.

“Right.” Derek grunts, grabbing his towel and stepping over the bench. “Guess we’re on for then.” He bites out, stomping off towards the showers.

He tries very hard for the rest of the day to no think about Stilinski .

Chapter Text

“Oh my god, this is really a thing?” Isaac laughs. “This is the best!”

Derek buries his face in his hands, groaning as Isaac jumps to his feet and bounds down three rows to take a spot next to a group of Hufflepuff supporters. He watches in horror as one of the girls blushes and wraps the end of her scarf around Isaac’s neck. By the end of the first fifteen minutes, Isaac knows all their cheers and is learning the little dances that go with them.

“This can’t be happening.” Derek groans, and next to him Boyd shrugs. He’s got his cell phone out, and he’s taking some videos of the players.

“It’s happening. Well, you better make it happen if you don’t want to ride the bench for the first game of the season.”

Derek would like to be riding something, but it’s certainly not the bench. His eyes stray to the field–something he’s been trying to avoid since the teams began their warm-ups and he watched Stilinski drop into an almost perfect split to stretch out his long legs. Derek’s been losing a battle of wills with his cock ever since.

The game’s been underway for twenty minutes now, and it’s been spectacular, with Hufflepuff putting up a good fight as their stamina holds out. Stilinski does some kind of artful leap, and Derek licks his lips at the sight of the broom clutched snugly between his thighs, his arms fully extended over his head to catch the quaffle. His t-shirt rides up, exposing a thick, dark trail of hair from his navel to the edge of his shorts, and Derek curses under his breath, biting the inside of his cheek as he hunches over his knees.

What a fucking creep, Derek thinks, cursing himself as his cock throbs, lengthening against his hip. Normally he’s not this frustrated, normally he has more control, but there’s just something about this guy that gets right under his skin and makes him crazy.

“Dude, he’s amazing,” Isaac says when he finally detaches himself from the Hufflepuffs and comes bounding back up the bleachers. “Look at him move. How did he get so fast?”

“I’m going to get a little closer and take some video the next time he has a breakaway,” Boyd says, getting up.

“How does he keep the broom between his legs like that?” Isaac asks as he and Boyd stomp down the bleachers. The question rings in Derek’s head and his cock aches, thickening against his will.

He’s not going to do this! He’s not going to adjust his half hard dick in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by people watching a fucking pretend Quidditch match. He’s going to sit here breathing calmly, not watching Stilinski, not watching anything, until it goes down.

“Oh my god!” Isaac shouts, throwing his hands up into the air as Stilinski beautifully completes a fake out, the toned muscles of his calves bunching as he pivots on his toe and takes off again. “Did you see that! Oh my god! Derek, get down here!”

“Come on man,” Boyd calls as they both turn back to the game.

Fuck, he’s doing this. FUCK. He’ll be quick about it, just grab and release, no need to be obvious about it. No one needs to know how fucking hard he is from watching some twink pretend he’s a god-damned wizard, no matter how great his legs look, or how perky his ass is.

Fuck. He’s not helping himself with that train of thought.

“Sorry Puffs!” Isaac laughs as the girl he was talking to earlier throws a black and gold pom-pom at him. “I know, I’m a traitor!”

Derek twists as he stands, his fingers dipping between his legs as he tries to adjust himself in one fluid motion. He’s… mostly successful, though, in his haste, he managed to grip himself so roughly through his jeans that he may have done more damage than good. Heat rushes through his body as each stride draws the too tight denim over his cock.

Again, try again. Derek thinks, frantically.

Huffing out a breath, he shoves his hands into his front pockets, casually flexing his fingers and adjusting himself, sighing at the instant release of pressure against his dick. He needs to start buying looser fitting jeans, but for now, he'll keep his hands in his pockets to help hide his current predicament.

“Dude,” Boyd says, shoving his phone into Derek’s face and replaying Stilinski’s last play. Yep… it's just as sexy as it was the first time, only this time, it’s in slow-mo, and the bounce of Stilinski's butt as he pivots is even more pronounced.

“Yeah, I saw. I’m here; I’m watching.”

“Chill out, Derek,” Isaac says, swinging the black and gold pom-pom around. “Lighten up; we’ll make sure Stilinski says yes. You know we don’t stand a chance without you on the line. Jackson is too self-centered to run the right plays.”

“Whatever.” Derek balls his hands in his pockets and spends the rest of the game trying not to watch as Gryffindor, led by Stilinski, dominates Hufflepuff.

“Drinks are on Stiles!” The blond, number 69, shouts as Derek, Boyd, and Isaac make their way across the field.

The Gryffindor team erupts in applause and Stilinski ducks his head, smiling. “You should be buying me drinks!” He shouts, and Derek flushes at the timber of his voice. It’s deeper than he expected–but then again, Derek’s never been this close to him before.

“Hello, tall dark and handsome,” the blond says, lifting the arm she has tossed over Stilinski’s shoulder and holding her hand out for Boyd. “How about you buy me a drink, and I let Stiles here off the hook?”

Stiles? Derek thinks as he looks Stilinski over. Up close he’s much more beautiful than Derek could have imagined. Bright caramel colored eyes surrounded by dark, thick lashes, a small, slightly upturned nose that’s beyond adorable, and his mouth, fuck, his mouth. Derek looks away.

“I think that could be arranged,” Boyd says, flashing one of his rare half grins. “Boyd.”

“Erica.” Her eyes flick over Boyd’s form before she turns and places a wet kiss on Stiles’ cheek. “See ya later, Batman.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Catwoman,” Stiles calls after her.

“You know that doesn’t leave me with enough options,” Erica calls as she slips her dirt encrusted arm around Boyd’s waist.

“Alright, do everything I wish I was doing!” Stiles laughs.

“Now that, I can handle.”

“Boyd, Boyd !” Isaac hisses, his eyes wide as he turns to Derek. “What a traitor.”

Derek would shrug, he would respond, he would do anything– but he can’t, because Stiles, still smirking, has turned those liquid brown eyes on him and Derek can feel all his words, his very ability to form coherent thought, catching in his throat. Blocking up his windpipe until he feels like he's going to choke and has to look away.

“Uh… so…” Isaac flounders, looking between Derek and Stiles. “I’m Isaac, and this is Derek.”

“Right…” Stiles says skeptically. “Recruitment isn’t until the end of June… so you’re going to have to come back.”

“Oh right cool, cool… no wait, uh,” Isaac says, licking his lips and turning a helpless look to Derek.

Gritting his teeth, Derek takes a breath and locking eyes with Stiles he blurts out, “Come play for the football team. We’re down a wide receiver, and you’d be perfect.”

Both Stiles and Isaac are blinking at him. He’s such an idiot. Already he can feel the heat of embarrassment rushing up his neck, coloring his face. He fucking hates everything about this. 

“Uh, no,” Stiles says simply, picking up his broom and turning for his bench.

Isaac looks at Derek helplessly, waving his hands at Stiles’ back when the kid turns away. Derek frowns, his brows lifting. They argue silently for a few moments before Derek relents to Isaac’s patented puppy dog face and stomps off after Stiles. This is decidedly not how he thought their first conversation would go. This whole situation is an actual disaster. If it wasn't happening to Derek, he'd laugh at the poor sap it was happening to, but as it is, this particular disaster is his life, and it is so not funny. To be fair, Derek always figured he’d never get up the nerve to talk to Stiles, so really, this is leaps and bounds above what he was actually expecting, which was a resounding nothing.

“Look, Stiles?” Derek says, and Stiles looks up from where he’s shoving his gear into a Gryffindor themed sports bag. Absently, Derek wonders if the Hufflepuffs have their own bags, and glances down the field before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing.

Stiles is looking at him with arched brows, his expression verging on impatient the longer Derek takes to get to the point.

“Listen,” Derek starts and falters, not really sure where he’s going.

“So far you’ve told me to both look and listen, and honestly I’m not complaining.” Stiles’ eyes slowly drop over Derek’s body, and he stiffens at the blatant perusal. “But while you’re really nice to look at, I have to be across campus in forty minutes for class, and you’re slowing down my routine.”

Derek gapes, his mouth opening and closing, “Uh...”

“Right,” Stiles says, stiffly hefting his bag onto his shoulder. “Don’t hit on the jocks.”

“No, uh.” Derek reaches out and grabs Stiles’ upper arm as Stiles tries to push past him. Stiles looks from Derek’s hand on his arm to his face, his brows raised. “Wait... uh, fuck. Look, could you just come to one practice? I don’t care if you bomb it on purpose, but just one.”

“No man, sorry. Find someone else,” Stiles says, pulling his arm free and walking off at a surprisingly fast.

“It has to be you,” Derek practically shouts as he scrambles to catch up to him.

Stiles scowls at Derek as he falls into step beside him. “No, I’m telling you, it really doesn't.”


Stiles laughs disbelievingly. “Man, as much as I like hearing you say my name, this is getting a little old. Why does it have to be me?” He pulls up short, and Derek staggers to a stop beside him. “Do you actually have a reason, or are you like the guy from the soccer team, or the dude from the basketball team, or the fucking guy from the ping pong club. Like, ping pong? Come on, lame.” Stiles takes a breath, his hands flicking back and forth as he talks until he pushes one long, well-shaped finger into Derek's pectoral. He pauses, distracted and they both look down at the digit pressed up against the muscle of Derek's chest. Stiles blushes, licking his lips and snatching his finger back before refocusing. "Can't a guy just play a game for fun? Why's it gotta be some major thing?"

Panic and confusion well up inside of Derek. He’s never been rejected this many times by someone who seems to be interested in him. Again, he chokes on his words, and Stiles looks at him, waiting. Waiting for Derek to get his head out of his ass and do something.

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” Stiles says, turning away.

“My coach is going to start Jackson Whittemore in my place if I don’t get you to practice tomorrow,” Derek finally blurts out, hands fisted at his side. He has no idea why he says it, only that he’s literally got nothing else. And he needs this; he needs Stiles to just stop all that frantic motion and fast talking and just listen to him. Surprisingly, Stiles pauses. His back rigid, his hands open and close at his sides a few times before he slowly turns around.

“Jackson?” He asks, his eyes narrowed.

“Yeah…” Derek says softly. “I know it's not your problem, and I know you don’t have to care but…”

“Jackson Whittemore plays for our football team? Jackson Whittemore, blond-haired, pretty boy, douche bag, with a holier than thou attitude? We talking about the same guy here?” Stiles cuts in, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek can’t help the small grin and eye roll. “God help us if there’s more than one Jackson in the world.”

Stiles narrows his eyes again–his lips compress tightly, but the corners of his mouth curl up like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Jackson’s a fucking asshole,” he says finally.

“Ye–uh, yeah he is.” Derek agrees, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“I wasn't going to do this, not this time…” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair, “but fuck Jackson, right…?”

“Right.” Derek agrees, his stomach swooping as the conversation takes a sudden turn in his favor.

“So, here’s the deal I’m offering,” Stiles squares up, his shoulders lifting, arms crossing over his broad chest. His eyes flick over Derek’s body quickly, and he licks his lips before meeting Derek’s eye again. “Take me out on a date. A real date, and I’ll be there,”

Of course, it’s that moment that Isaac finally shows back up beside Derek, like that's precisely what Stiles was waiting for. Like the chances of Derek saying yes would drop if his friend was there. Stiles' eyes shine, and Derek can’t believe what just happened.

“What just happened?” Isaac blinks, looking between them.

“What?” Derek asks, completely taken aback and too shocked to say much more. Surely this isn’t really happening--Stiles couldn’t be handing him everything he’s ever wanted on a silver platter.

“Well?” Stiles smirks, cocking his head to the side, waiting.

“I…. take you out on a date, and you’ll show up to practice?” Derek stumbles over his words, his head spinning.

Yup.” Stiles pops the ‘p’ and Derek can’t help but drop his gaze to those perfect lips. “That’s all you’ve gotta do. Just one nice date.” As he speaks he lifts his chin, almost in challenge and Derek’s sure the motion is meant to be in defiance, to make Stiles look bigger, more confident,  but all it does is exposes the long, sweaty column of Stiles’ throat and the sight of all that beautiful, slick skin makes Derek weak.

“Deal,” he says before Stiles can rethink his request. Already Derek’s palms itch to touch him.

Stiles has already half turned away, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d–– Wait, what?” He spins back around, his eyes wide. “ Deal?

“Deal,” Derek breathes, not believing his luck. Things don’t ever work out for him like this. He wants to laugh; he feels giddy. This isn’t his life.

“A... a real date?” Stiles asks, his lips parting in shock, he seems to deflate, all the fight drains out of him, replaced by shuttered confusion. He’s adorable. Derek wants to touch him. “Like, off-campus, wearing fancy shoes, where the waiters have the little towel draped over their arm?”

“A real date,” Derek confirms, his voice soft because suddenly Stiles looks like he's going to bolt. “Anywhere you want, any kind of waiter you want.”

“Just for showing up to your practice and letting your coach run me around a bit?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, licking his lips and stepping towards Stiles. “You… you don’t even have to do well; you can totally bomb it if you want.”

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles taps his long fingers on the strap of his sports bag. “And this? Me showing up, will fuck up Jackson Whittemore’s chance at starting in the home opener?”

“It will totally fuck it up.” Derek chances a small smile and Stiles blushes, gaping at him.

“Fine, I’ll be there.” He adjusts the strap of his duffle, and his eyes flick to Isaac before darting back to Derek. “I’m free Thursday after four, all day Friday, and most of the day Saturday. No matter what happens tomorrow, you’re still taking me out.”

“Yeah, for sure. Deal’s a deal,” Derek says, holding his hand out.

Stiles looks at his hand hanging in the space between them for a moment before reaching out and slipping his palm into Derek’s. His skin is warm and rough, calloused from years of playing sports, and as Derek wraps his fingers around it, he can’t help but notice that Stiles’ hand is large but slim, so much more narrow than his own, but his grip is just as sure, just as firm. It makes him want to draw Stiles in and slowly explore the rest of him. His body pulses, the desire unnervingly strong, and Derek pulls his hand back before he gives in to the urge to tug Stiles against his chest and bury his nose into the kid’s sweat-damp hair.

“Deal,” Stiles confirms before turning and walking away.

He stands there in shock, disbelieving his own fortune. His life doesn't work out like this; he doesn’t get what he wants, not when it comes to relationships. Derek grunts, stumbling as Isaac practically jumps on his back, howling as he wraps his arms around Derek's neck and pulls him down into a headlock.

“Oh my god! You did it! Fuck, dude, Jackson’s gonna be pissed!” Isaac laughs. His excitement is contagious and Derek’s smile spreads as the reality of what just happened settles over him. “You’ve got a date with a dude,” Isaac says, sobering slightly like he just realized what happened.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, shaking Isaac off and staring after Stiles until he disappears behind a building. “Yeah. I’ve got a date with number 24.” With Stiles.

Chapter Text

“Looks like you’ll be warming the bench, Hale. I told you Stilinski was a lost cause.” Jackson sneers as he saunters to take up position on the line.

“Fuck off Jackson,” Derek snarls.

“No, no really. Better enjoy this last play cause I’ll be taking over practices from now on.”

Derek lurches forward, his hands balled into fists, his mouthguard squeaking between his teeth with how hard he’s biting down on it. He wants to punch Jackson in his smug face. He’ll do it too, right through his helmet if he has to.

“Derek,” Boyd warns slapping the football into Derek’s chest. “Forget him.” With a significant look, Boyd takes the football back and turns, falling into position as Derek’s center.

“Hale, move your ass!” Finstock voice filters, right on queue, over the small headset embedded in his helmet. Groaning, Derek hunches down, calls the play through the coded command, receives the snap from Boyd and pivots back on the ball of his foot, cleat digging into the turf and hurls the football down the field. The players move around him, seamlessly, pads crunching and Derek feels at peace standing in the middle of the madness watching his perfect arch. The ball spins and Greenberg fumbles it, even though it hit him right in the chest. Derek can almost hear the mumbled half-formed apology Greenberg will be panting at him as he jogs the ball back over. Derek snarls as the lines set up again, kicking at the turf and dropping his hands on his hips.

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek notices Finstock leaning in to speak directly into the helmet of a lanky kid, he’s got his clipboard out and is gesturing wildly at both the field and then the clipboard. The kid nods along and the whole scene is strange because unlike the rest of the team, the kid’s got a red mesh practice jersey over his pads instead of the schools normal royal blue and gold. After a moment Flinstock slaps the clipboard against the kid’s butt and screams for Greenberg to get his ass off the field.

“Set it up again Hale, same play.”

The line sets up again this time with a beacon of red taking the spot Greenberg had vacated. Derek narrows his eyes at the kid, long legs, slim hips, he does this little shake with his hands as Derek lines up behind Boyd to receive the snap calling out the play.

“Set… Black 42, Black 42, Hut-Hut.”

Again Derek steps back, pivots on his toe, the muscles of his arm and back bunching as he looks for his connection, a blur of red flashing along the edge of his vision, fast, too fast, outpacing anything Greenberg could do with ease. The closest blocker doesn’t even try to catch him, the new kid makes the cut, darting across the field towards the centerline and Derek is momentarily stunned by how he moves.

He’s arched up on the balls of his feet, arms pumping, his red jersey flutters out behind him and he’s floating. Floating as if in slow motion across Derek’s vision and Derek almost forgets to throw the ball. Snapping back to himself, Derek curls his fingers around the leather and releases it. The tension coiled through his arm explodes forward, the ball arcing through the air. The kid looks up with perfecting timing to receive the throw and Derek knows that it’s going to connect.

Something warm and foreign expands in his chest as the kid does this little leap, snatching the ball out of the air like it’s nothing. His feet touching down, sure and graceful and as soon as his toes hit the turf he’s off again. Like lightning, he streaks down the field, and a laugh explodes passed Derek’s lips as the kid stops, pivots, and twirls on his toe, circling around one of the blockers and leaving the kid blinking in his dust. Derek’s seen that move before and he almost chokes on the joy that wells up inside of him… Stiles.

Next to him, Jackson pulls his helmet off standing with his mouth agape as Stiles skids to a stop in the end zone. Coach is losing his fucking mind on the sidelines and half of Derek's offense have popped their tops to stare as Stiles comes jogging back towards them. Slowly, Derek pulls his helmet off to stare with them at Stiles, his movements fluid, easy, as he comes to a stop before Derek. He’s smirking, his full lips pulled up on one side and his eyes molten caramel, full of mischief. Derek feels pinned under his gaze, gulping in each breath, his chest heaving from so much more than the exertion of practice.

Stiles pushes the football against Derek's chest and slowly licks his lips.

“I’m thinking… steak ,” he says with a wink.

“Anything. Anything you want.” Derek breathes before he even realizes what he’s saying. He’s glad for the heat of the day and the fact he’s already flushed or else his blush would have been a dead give away at just how much he’s willing to give Stiles. Just how badly he means anything .

“Stilinski? … how? What the fuck happened to you?” Jackson says, eyes wide. "There's no way..."

“Fuck you too, Jackson,” Stiles says, barely glancing in Jackson’s direction. Instead, he turns his attention to Boyd who’s standing on Derek’s other side and says with a completely straight face: “Erica says hi and that she bought more baby oil if you’re still coming over tonight.”

“I’ll text her,” Boyd nods, the corner of his mouth ticking up.

Bobbing his head in acknowledgment, Stiles jogs off towards the sidelines. Derek bites back a groan at how good his ass looks in his pads. This season just got a lot more complicated.

“No, seriously,” Jackson hisses, shoving Derek's shoulder. Again, the violent urge to knock Jackson out washes through Derek. “I honestly have no idea what happened to him, Stiles was a fucking fail in high school. He could barely walk let alone run. He certainly couldn’t do…….. that !” He gestures wildly to the field.

“I have no idea, Jackson. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your own ass once in awhile you’d notice the people around you changing.” Derek shoves Jackson’s shoulder as he walks past him to where Finstock has an arm looped around Stiles' shoulder, smacking a wet kiss to the side of his helmet.

It’s one of the best practices the team’s had, possibly in weeks. Stiles’ speed and agility seems to have reignited the competitive spark among the other players and everyone leaves the field at the end of the day sweating, exhausted, but smiling. There’s a light, fuzzy warmth in Derek’s chest as his cleats echo in the tunnel that leads from the field to the locker room.

Coach is courting Stiles, his voice booming down the empty corridor, talking scholarships and grants and all the things a college kid wants to hear. Derek draws up next to his office door, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes.


Derek jumps, springing up from where he’s slumped half asleep against the wall, his helmet dangling from his fingertips at this side.

“What are you still doing here? You smell like an animal that met its untimely death in the back of an abandoned vehicle... in the desert. Go hit the showers!” Finstock slaps him roughly on the shoulder and Derek watches as the man, mumbling to himself, marches up the corridor towards the field.

“For the record,” Stiles says the smirks audible in his tone, and Derek just barely avoids flinching again, he hadn’t noticed Stiles following Coach out of the office. “I don’t think you stink. I'd call it a manly musk. It suits you,” he says and Derek’s cheeks heat under the calculating weight of his steady amber gaze.

“Uh, thanks,” he manages, and the fact that he and Stiles–with his hair all sexy and out of control, sticking up at a thousand different angles from his helmet, and his sweat-streaked face, and his crooked grin and big brown eyes– are alone, completely alone, for the first time since they met. Derek blinks, his entire body going rigid as Stiles’ smile becomes a little more forced.

“Yeah, anyway. I’m going to go shower, it’s this way?” He points and Derek shakes his head.

“No, I’ll show you,” Derek says, swallowing hard as Stiles falls in step beside him, trying his damnedest not to think about him soaking wet in the communal shower.

“I guess I’m on your team now, or something. Coach says if I keep doing what I’m doing he can try and get me a scholarship.”

“Th––that's great,” Derek forces out and he’s sure the sound of his heart beating against his ribcage is audible in the quiet of the deserted hallway. His mind is a traitor, it flashes from Stiles in the shower to Stiles stripping down every day after practice. Miles of pale smooth mole dotted skin sweaty and flushed. Somehow the idea of Stiles in his socks and jockstrap is almost more enticing than him nude in the shower.

“Yeah, coming from a one parent household, any extra income would be helpful. And it turns out that football scholarships offer the most cash. Who would have guessed.” Stiles rolls his eyes good-naturedly, smiling at Derek. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to say something here. Not that it would matter. His tongue feels three sizes too large for his mouth. When he gives a stilted nod Stiles continues, though a little less jovially. “So I guess we’ll see how much Finstock can come up with to keep me around.”

Derek says a silent prayer that Coach can work a miracle with the board of directors and get Stiles the fattest scholarship he can. Derek would be willing to give up his own scholarship if it means keeping Stiles around just a little bit longer. It's not like his family can’t afford to pay his entire way. Blinking, Derek forcefully stops that train of thought. Don’t give too much of yourself, he mentally scolds.

Glancing at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, Derek grits his teeth. He would give so much of himself to Stiles, too much. Derek’s heart thuds painfully in his chest, clingy, needy, controlling , the voice of his ex whispers in his ear.

“Hey, man, you ever think you could actually murder someone with your eyebrows?” Stiles asks and Derek misses a step.


“It’s just that, you know, your face is like…” Stiles sticks his helmet between his thighs as they walk–like it’s normal to be walking with something between your thighs–and angles his fingers over his eyebrows, the tips pointing down towards his nose as he grimaces. “You’re all constipated…”

“Thanks… I guess.” Derek says as Stiles steps stall out, blinking slowly and dropping his hands from his forehead. He plucks the helmet from between his legs and places it on the bench by his new locker. STILINSKI is written in Coaches big block letters on a piece of white athletic tape stuck to the front, and quite suddenly Derek realizes where they are. His pulse picks at once, thundering in his ears as all of his blood drains south, and not for the first time today he’s glad he’s wearing a cup.

“No… I didn’t mean—“ Stiles voice muffled and frustrated as he pulls the red practice jersey over his head revealing his shoulder pads and, for fuck's sake, that thick, dark trail of hair that leads down from his belly button. Derek sucks a sharp breath, his palms itching with the want to touch. He needs to get out of here… now.

“You know, Stiles… I just realized I have somewhere I need to be… but, uh, the showers are right through there and…”

Stiles looks up at him from where he’s pulling on the laces at the front of his pants, confusion etched into his features. He glances over his shoulder to where Derek is pointing and nods slowly. “Right…” he says suspiciously, drawing out the word and Derek feels his cheeks heat.

“Yeah so, okay…” he takes two steps back, unable to look away from Stiles, who’s staring at him like he’s grown another head and bumps his knee into the low wooden bench. He stumbles a step before catching himself and turns around to glare down at it, almost surprised. As if there wasn’t always a bench right there. As if it was put there, just now, to make him look like an idiot.  “Okay, see you...Yeah, see you later.” Derek turns tail and flees the locker room.

“Derek….?” Stiles voice echoes but Derek doesn’t look back. He can’t, and he’s halfway across the parking lot, his Camaro in sight when he realizes he doesn’t have his keys, or his bag, or his change of clothes and he’s still in his pads and cleats….and fuck.

Dejected, he runs his palm over his face and with a deep sigh trudges the last few steps to his car. He slumps against the driver side door and drags his nails over his scalp. He needs to get his shit together if he’s going to have any chance of surviving the season.

Something's gotta give. He can’t keep acting like this around Stiles, especially around Stiles and the team. They know him too well and will absolutely call him on his shit. Maybe… maybe he just needs to get off.

Yeah , he decides, that's exactly what he’s going to do. But first, he’s going to march all the way back down to the locker room, grab his shit, and then, only after he’s got all his shit is he going to turn tail and retreat to his apartment to work off some of this ridiculous tension.

That's the plan anyway, but ten minutes later when Derek storms back into the locker room, the sound of running water makes him draw up short. He quietly places his helmet in the bottom of his locker and stealthily slips out of his shoulder pads and practice jersey. Carefully putting everything away before retrieving his bag. The sound of the water sloshing irregularly along the tiles as Stiles showers draws his attention every few seconds like a siren's call. Derek doesn’t realize he’s given in, following the sound, until he’s four steps from the entrance of the shower when he hears the humming. Pausing, he listens. Stiles’ voice is a pleasant tenor, reverberating off the tiles as he hums Hedwig's theme from the Harry Potter movies.

The smile that spreads over Derek’s face is involuntary and he has no idea how long he stands there listening. The squeal of the water shutting off and the slap of Stiles' feet on the tile sends him into an immediate panic. Jumping, Derek turns and sprints for his bag, grabbing it and slipping back out of the room, hopefully before Stiles even makes it back to his locker.

Chapter Text


“Laura, now isn’t a great time.” Derek kicks the door to his studio closed, dropping his bag and toeing out of his cleats.

“What? Why not?” Laura asks. “It’s Tuesday, we always talk on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, I know but not today. I…. I’ll call you later.” Derek’s halfway to the bathroom, already tugging at the laces of his uniform pants, desperate to get his cock out from behind his cup. The last thing he wants to do is be on the phone with his sister when that first wave of relief washes over him.

“Der, what’s going on…” Laura’s voice takes on that concerned but curious tone she makes when she knows Derek isn’t telling her something. He squeezes his eyes shut mumbling, “Bye Laura...” and pulling the phone from his ear and hitting end call. Almost immediately his phone buzzes in his hand with a text from Laura.

LH: Did you just hang up on me?

LH: If you’re not already dead, you soon will be.

Derek frowns, putting his phone on the edge of the sink and pulling his shirt over his head. He has no idea what he’s going to say to Laura, and right now he doesn’t even care. He’s sweaty and tired, his cock is squished–uncomfortably hard–inside his cup. He tosses his shirt on the floor and leans into the shower to turn the water on, his phone rattles against the sink.

LH: At least tell me you’re ok and I don’t have to come down there and kill someone else before I kill you.

ME: I’m fine.

Derek types his text out one-handed as he toes out of his socks and shoves his pants down his hips.

LH:   Fine? You’re fine….? I really am going to have to drive all the way down there just to kill you? You know I will Derek.

ME: I’m fine, ttyl!!!!

With a huff, Derek drops his phone onto his discarded clothing. The air in the bathroom is growing humid with the heat from the shower. Derek takes a moment to close his eyes and draw a deep breath, clearing his mind of everything but the throbbing between his legs. Slowly, he slides his hands down over his chest, fingertips skirting over his nipples until they come to rest on his hips, just barely slipping under the elastic of his jockstrap. Licking his lips, Derek shuts his eyes, plucking the elastic, drawing it out and letting it slap back against his hips. The soft sting sends tingles of warmth over his skin. He repeats the movement until the sting turns into a burn. The drag of his fingertips over the abused skin is pleasantly abrasive, fattening his cock up from the mild discomfort.

When the constriction of his cup becomes unbearable and the heat of the bathroom has sweat trickling down his back, Derek finally slips the jock from his hips and drops it on the pile with his phone. His cock springs free and he sighs, overwhelmed for a moment as all the blood seems to drain from his head and rush down to fill out his flesh. Hissing at the sudden strength of his arousal, Derek quickly grips the base of his twitching cock; trails his fingers through the thick, coarse hair there. Reaches between his legs and pulls roughly on the soft skin of his nuts. Anything to distract himself and it’s a quiet handful of seconds, with only the sound of the water hitting the shower basin until he’s got a handle on it.

Closing his eyes, Derek steps into the shower, angling his face up towards the spray. The water feels amazing, soothing the tension from his shoulders and the itch of sweat from his skin. Slowly he turns under the blast until it’s beating down on the back of his neck. Warm water running in rivulets over his shoulders, down between his pectorals. It tickles over the hair on his abdomen and Derek shivers, his fingers tightening where they are still wrapped around the base of his painfully engorged cock.

Derek squeezes his eyes closed, immediately and completely outside of his control, his mind supplies him with ammunition. Fueling his lust with visions of a wide beautiful mouth, a bowed kissable top lip and a pump biteable bottom lip. His fist slips, wrist curling, he strokes down his length, a moan bubbling up from his chest. He braces his free arm against the tiled wall, dropping his forehead against his forearm, his body coils. Pleasure warming his muscles and making his toes curl against the ceramic.

This is going to be over quickly. God, he can’t remember the last time he did this. Unabashedly, Derek chases his pleasure. Mercilessly, he’s assaulted by his subconsciousness. It digs up memories, images, flashes of skin, all Stiles. His toned thighs straining to hold that damn broom as he runs. The way his shirt rides up when he jumps, how he looks sweaty flushed chest heaving––

Derek shivers, his fingers curling under the head of his cock, thumb swiping along the leaking slit as water pounds against his shoulders. He groans, licking his lips and wishing he was nosing along the thick, dark trail of hair that runs from Stiles belly button, down, down-–

Gasping Derek bites his lip, his feet squeak against the slick tub and his shoulders curl in. Heat expands at the base of his spine, races under his skin, his hand slides over his length, his grip just shy of painful. His balls drawn up and the last thought he has before he plummets over the edge is if the base of Stiles cock is as fuzzy as his tummy.

“Fuck.” Derek’s eyes fly open, his dick spurts lava hot over his fingers. His orgasm takes him by surprise, choking his breath off in his lungs. Waves and waves of molten pleasure wash through him and he can’t stop. His breath stutters in his lungs, and he has no control over his limbs; his hand convulses, milking his shaft, drawing every drop of come from his cock. Every ounce of pleasure he can wring from his body. He collapses against the wall, eyes sliding closed as his forehead drops back to the arm he has braced against the shower wall. He shakes through the tail end of his orgasm, wishing it was Stiles agile fingers stroking him to overstimulation instead of his own. Humming lowly, Derek gives one last, long pull before releasing his cock and turning to drown himself under the spray.

Already his thoughts are spiraling. With trembling limbs, Derek detaches the showerhead, washing his release from the walls and down the drain. Guilt creeps like bile up his throat, burning embarrassment and denial into his mouth. Leaving him reeling in the wake of his actions. What kind of creep stalks a kid for months and then gets off to thoughts about him? Derek does, apparently.

Grabbing his soap and clicking the showerhead back into place, Derek roughly scrapes his skin clean. It was safe when Stiles was just number 24. Just a hot, dorky, Harry Potter fan; the chaser with the nice legs, and perky ass. Back then, Derek could get off to him just like any porn star on the internet. Stiles was just another pretty face; another untouchable beauty Derek would never get to know.

But now, he’s Stiles Stilinski, reformed walking disaster and Derek’s new wide receiver. He’s graceful and funny, chatters non stop breathing color into Derek’s world. He has no idea how he’s going to handle the lust that boils up inside of him everytime he sees the guy.

Fatigue clings heavily to his muscles. It’s a strange mix of exhaustion, post-orgasmic bliss, and shame that makes his legs tremble and his arms heavy. He wants to sleep for days. He wants to sleep until he graduates and can put Stiles and his bright amber eyes and messy just-been-fucked hairstyle out of his head forever.

Derek stumbles from the shower, grabbing his towel and draping it over his head before plucking his phone from the pile on the floor and staggering towards his bed. He flops completely nude onto the mattress before opening his text messages. He’s not in the mood to deal with his sister and is just about to text her that he’ll call her tomorrow when a new message pops up.

UNKNOWN: I got your number from Erica, who got it from Boyd, who have sex-siled me from the apartment. This, of course, is your fault.

UNKNOWN: Its Stiles btw. In case you know another Erica that’s sleeping with Boyd.

UNKNOWN: Honestly, if Boyd was sleeping with two Erica’s… that would be some weirdly specific taste in women on Boyd’s part.

UNKNOWN: Also, as her best friend I would be obligated to tell you I’d have to kick his ass…. Well, I’d try to, anyway.

Derek huffs a laugh, his heart aching in his chest as he reads through Stiles’ messages. What a dork, he thinks, tucking his arms in against his ribs so he can lift his shoulders off the bed. With trembling fingers, he clicks the add a new contact button and saves Stiles in his phone.

#24: yeah, so I figured just texting you would be easier than trying to corner you after practice.

#24: Unless you’re one of those weird people who don’t text?

#24: omg??!! You are one of those weird people who don’t text, aren’t you?

#24: This is never going to work out…..

ME: I text.

Derek hits send before he can stop himself. I text. The stupidly short message stares back at him, mockingly. Why is he such an idiot? Why is interacting with anyone he even remotely likes so difficult for him?

Controlling, needy, clingy.

The words crack, violent and venomous, in his mind. Reminding him why he doesn’t do this. Why, after the last time he gave his heart to someone, he promised himself he would never get hurt like that again.

#24: oh shit, for a second there I thought Boyd had given me one of those fake numbers where if you call it and it’s like the voicemail of some TV character like: “This is Dean’s other, other, phone, if you have this number you know what to do.”

#24: it’s weird that I know that by heart right?

#24: that was weird wasn’t it?

Derek huffs a surprised laugh, his brows lifting before he scrunches up his face in commiserate embarrassment. He taps the edge of his cellphone against his forehead, his smile spreading against his better judgment. Pulling the phone back, he checks the screen. Already the little ellipses are dancing again, telling him Stiles is typing. He types like he moves, constant bursts of energy. Derek can almost picture him hunched over his cell phone, long lean fingers tapping rapidly against the screen as he bites his plump bottom lip. Arousal warms his skin in a wave from the top of his head to his toes, and he shifts against the soft sheets of his bed.

ME: This is Castiel, make your voice a mail.

Hitting send, Derek waits, the ellipses signaling that Stiles is typing stop, disappearing completely for a dread-filled moment before his phone vibrates to life in his hands, without thinking Derek swipes up on the screen, answering the call.


“L… Laura?” Derek pulls the phone from his ear to check the caller ID as he sits up on the bed, his towel falling down his back to the floor as he pulls himself upright.

“Why, were you expecting someone else?”

“... No.”

“Oh my god, you were.”


“That’s why it was a bad time.”


Who is she, Derek. Tell me all about her, oh man, this is the best news. I’m so happy for you Der-Bear.”

The phone pings quietly in his ear telling Derek he got another message.

Laura !” Derek growls into the phone and his sister laughs, “There’s no one. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Right, sure Der-Bear,” Laura hums into the line. “Keep your little secret for now, but I’ll find out eventually.”

His phone pings again and Derek hates how his stomach clenches with nerves.

“I’m hanging up now,” Derek says through his teeth, pulling the phone away from his ear.

“No, wait!” Laura calls, her voice tiny and tinny, and Derek brings the phone back to his ear. “I’m calling to let you know we’ll be out for a few days after the first game of the season.”

“No,” Derek groans.

“Yep!” Laura chirps, happily “Everyone, even Peter.”

“No…. Please, don’t,” Derek pleads his face dropping into his hand.

“Der, we come out for the first game of every season. Just cause you’re hiding someone from us this year, doesn’t mean we wouldn’t be there.”

“I thought you only came out last season ‘cause it was my first time starting.” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. His family likes to cause a scene, banners, and posters. Peter brings an air horn, Laura has a megaphone. It’s the exact opposite of everything he wants.

“Well, a freshman on the starting line up is one thing but Derek you’re the quarterback! We had to come show our support for you L.B.”

“Don’t call me that,” Derek says on reflex, he’ll put up with Der-bear cause Laura's been calling him that since he was a baby. She only recently started calling him L.B, little bro, when he stopped reacting to Der-Bear. He’s anything but little at this point, and she only does it to embarrass him.

“Plus,” Laura says, not missing a beat. “Peter knows how much you hate the fanfare. Maybe you should have faked it a little better last year. He’ll never miss an opportunity to come and harass you now.”

“And I’m sure you did everything you could to discourage him.” Derek says, knowing Laura is the first of his siblings to jump on the ‘humiliate Derek train’.

“Hey! You know I’ve always got your back.” Laura simpers and Derek doesn’t believe her in the slightest.

Derek’s phone pings gently in his ear again.

“Sure you do. I’m hanging up now.”

“Go text your secret girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, secret or otherwise!” Derek snaps into the phone, smashing the end call button. He can still hear Laura’s laughter ringing in his ears.

Rubbing his palm against his forehead, a headache blooming behind his eyes, Derek opens his text messages.

#24: You did not just quote Supernatural at me.

#24: You did not just quote Castiel at me!

#24: How are you even real?

#24: We need to binge together.

#24: A Netflix night! Netflix and chill...

#24: I… mean I make a mean chili.

#24: Netflix and chill-i… yeah…

#24: -picture message received click yes to download-

Derek clicks yes before he has time to second guess himself and a close up of Stiles’ panicked face loads in full high-def on his screen. Stiles brows are arched and his forehead’s crinkled in the most adorable way. His lips are shiny with spit -like he just licked them- and are jutting out in an alluring, enticing pout. Derek wants to bite the bottom one, suck it into his mouth and listen to Stiles whimper. He has to force himself to look away from that distracting mouth before he makes himself hot all over again. There are stacks and stacks of books framing Stiles' head but it’s his eyes that really capture Derek’s attention. They are wide and round, molten-honey colored, and fucking pleading into the camera. Asking, no begging Derek to do… something? He’s not exactly sure what Stiles wants, but he absolutely wants to give it to him.

Biting his cheek, Derek flops back down across his bed, groaning as he gives in and clicks to save the image as Stiles contact photo. Switching back to the thread he scrolls down because there are more messages below the photo. Derek can almost feel Stiles panic in the rapid way the messages chase one another. His phone buzzing incessantly in his palm because apparently, Stiles types just as fast as he runs.

#24: I am dying of boredom here.

#24: help a guy out. Distract me!

#24: the pic was too much, wasn't it? too soon? too much Stiles for you to handle?

#24:  ... Derek?

#24: I ... was just kidding. About the chill. Uh, no chill or chill-i required.

#24: I mean…. who even uses Netflix anymore…

ME: It’s hard to Netflix and chill-i when you don’t have Netflix.

He responds to the last message because he doesn't trust himself to touch on the previous ones. If he did Derek's not sure he could keep this conversation out of the gutter. Immediately the ellipses jump to life again and Derek smirks down at the screen. He can do this. He can banter with Stiles. It’s almost easy, and he realizes he’s having fun. He can’t, for the life of him, ever remember texting being this fun. Especially texting someone he likes, that's usually torture. But not with Stiles. Derek sits up as he types out his next reply, his cheeks aching from how hard he's grinning.

ME: BTW, that’s your contact photo now. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.

#24: First of all, every photo of me looks exactly the same, so you don’t scare me

#24: Secondly, you can’t save just someone’s photo without sending one back.

Derek scrapes his fingers through his mostly dry hair and rereads Stiles’ last message. He flops back against the pillows considering, twitching his phone back and forth between his fingers before he slides from his bed. He abandons his phone on the mattress, the chill of his room is finally making itself known, and his flesh pebbles as he shuffles over to his dresser. He needs a little space from the demanding device, the rapid way that Stiles texts. How each message takes up all the air in the room with how he makes Derek feel. Caught up, claustrophobic and free all at once. He needs just a little time, just a moment to organize his thoughts.

Not twenty minutes ago, Derek was having a long overdue orgasm to the guy who’s now asking him to trade pics. He never should have saved the pic of Stiles, let alone told the guy he did it. It really makes everything worse that Derek’s probably –most definitely– going to get off to that photo later. It feels wrong, dirty. Like he should just come clean and tell Stiles about his crush – obsession– and just get it over with. Confess what a creep he is so Stiles can go running for the hills just like… well… Derek sighs, regret mounting on top of shame, mounting on top of frustration.

Taking a slow even breath, Derek tries to get his erratic heartbeat under control. He pulls a pair of boxer-briefs out of his dresser and slips them on. Stiles is obviously – hopefully – interested in Derek, that much he’s, mostly, sure about. You don’t just ask someone to ‘ Netflix and Chill’ if you’re not at least trying to get in their pants a little bit… right?

The phone sits innocuously on his bed and Derek sucks a breath as he pads back over to retrieve it.

ME: Are you asking me for a photo, Stiles?

#24: no…

Derek winces, of course he isn’t. This is just Derek jumping to conclusions, projecting, being clingy towards a guy he barely knows. He’s such a Creep, with a capital C. Why would Stiles want a photo of him, the guy who has been, sorta, kinda, stalking him... a little bit.

#24: ...yes.

#24: It’s only fair.

The breath that flies out of Derek’s lungs leaves him feeling light-headed and giddy. He scrambles, turning around in a little circle in the center of his studio, the phone gripped in his sweaty hand. He’s determined to make sure this photo is perfect. He takes two steps to the left, stops when he sees his overflowing laundry basket and pivots back to the right before his messy desk looms into view.

It’s in that instant he decides, once again, he’s being a fucking idiot. Grumbling to himself Derek plants his feet and lifts his cellphone. He flips the camera around and frowns at his own face reflected back at him, this is stupid.

He’s never been good at selfies–or taking photos in general. Laura complains about his ‘grimace’ constantly. His eyebrows dip at the thought and he hits the capture button before he can talk himself out of it. Derek is too caught up in the sudden swarm of nerves that have fluttered to life in his stomach to look twice at the photo before he’s sending it off.

Chapter Text

His phone buzzes along the desk, and Stiles drops his pencil as he snatches it up, leaning further into the small study cubicle. So far this has been the best sexile he’s ever had. It’s right up there with the time Scott surprised him with tickets to an advanced screening of the newest Marvel movie. They spent the entire day stuffing themselves full of popcorn and soda and watching the Chris’s–Pratt, Evans, and Hemsworth–shoot things, hurl things, and be impressive for hours.

Stiles clicks open the latest message from Derek and chokes as the photo loads. This. This right here is better than any of the Chris’s. Stiles licks his lips, double-tapping the image to zoom in. He swipes his palm down his face, dragging it roughly over his lips as he stares.

“This has to be a mistake,” He mumbles, leaning further over his phone to ensure that no passersby can glimpse the glory of the photo Derek just sent him.

Derek, in all of his shirtless...  pantless majesty, is staring up at Stiles–at his camera–like Stiles has just personally insulted his grandmother or something. His murder eyebrows are in full effect. His slate gray eyes are narrowed to what could be considered almost adorable if the overall effect wasn’t mildly frightening. His bow shaped lips are compressed into a thin line and all that stubble; Stiles has to look away for a second to get his breathing under control. He will not have an erection in the middle of the library. He won't.

Swiping along the zoomed in photo, Stiles moves his view over Derek’s bare, toned shoulder to look at the mirror on the wall behind him. This is the part Stiles almost feels guilty about because there is no way Derek sent this photo knowing he’d captured this much of himself. He almost feels guilty, almost, though is not enough for him not to look, because the mirror shows Derek’s back, all of his back. The messy mop of his dark hair, the thick column of his neck and the long, lean lines of corded muscle, encased beneath the smooth tanned skin that sweeps down to his perfect, perfect ass…

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, his free hand dropping under the desk to grip his dick through his jeans. “Fuck.”

He totally has an erection in the library.

Derek’s perky bubble butt is encased in the tightest pair of dark gray boxer-briefs Stiles has ever seen. And now he has a fucking erection in the fucking library…  again. How the fabric of those boxer-briefs clings to the thick curve of Derek’s ass and sinks into the crease makes Stiles think they aren’t even the right size. Like maybe, maybe they’re a full size too small? Are boxer-briefs supposed to fit like that? Has Stiles been wearing his wrong his entire life? Because fuck, Derek’s look like they are painted on him.

Licking his lips, Stiles decides that this ass, right here, is without a doubt, the most magnificent ass Stiles has ever had the pleasure of seeing. His teeth ache to sink into the thick, round swell of it. He grips his dick hard, as it plumps under his palm, his eyes drop down to the thick mass of Derek’s thighs, just visible before the mirror ends, dusted with dark hair. They look powerful, and Stiles wonders just how strong they’d feel when wrapped around his hips.


He jumps so hard at the sound of his name he drops his phone. His knee jerks bashing into the underside of the desk as he yanks his hand off his crotch and turns in his seat to see Allison smiling at him.

“Are you looking at porn in the library again. I’m telling you, the school is going to catch on and…”

“Ok, No. Stop,  that was one time, and it was for research.”

“Sure it was,” Allison says, pulling out the chair in the corral next to Stiles and sitting on it, so her arms are draped over the back. She drops her chin on them and sighs. “Why are you here at,” she checks her watch “quarter to ten?”

“I’m sexiled.”


“Yeah, Erica’s going to text me when it’s safe to go back to the apartment. In the meantime, I’m trying to get this paper for English Lit done.”

“Uh-huh,” Allison says, one of her delicately sculpted brows lifting as her eyes flick to his phone and she grins. The photo is still there, zoomed in on Derek’s butt and thighs. Stiles' hand snaps out, and with as little dexterity as he can manage, he flips it screen down, accidentally knocking his notebook to the floor, and scattering his papers in the process.

“Grindr, again?” Allison asks, self-satisfied.

“Uh, no. Learned my lesson, thanks.” Stiles ducks down to collect his papers when he remembers just how long ago Derek sent him the photo, and that he hasn’t said anything back yet. Dick move, he thinks, scrambling to scoop up and shove the papers back into his messenger bag.

“What are you doing here?” He asks as he tips himself back into his chair and pulls his phone towards his face, ruefully clicking away from the sinful sight of Derek’s toned ass and thick thighs.

“I was posting flyers for our next game, you traitor.” Allison yawns, reaching out and shoving playfully at his shoulder. “We’re going up against Slytherin, but you knew that and still decided to leave us. In our hour of need, Stiles! We’ll never outmaneuver Matt without you. ”

“I know, I know, but they offered me a scholarship, Als,” Stiles says, looking up at her with round eyes. Allison is a sucker for a good sad puppy face.

Sure enough, she reaches out and ruffles his hair sighing, “I know, honey. And you deserve it. We’ll miss you.” She leans further over the back of her chair, brows lifted, lips compressed to hide her smile as she tries to look at his phone again. “Looks like you aren’t missing us all that much though…”

Stiles purposefully angles his phone away from Allison’s prying eyes, trying to type out a reply.

“Oh, I miss you alright…” he grumbles fingers poised over his keyboard, for once his mind completely blank. What is he even supposed to say after getting a photo like that? Should he write an ode to the glory of Derek’s back muscles? Talk about the blue–grey–green–gold of his eyes? Make a pun about gourmet cuts of meat… maybe he should ignore it entirely and… his phone buzzes to life in his palm saving him from his thoughts. 


“Erica, finally! I thought I was going to have to set up camp in this musty corner of the library. Camp Stiles, right between the geography section and the books on obscure religious cults of the 12th century.” Stiles snaps his laptop closed and shoves it in his messenger bag. “Is it all clear? Clean up underway? There’s not going to be a lube slip and slide in the living room again, is there?” Stiles rambles, shoving his notebook alongside his laptop. “Can I come home now?”

“A lube slip and slide?” The voice on the other end of the line is abrupt and far too deep to be his roommates.



Stiles is on his feet, Allison jumping up with him her eyes wide with concern.

“Where’s Erica, what happened? If you hurt her…” If she had a seizure and you didn’t know what to do….

“Is he freaking out?” Erica’s voice calls from farther away. The relief that flushes through Stiles’ system at the sound of Erica’s voice leaves him trembling and cold.

“Yeah,” Boyd responds.

“I knew he would; I told you just to hold the phone by my face.” Erica laughs in the background.


“Oh my god, is this a sex thing?”

“Stiles…” Boyd groans again, exasperated.

“This is a sex thing! You’ve only known each other like three days!” Stiles practically shouts into the phone. Allison waves her hands, shushing him, as she looks around the deserted floor. “What the fuck. Why am I the only person that’s never getting any?”

As the words leave his mouth, he remembers the photo from Derek and how he still hasn’t responded.

“Just tell him to shut up, if you let him keep talking he will never stop.” Erica's tiny voice calls out again.

“Stiles, we need you to come back now because the keys to the handcuffs fell down the heat vent and Erica says you’re the only person with a spare set.”

“The what, fell down the what now?”

Allison is handing Stiles his textbook as he shoves the phone between his ear and shoulder, trying to get everything back into his bag. She holds up her hands in the ‘ok’ pose and Stiles gives a stiff nod watching as her shoulders relax. She smiles, and it’s devastating how lovely she is. He blinks at her for a moment before she rolls her eyes, and mouths a goodbye; placing a soft kiss to his forehead before wandering back the way she came.

“Are you using my dad’s old handcuffs for your kinky sex?” Stiles practically sobs into the phone as realization dawns on him; he’s too shocked to do much else.

“Erica, where did you get those?” Boyd asks, and Stiles can’t hear her reply but Boyd sighs.

“Can you come back or not?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m on my way. You owe me.”


“Thanks, Batman!” Erica calls, mirth in her voice as Stiles disconnects the line, the half-formed text back to Derek wholly forgotten in his haste to rescue Erica from herself.


After the first five minutes pass with no response from Stiles, Derek begins to pace his room. The steady slap, slap, of his bare feet on the hardwood floors of his studio only fuels his anguish. The warmth that had built up in his stomach from their playful banter rapidly cools into an uncomfortable weight in his gut.

After the first ten minutes, he angrily kicks over his laundry basket, then cursing his stupidity, picks everything up, shoving it back into the hamper. He stalks over to the washer dryer combo unit stuck in the corner of his bathroom, and with a snarl, he loads the compact machine. Anything to distract from the painful realization that this was all a mistake, and Stiles was being nice. Just using Derek as an outlet for his boredom, that he never actually wanted to talk to him, who would?

After twenty minutes with no reply, Derek starts working out. When the wash beeps to signal the end of the cycle, Derek has done more pull-ups than he can count and is again, covered in sweat. Coach is going to be pissed because Derek can already feel stiffness setting into his shoulders.  

He stomps, drenched, past his phone sitting on the foot of his bed–so silent it might as well be switched off–and into the bathroom to put his clothes in the small dryer. Peeling off his boxer-briefs he jumps into the shower, grinding his teeth at his stupidity.

The first blast of water is cold, and it shocks Derek out of his thoughts, scrambling for the knobs until it tempers out. He hangs his head, letting the water burn its way over his skin, melting the stiffness in his throwing arm to a dull ache. He doesn’t even wash; he stands under the spray letting his thoughts drown him as much as the water.

‘I’ll text you if I feel like it. Don’t be so damn controlling.’

Derek flinches. The memory of asking her to text him when she got home, so he knew she was safe searing like a brand across his heart.

‘It's creepy how upset you get if I don’t contact you every day. Creepy, Derek. You don’t own me.’

Squeezing his eyes closed, Derek drops his chin to his chest the sharp voice of his ex filters through his mind. It had been three days, not one of his calls or texts were returned. Three days with no contact from the person who had told him she loved him.

‘Just stop it. You’re so clingy, god. Your hands are clammy and gross, stop trying to touch me.'

Derek looks down at his hands, water running over his fingers. His parents held hands all the time. Touched all the time. Their affection was always given so easily. How he wanted that. Just to hold her hand, with her long slim fingers tucked between his own. Just to touch her in public, the way she let him touch her in private.

His family’s very tactile, and no one ever called his hands clammy or gross. His cousins would squeal and laugh when he’d tickled them. When they’d play. No one ever made him feel big or blundering, or repellant, not like she did.

How quickly he’d changed for her, Derek thinks, curling his fingers into fists until his nails bite little crescents into his palms. How long he’d let her use him. You’d think he’d know better by now, but no. Just look how quickly he’d given in to all of Stiles’ demands. Growling, he punches the wall of his shower, just hard enough to sting but not hard enough to bust anything.

Shaking out his hand, Derek snaps the water off, yanking the curtain back with more force than he intended. Three of the small rings holding the protective vinyl curtain up snap and the top of sags, wet and slimy, directly onto his face. The sudden and foreign urge to cry bubbles up in his chest as he reaches out with trembling fingers and tries to fix the little rings.

He hasn’t felt like this in years. The constriction of his heart battles with the anger thundering through his veins. Shoving the ruined curtain aside, Derek storms out of the bathroom, leaving little puddles in his wake. His feet pound across the floor as he stomps to his bed, throwing himself across the mattress.

His phone bounces, sliding against his thigh and he reaches down to snatch it up, ready to throw it across the room when the notification light at the top blinks. He sucks a sharp breath swiping up on his screen and opening the text program the little flag telling him four new messages are waiting for him. Hope surges through him so fiercely he pushes up to his knees before he knows what he’s doing as he clicks the little icon.

Pops: Laura spilled the beans. Sorry, kid.

CH: About time, loser! Go get’em, tiger!  

Mom: I’m so proud of you honey. I can’t wait to hear all about her.

LH:  Ooops… sorry, not sorry.

Derek feels gutted as he flops down onto his mattress, arms flung out to his sides. He stares up at his ceiling. Fucking Laura, sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. Now, not only does his family think he’s seeing someone but he still hasn’t heard back from Stiles. Which is as good of a sign as any that the guy’s not actually interested in him. The weight in his chest sits like a rock, pushing the air from his lungs and making his heart sink heavily behind his ribs. He hates lying to his family. He hates that they think he’s seeing someone and that they’re misgendering them.

Not that it even matters! Derek reminds himself, he’s not seeing Stiles. He’s not! So it doesn’t matter. He’ll tell them all tomorrow. Laura’s an idiot, and she’s wrong. He’s not seeing anyone, so none of this really matters. His eyes slip closed, the exhaustion of the day finally pulling him into a fitful sleep.


This has got to be the shortest week of Derek’s life. Everything he did to draw it out... to keep Friday and his ‘date’ with Stiles from getting here, failed... miserably. To make matters worse, Stiles never did text him back. Not about the photo anyway. Three whole days after Derek sent it, a text came in asking what time Stiles should be ready and how he should dress. –8pm, Business Casual– Derek had texted back as abruptly as he could.

To be fair, Derek's doing a fine job of avoiding the guy. The one or two times Stiles has tried to talk to him, Derek's conveniently remembered something he’d forgotten, or has, as it turns out, someplace he needs to be. Derek is well aware he’s being rude, but he just can’t help blowing Stiles off. Not when he can’t seem to look him in the eye without feeling the all too familiar pain of putting himself out there, only to get shut down again. It chokes the air right out of him. And half the time he can’t find the words, even if he could find the air to talk to Stiles. Derek has no idea how he’s supposed to get through tonight.

Tugging on the collar of his button up, Derek sighs, he’s already sweating, palms itchy. His feet feel thick and clumsy in his dress shoes. Derek chose one of the nicer steakhouses downtown. He made the reservation right after their second practice together, because no matter how shitty Derek felt about Stiles leading him on, the guy was killing it on the field. And Derek is, if anything, a man of his word. He also might have wanted to impress Stiles, just a little bit.

“Leave it, Der,” Cora’s voice comes tinny and distorted over his laptop speakers.

“I hate this, Cora,” Derek grumbles. “I hate it.”

“I know you do.”

“This is not how I wanted my first date in five years to go,” Derek grumbles, tugging on his sleeve and stalking towards the laptop. He slams his palms down on the desk, head dropping, hanging between his hunched shoulders. Cora sighs.

“It’s a shitty situation, Derek but give it a chance. You never know, maybe something happened and he just forgot to text you back?” Cora sounds hopeful, even if her face is constricted in sympathy.

“I hate this color,” He grumbles, ignoring Cora.

“Sapphire is a good color for your skin tone, Der,” Cora states, calm and indulging.

“It’s purple, Cora. I hate purple.”

“No you don’t, I know for a fact it’s one of your favorite colors. Don’t be a brat, Derek.”

Standing, Derek pulls on the collar of his shirt again.

“Ok listen, pep talk time,” Cora calls, and her glare reminds him of Laura as he meets it over the laptop screen. “First undo the top two buttons on that thing, you’re not going to church you’re trying to get laid…”

“I’m not…” Derek starts, but Cora makes a rude noise in her throat and Derek slumps.

“Look, I know I’m your favorite sibling.” She starts, leaning towards the camera, “I know this because you tell me stuff, all the stuff you’d never tell Laura.”

“Laura’s got a big mouth.” Derek grumbles

“...and I’ve listened to you drop hints about this kid for weeks, Derek. Weeks! I swear if you told me one more time about that stupid quidditch team I was going to disown you.”

Derek flushes, his back going rigid. He hadn’t realized how much Stiles’ name comes up in conversation. With a sudden flash of panic, he wonders where else he slipped up. Who else has he slipped Stiles’ name to? What else does he say when he’s not paying attention? Shaking his head Derek figures that since he doesn’t talk about his love of Syfy or fantasy with many people, the chances are slim he’s let on about his monumental crush on the guy. He turns his glare towards the camera. Unfortunately, he’s always felt comfortable confessing things to Cora. She’s usually trustworthy.

“Look,” Cora’s voice snaps Derek’s out of his thoughts, “This is good for you, bro, I know it might not be ideal, but it’s good. You need to get back out there. We all know you aren’t happy, and honestly Der, everyone feels fucking terrible for not seeing what Kate was doing to you. We should have noticed how withdrawn you became.” Cora pauses and looks down.  

“This is the opposite of a pep talk.” Derek manages with a small smile. He doesn’t want to think about Kate tonight; he doesn’t want to think about anything tonight. He just wants to get this humiliation over with.

“Right… So, my point is, not everyone is like her. If you want this, you should try for it. From what you’ve told me, Stiles seems like a good guy. Even if you, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, get your dick wet, just do something! Have fun, use the good genes we’ve got to your advantage. You’re a college football star for fuck’s sake. Not everything has to be the end of the world.”

“I know, Cora, but I like him. I don’t even know if he’s into dudes. I don’t want to go through all this again; I don’t want to be used again.”

“Did you ask him? I mean he asked you out, right?”


“Kinda? What does that even mean?... Look, can you just go have a nice dinner without it being the end of the world? Please? Stare at his stupid face, with his stupid, what did you say, molten amber eyes, you sap…. and try to enjoy yourself. Ok?”


“I’m serious Derek!”

“I know… I know.” Derek sighs his hands on his hips.

“You look great, bro, go have fun.” Cora smiles and gives him a little wink. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That gives me far too many options.” Derek deadpans, ending the call on Cora’s laughter.

Derek turns to face his mirror one last time, running his hands through his hair and blowing out a rough breath. He smooths out the nonexistent wrinkles on his shirt and recenters the silver buckle of his belt. His fingers itch to close the top few buttons at his collar again, the tips absently stroking through the smattering of dark hair exposed just below his collarbone. For some reason it makes him feel self-conscious, but with Cora’s words echoing in his mind, he leaves it. Frowning, Derek turns away, grabbing his keys and with a huff, heads for the door.

Chapter Text

Derek shifts in the overstuffed chair, the wine menu heavy in his fingers as he looks it over with glazed eyes. He glances at his watch, he’s fifteen minutes early, and now, Stiles is fifteen minutes late. The waiter’s been by twice to refill his water glass, and each time he passes, Derek fights the urge to sink further down in his seat.

“Can I get you something to drink while you wait, Sir?” he asks, looking down his nose at Derek. With a grimace, Derek snaps the wine menu closed and sets it aside. He sits up straight and smooths his hands down his black slacks.

“Fine. Tell me about your bourbon selection.”  Derek’s family has money, ok. This isn’t the first chic restaurant he’s eaten at, and just because he’s young, doesn't mean he isn’t cultured. He’s old enough now to know the things he likes, and amber, as it turns out, is becoming one of his favorite colors. He finds it fitting that bourbon is his drink of choice for the evening. Something on the sweeter end to counterpoint the savory meal he’s about to have. By himself, apparently. Derek blinks, drawing from his thoughts to look up at the waiter.

The waiter barely resists rolling his eyes and Derek’s frown deepens. He steeples his fingers together over his napkin and arches an expectant brow. The waiter sighs.

“Might I suggest the Jameson–”

“No, please suggest your off menu items. I could read about your basic selection here if I wanted that.” Derek cuts him off, tapping two fingers against the wine list. He admits that it feels good to take a little of his nerves out on this smug douche. The waiter blinks and his demeanor changes.

“Of course, Sir. We have a lovely bottle of George T. Stagg. The Black Maple Hill is a sharp 16-year aged, small batch bourbon, and our Hudson Baby is on the sweeter side, due to its full corn mash bill. Lastly, we are offering Booker’s uncut, unfiltered, though due to the hints of coffee, I would recommend that for after your meal.”

“I’ll have the Hudson, a singular ice cube.”

“Right away, Sir.”

Derek is just settling back into his chair, reaching for the dinner menu when someone lets out a shaky breath out behind him.

“That was amazing.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Derek’s spine goes rigid. “Stiles…,” he breathes eyes wide as he stands, taking in the man before him.

Stiles smiles, rubbing the back of his neck, and pulling on the edge of the form fitted, slate grey waistcoat he’s wearing. He’s got the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone, showing the hollow of his throat. Derek licks his lips as he shifts around the table to pull out Stiles’ chair, clearing his throat. Stiles blushes.

“S...sorry I’m late. The first bus never showed up, and I’m technically not supposed to have a car on campus, which is really a stupid rule.” Stiles starts as soon as he’s seated, reaching for his water glass, his eyes following Derek as he retakes his seat.

“You took the bus?”

“Yeah. Erica has a night class and…” Stiles bites his lip, “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“I would have picked you up,” Derek says, and Stiles chokes on his water.

“Ah, um...maybe next time?” he fumbles his menu, eyes downcast. “Is–Is this in French?” he whispers looking horrified over the top at Derek, who can’t help but chuckle.

“Maybe just a little.” He admits as the waiter returns with his whiskey. The amber liquid shimmers in the low lighting. A rock of ice sits like a small island in the center of his glass.

"Derek... what the hell is a boeuf?"

"That's beef."

"But... why are there are so many vowels."

Derek hides a smile, tucking his chin against his shoulder.

“That’s what makes it fancy,” he says, meeting Stiles’ eyes. They’re practically glowing under the low light, molten honey, framed by thick dark lashes. He arches one of his brows, and he drops his gaze back to the menu. Derek is finally able to draw a breath.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, hunching over the table to lean towards Derek,  panic tints his voice. “There are no prices on this menu.”

“Are you prepared to order now that everyone has arrived?”

Derek! ” Stiles whispers again, frantic, his voice tipping up to a squeak as he tries to block his face from the waiter with his menu. Derek can’t help the small huff that leaves him. He relaxes back into his chair, setting his menu aside and gently rolling his tumbler of bourbon between his fingers.

“Would you mind if I ordered for us both?” He asks, looking up at Stiles from under his lashes and enjoying the way the guy swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“...N–no. Please do.”

Derek turns his attention to the waiter and smiles slowly. “Je vais avoir le Wagyu s'il vous plaît, et pour mon ami, Je voudrais un bifteck d'aloyau s'il vous, plaît.”

“Quelle cuisson?” the waiter asks without missing a beat.

Derek sucks his teeth, rolling his shoulder as he thinks, “À point,” he offers before turning to Stiles.

His tongue is suddenly too thick for his mouth; the way Stiles is looking at him, eyes round, lips parted, bitten red, his cheeks flushed.  “How–how do you like your meat cooked?” Derek asks, his voice rumbling from his chest an octave lower than it normally is.

“Medium rare,” Stiles whispers, his face a mix of shock, and what Derek hopes is arousal.

“Puis-je vous intéresser à un apéritif avant votre plat principal?” the waiter asks as he writes down Stiles preference.

“Non,” Derek replies, unable to draw his eyes away from Stiles.

“Très Bien. Merci Monsieur,” the waiter says collecting their menus and leaving. Quite suddenly, Derek is at a loss for what to do. The heat of his embarrassment creeps up his neck, and he can almost hear Cora laughing at him. This is what he gets for showing off.

He shifts, resting back in his chair, refusing to be the first to break eye contact, and lifts his glass bringing it first to his nose and then to his lips. Stiles face contracts, and he lets out a little whine, his flush deepening, and his eyes finally drop to the table.

There is a small bread basket, and Stiles snatches one of the rolls, beginning to tear it into little pieces. Derek enjoys the burn on the bourbon as it slides down his throat. It’s lovely, light, subtly sweet, and a good enough distraction to drag him out of his head and calm his thundering heart. He can do this.

“I… didn’t know you spoke French,” Stiles says before stuffing a hunk of bread into his mouth and groaning, his eyes rolling back. Derek coughs at the sudden wave of want that surges through him. “Oh my god,” Stiles stares down at the roll in disbelief.

Chuckling, Derek sets his glass down. “I’m assuming there’s a lot about me you don’t know,” He says with as much false bravado as he can muster.

“Ah, I guess not,” Stiles says eyes sliding to the side. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself then.”

Derek fiddles with his glass again, bringing it to his lips and taking a long swig. The bourbon warms his body and makes him tingle. Typically he’s not forthcoming about his life, his family, anything really. Maybe it’s time for a change. He breathes out slowly, the alcohol loosening his tongue and looks Stiles over. Up close is so much better than what he usually sees on the field. His skin is pale and soft looking, dusted with beauty marks and his lips are so full Derek wants to cry, never mind the sinful length of his neck.

All at once he realizes, yes. He wants Stiles to know everything about him. That he speaks French and Spanish, and a little bit of Italian. That he hates horror movies but loves Harry Potter and Firefly. And he wants to know about Stiles, what his favorite color is, what kind of ice cream he likes, how he takes his coffee in the morning. Derek clears his throat, his thoughts dropping towards the gutter faster than he’s comfortable with.

“I have two sisters, one older, one younger. My mother is a novelist, and my father is a lawyer. I’m not exactly sure what my uncle does but part of me thinks it’s something extremely shady like antique smuggling or black market organ sales.”

Stiles, who had been listening with an unnerving level of stillness, suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh my god, was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?”

Internally, Derek smiles to himself, but on the outside, he’s sure to keep his face placid. Even going so far as to arch a brow, which makes Stiles toss his head back, arching that long lovely throat and sigh.

“You’d understand, if you knew him,” Derek manages with a slight smile and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No one is ever going to believe me,” he says quietly once his laughter ebbs away.

“What do you mean?” Derek asks.

“No one’s going to believe me that you’re funny. That under all that brooding, sex beard, you actually have this really dry humor going on.” He drops his eyes, his smile slipping as he pokes at the end of his fork with one long finger. “No one’s going to believe that I went on a date with the Derek Hale.”

Not sure exactly what to do with that, Derek frowns. “I wasn’t aware I was a ' the' anything. Just Derek, no Hale necessary.”

“Yeah, well you are,” Stiles says looking up at him through those long thick lashes, his lips slick from where he’s been licking them as he speaks. “It’s like some stupid rom-com. You remember you’re the quarterback right? You could have anyone you want, yet here you are, sitting across the table from me. A nobody with a bum shoulder, who barely played high school lacrosse, never mind college...”

“Stiles…” Derek rumbles, trying to stem the flow. This is not how he wanted the night to go.

“No really, Derek. What are you even doing here? You could have anyone you wanted; people fall over themselves just to be around you...” Derek frowns, that can’t be true. People don’t do that. Sure, he’s got fans, but most of the team does… he’s not...special.

“The menu doesn’t even have prices on it,” Stiles goes on his voice quiet. “I thought when I told you I wanted steak you’d never take me seriously, let alone to a… a… what even is this place…” Stiles gestures around them to the intimate setting, and the quiet, cozy atmosphere. He sighs, dragging sad eyes back to Derek. “Why are you even here? Why are we even here?”

There are a million reasons why Derek is here. A million reasons that he could tell Stiles but they all get choked up in his throat, blocked up in his chest as his body aches and his heart thunders in his ears.

“Because you asked me to,” he finally gets out. “Because you asked me to take you out and… and I wanted to.” Derek flushes, the glass of bourbon slippery and cold in his fingers, he drops his eyes and watches the ice cube slide to its side.

It’s at that moment that their food gets set before them and Derek lets out a long slow breath.

“Another drink?”

“Yes,” he answers far too quickly and grimaces but Stiles doesn't seem to mind, he’s too busy gaping at his meal.

“ pour ton ami?” The waiter asks, his face skeptical. Derek doesn’t like that he’s slipped back into French in front of Stiles. It’s a little haughty, but he’s not going to say anything. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice anyway. Instead, Derek slips his napkin off the table and slides it over his black dress slacks.

“Stiles, would you like a drink?” Derek asks, lifting his fork and knife. The thick cut of Wagyu beef is seared on each side and perfectly bloody in the middle, three brightly steamed carrot spears and a selection of seasoned asparagus sit over a bed of fluffy mashed potatoes to one side and Derek’s mouth waters.

“Um, a beer?” Stiles says looking up to the waiter with the most adorably lost expression.

“What Belgium's do you have on tap?” Derek inquires.

“Might I recommend the Ommegang Three Philosophers?”

“Please,” Derek says with a tip of his head, and the waiter again leaves.

Stiles spends a long moment just staring at his dish, his fork and knife held in his hands astride his plate like he cannot believe what he’s seeing. Derek smiles and cuts into his steak, his knife slipping easily through the buttery meat. He pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth when Stiles speaks up.

“What is this?"

Taking a moment to examine Stiles meal, Derek notices a small dish set aside his seasoned t-bone, layers of thinly sliced tomatoes, squash, and eggplant are steamed and served nestled tightly against one another.


"Like... the mouse? Who lived in that guy’s hat? And made delicious food?"

"The rat was named Remy. But yes. That would be the same dish.”

“Oh man.” Stiles licks his lips, then looks up just as Derek slips his steak into his mouth. “Wait. Wait just a second…. you've watched Ratatouille?!”

Derek’s brows lift in his surprise, and he picks up his napkin wiping his mouth before speaking. “Yes, Stiles. I don’t live in a cave,” Derek rolls his eyes, well aware of the rumors about him being slightly feral and unapproachable. “No matter what anyone says about me. I’m not just some angry bear who speaks by growling all the time.”

Stiles cuts into his steak stabbing the meat and says, “First of all they call you an angry wolf but, that’s beside the point. What you’re telling me is that you’re secretly a Disney Princess?”

“Stiles, if I’m a Disney Princess, what exactly does that make you? My Charming?” Derek says before he can stop himself, hiding his horror by forcefully cutting into his steak.

“I think I’m more of an Eric, but whatever floats your boat, big guy.” He laughs finally slipping the first bite of his steak into his mouth.

“Oooh my god.” Stiles moans, the sound low and rumbling–completely obscene–his eyes drift closed and his lips purse. The long column of his throat flutters as he swallows and Derek’s entire body flashes hot than cold. He snatches his tumbler and downs the rest of his bourbon, setting it aside and lifting the fresh glass. He doesn’t remember seeing the waiter drop it off but he’s thankful it’s here. Stiles rolls his eyes, head lolling to the side as he whimpers, gazing down at his plate. “This… I didn’t even know food like this existed!”

“You’re unbelievable,” Derek mumbles, fighting his desire to smile.

“How dare you,” Stiles says stabbing another piece of meat and slipping it passed his glistening lips. “You eat like this all the time, don’t you? You can’t make fun of me for being a mere commoner.”

Derek wants to argue with him. Wants to tell Stiles that there is nothing common about him. That he’s spectacular; beautiful. So full of life and joy and energy it makes Derek ache to touch him. He can’t though, not yet. Not when he’s so unsure of everything going on between them.

“Well, that would make you more of a Belle, then, wouldn’t it?” Derek says, then bites the inside of his lip until Stiles laughs.

“Mmmh.” Stiles hums his agreement, eyes flashing as he slowly licks over his bottom lip and leans on his elbow, angling towards Derek. “Would that make you the Beast?”

Derek’s heart flutters in his chest, the silverware slippery in his sweating palms. How he’d like to ravage Stiles, lay him out and take him apart slowly. Pull more of those sinful moans from his pouty lips. Derek clears his throat, reaching for his tumbler. He leans in a bit as well because two can play this game.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Derek growls, lowering his voice as much as he dares. It’s brazen, and he’d be embarrassed if Stiles didn’t blink in surprise, his pupils expanding, his lips falling apart on a silent sigh.

Not for the first time that night, Stiles seems caught off guard, his expression melts into something soft as his eyes flick over Derek’s face, but before Derek can analyze it too much, it’s gone. Back is his flirty little smirk and Stiles playfully pops his next bite into his mouth and makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat.

“Maybe…” he winks.

And just like that Derek feels settled. Conversation flows easily. Stiles tells him that he’s older than most people in his year because he had to start college late. That he's and his best friend got a few years from the local community under their belts before his dad got injured and Scott went off to a specialty school.

“For financial reasons,” Stiles explains shyly, “when my dad got hurt on duty, I had to drop out. He’s all I’ve got left, and when the hospital released him, it was on strict orders for bed-rest.” Stiles shrugs like it doesn’t matter. That he put his life on hold before he even really got started. Giving up a portion of his future to ensure his dad got back on his feet. Derek falls a little bit more in love with him in that moment.

His knife scratches loudly across his plate at the thought, and Derek glances down, his knuckles are white where they grip the blade, and he forces himself to relax. He’s not in love with Stiles. Not even a little. Certainly not after one date, maybe not ever. At least that’s what he tells himself.

Thankfully, once Stiles gets going, he doesn’t seem to want to stop talking. Which is good because Derek is an excellent listener. He finds out that while Stiles grades are good since he’s a transfer and a late entry student, he’d missed the deadlines for any of the scholarships or grants that would help him afford school. Then, to Derek’s horror, he tries to thank Derek for helping to get him on the Coach’s radar because more than anything else, the football scholarship is going to make his and his dad’s life much easier.

Derek distracts him with dessert. Coffee crème brûlée, a slice of creme caramel, and two coffees. Stiles sits back, sighing, his hands stroking over his slightly distended stomach, his face a mask of relaxed contentment and Derek buzzes from the inside out. He likes seeing Stiles like this. He’d like to see Stiles like this all the time. Content and cared for, sated and maybe sleeping in Derek's bed after a series of mutually mind-blowing orgasms.

Those thoughts buzzing around in his mind, along with the bourbon and the rich food, Derek finds himself saying, “Let me drive you home,” as he signs his name on the bottom of the receipt before closing the small, black book and putting his card away.

Stiles looks up at him from where he’s licking the last of the crème brûlée from his spoon, his long pink tongue poking out passed his lips. Derek bites down on a groan. Stiles swallows, putting his spoon down and nods. “Yeah, why… Why don’t you do that.”

Chapter Text

“Let me just hit the restroom. I’ll meet you outside,” Stiles says, pulling on his waistcoat and biting his bottom lip. He’s adorable –sexy– and makes Derek wonder if a form fitted waistcoat is now a thing for him.

Nodding, Derek heads from the restaurant; the valet already has his car waiting, glistening black under the cool light of the moon. He gives the guy a tip and leans back against the front passenger side, crossing his feet at the ankles and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

CH: Is he in love with you yet?

Me: Yes.

Derek smirks down at his phone as the ellipses bop to life almost immediately. He can’t help but poke a little fun. The date, after all, is going spectacularly and for once he’s in a really great mood.

Me: Do you really have nothing better to do on a Friday night but sit around and text me?

CH: No one has a more exciting love life right now, so yes.

Me: You’re sad.

CH: whatever… I won’t care next time.

The sound of a shoe scuffing has Derek looking up in time to see Stiles stumble down the curb, his wide eyes locked on Derek. Stiles catches himself and looks down, breaking eye contact with Derek, who looks around for a moment, confused, before realization settles on him and he smiles. A wash of warm arousal sweeping over him.

He’s usually not the overly confident type, but as Stiles looks up, Derek can’t help but tease him a little more. He rolls his hips forward slightly, under the guise of slipping his phone back into his pocket, and watches with dark satisfaction as Stiles swallows hard, eyes glued to the motion of Derek’s hips.

It’s not like he did it on purpose. Derek hadn’t even thought about the position he’d be in Stiles came out to meet him, never mind what he would look like. But watching Stiles’ expression darken with want as Derek leans back against his car, arms crossed over his chest like he’s some kind of centerfold, he can’t help but feel that he’s earned a bit of payback.

After spending the evening simmering in his arousal, suffering through the slow torture that is watching Stiles eat; how he licked his fork after each bite, slid the tines between his blunt, white teeth. The way he moaned as he wrapped his lips around his spoon. Every time he swallowed, how he licked, long and slow, over his lips. Yeah, it’s only fair to give Stiles a taste of his own medicine. Apparently, the Camaro and the way Derek’s leaning against it, is ‘doing it’ for Stiles, cause he shoves his hands into his front pockets and not so subtly adjusts himself. Derek swears he can smell the guy's arousal from here.

“So… nice car,” Stiles says rocking on his feet as he stops by Derek.

“I thought so,” Derek says with a grin as he leans into Stiles’ space, reaching for the door handle. Stiles' eyelids flutter, his lips parting like he’s waiting for Derek to kiss him. Not yet , Derek thinks. “After you,” Derek rumbles as he opens the door.

Stiles seems to catch himself, flushing, he grins. “So kind,” he says and bats his lashes, a sarcastic set to his lips, before dropping into the passenger seat.

Derek takes his time circling the front of the car, makes his steps slow and deliberate, gives Stiles time to look his fill. Maybe Cora was right; he should go with it, get his dick wet, so to speak. He doesn’t have to overthink every single damn thing in his life. Derek drops down into the driver's seat and slips on the belt. He glances over at Stiles, one hand gripping the wheel as he leans on the center console towards him.

“Where to?” he asks, and Stiles, to Derek’s utter amazement, shivers. It’s intoxicating having someone respond to him like this. If only Stiles knew the effect he was having on Derek; they might not make it out of the parking lot.

They do though; they make it all the way to the apartment Stiles and Erica share. It’s a run down little building within walking distance to the main campus. Stiles glances up at the dark facade and fidgets, clicking out of his seatbelt and turning towards Derek. He bites his lip, the plush flesh slowly slipping from between his teeth, making it red and wet, and Derek is suddenly hungry again, for a completely different reason.

“So, this was…” Stiles puffs out a breath, slumping slightly, “ok, this was... amazing. Totally amazing.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks playfully, as he leans on the center console a bit more, unconsciously slipping further into Stiles space.

“Yeah man, like you had any doubt. This date should go down in the history of perfect first dates. I can say I totally didn’t expect such a nice restaurant. I didn’t even know this town had such a nice restaurant. You spoke French dude. French, and like really well. You look... Fuck,” Stiles gestures to all of Derek and just stops talking, his eyes following a path down Derek’s body before snapping back to his face. “You know, it’s just not fair how you look… and no matter what you say. I honestly have no idea how I ended up here. Unless someone’s playing a sick joke on me, which, as of yet, I’m not convinced they aren’t.”

“Stiles, no one is playing a joke on you,” Derek says with a small smile, popping the car into park, the leather under him creaks as he leans in, drawn like a magnet towards Stiles and his parted lips. “Can I kiss you?” He has no idea what makes him say it other than he wants to feel if Stiles’ lips are as soft as they look. That he thinks Stiles might want to kiss him just as badly.

“Fuck yes.” Stiles sighs, rushing forward, his hands flying out, one curling around the forearm Derek has pressed against the center console, the other gripping Derek’s shoulder for balance.

They bump noses and Stiles whimpers, low and frustrated. He turns his head, coming back in too quickly, nipping Derek’s lower lip a bit too hard, his chin to bashes against Derek’s in his eagerness. Derek pulls back slightly, and Stiles curses, his eyes closed tightly and his brows dipped in frustration. Reaching out, Derek curls his hand around Stiles’ neck, savoring the moment as he slowly leans in and presses a soft, conservative kiss to Stiles bottom lip.

“Slow,” he rumbles and Stiles breaths out a shivering breath. “Slow,” Derek repeats, closing the distance between them and gently licking at Stiles top lip before pressing another closed mouth kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Incrementally, Stiles relaxes under Derek’s attention, his hands going soft against Derek’s arms, his body swaying in and his head tipping, a sigh leaving him when Derek dips and sucks a small mark on the soft skin just below his ear.

“Derek,” he whimpers, tilting his head and giving Derek more access to that long, pale stretch of throat. Heat flashes through Derek’s body, his cock plumps between his thighs, thickening at an alarming rate. It’s been far too long since he’s done this; since someone’s said his name with that much want behind it. He nips and licks his way back up Stiles' throat towards his mouth, kissing gently at each corner before pulling back just enough to see his face.

Stiles’ nostrils are flared as he tries to control his breathing, his eyes are closed, but this time, his face is relaxed, the dark fan of his lashes falling over a deep flush, highlighting his high cheekbones. Derek’s hand tightens around the back of Stiles' neck, and he parts his lips ever so slightly, the dark expanse of his mouth calls to Derek, and he’s powerless to resist.

Swooping back in, he kisses Stiles harder. Stiles tenses for a breath and then melts beautifully, pressing eagerly against Derek. Stiles’ lips part and he meets Derek’s tongue with his own, soft and wet. The first tentative touch makes Derek suck a breath, suck the air right out of Stiles’ mouth, and then he’s diving in, dipping past Stiles’ lips for the first time. Stiles groans low in his throat and sucks on Derek’s tongue, sending lightning arching over his nerve endings and making his cock leak against his thigh.

The kiss rapidly deteriorates, turning sloppy, heated, Derek swallowing Stiles’ groans and whimpers and Stiles lifting one of his hands to slide his fingertips through Derek’s stubble, pressing them against the joint of his jaw. Stiles scrambles against the center console, his chest pressing Derek back as he moans into his mouth.

He’s hard; he’s so fucking hard, each shift of his body makes his cock press against his boxer-briefs and sends waves of heat over his skin, making his hair stand on end. Derek finally releases the death grip he has on the steering wheel and drops his hand on the small of Stiles’ back, pulling him in. Stiles is warm under his palms, his muscles shifting with each movement of their kiss, rolling under Derek’s fingers in a way that is so much more than tantalizing. He’s making these tiny abortive thrusts with his hips that Derek can feel in his soul.

Each sinuous roll of Stiles’ hips shifts the muscles of his lower back against Derek’s fingers, and he wants… He wants to grab Stiles and pull him over the center console, spread his thick thighs on either side of Derek’s hips and rut up against him. Feel every inch of what he’s doing to Stiles, let Stiles feel every hard, aching, throb of what he’s doing to Derek.

They pull apart slightly, panting into one another's mouths, and Derek is dizzy, his head spinning, his dick aching with each beat of his heart. “ Stiles... ” He rumbles, surprised at how low his voice sounds, and Stiles hisses, pulling back, eyes wide, his hand drops to his crotch, and he curses, pressing down.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His fingers curl around a rather impressive bulge, and he gasps, one of his legs shakes, and he squeezes his eyes closed, sucking a slow breath in through his nose. “Just, fuck, just a sec…”

Derek leans back, reaching between his legs and adjusting himself while Stiles’ eyes are still closed. His lips are swollen and slick from their kissing, and the edges of his jaw are rubbed red from Derek’s stubble. His pale skin flushes so deliciously, Derek is already leaning back in when Stiles places a hand against his chest to stop him.

“I… I’d invite you up, but fuck...” Stiles glances down to where he’s still gripping himself and grimaces. “But Erica is home tonight and I just… can’t.”

Something cools inside of Derek, and he leans back to his side of the car, the smile slipping from his lips. “Right…” he says, clearing his throat and turning in his seat. Why would Stiles have Erica clear out, it’s not like Stiles was taking this seriously. Derek’s just a free meal, granted, a really nice free meal. Stiles even said he hadn’t thought this was a real date, of course, he wouldn't’ tell Erica… of course. The steering wheel creaks under his grip, stupid, so stupid, he always falls so fast, always expects too much. Needy, clingy, controlling.

“No, listen,” Stiles’ touch is soft on his forearm and when Derek glances at him, he looks pained. “Erica… I’ve known Erica a few years; we came from the same town. We weren’t really close in school but when I got hurt, and the doctors recommended yoga to keep my muscles loose and to give me a channel for my extra energy, since lacrosse wasn’t on the table anymore, well, you could say we bonded.”

Derek frowns, angling in his seat to better face Stiles. The way he’s talking, meeting but not holding Derek’s eye, gives him the impression that this is important and he’s embarrassed to share it. He licks his lips, and Derek tracks the motion, it makes Stiles pause in his story for a moment, his fingers curling against his knees, almost like he’s stalling.

“I–I met her in pilates, it’s like yoga but more intense, the uh, yoga wasn’t doing it for me. She. . . Erica . . . has seizures, bad ones. Her doctors were running out of options, and they thought it would help for, you know, after. . . after she has one, with her muscles stiffness and pain. . . I don't know. Anyway. . . she had one, a small one, yesterday and, Derek,” Stiles pauses looking over his shoulder at the building before meeting Derek’s eyes again. “That’s, that's why we live together, that’s why you can’t come upstairs right now, and that’s why I had to take the bus and was late.”

He feels like a complete ass, the biggest ass ever. The sharp voice in his head is loud as it berates him because this, right here, this just proves that Kate was right. That he is selfish, and greedy, clingy and needy. His chest tightens, and he nods. “Of course, Stiles. I completely understand.”

“Good, good.” Stiles sags, his smile creeping back across his face. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Derek’s cheek. “I should go up, I mean I really, really don’t want to, but I should. I told her I’d be back over an hour ago.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Derek nods, licking his lips, unable to shake the sinking feeling in his stomach. Stiles is a good person. Stiles is an actual good person, and Derek’s only been thinking perverted, selfish thoughts about him.

“I’ll text you ok?” Stiles says reaching for the door handle.

“Like you did after I sent that photo,” Derek says, and he kicks himself immediately. Why is he like this, why can’t just leave well enough alone? Stiles freezes, his eyes wide as he turns back towards Derek but then he snorts laughing, and Derek blinks.

“Ok, so. Uh, dude, that photo fucked me up. I was speechless, me Stiles Stilinski, at a loss for words. I almost jerked off in the library over your fucking perfect ass.”

“What?!” Derek flinches, “What the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes narrow and Stiles laughter fades.

“You… did you even see the photo you sent me? That’s part of the reason why I thought tonight was one big joke. You know, tease the nerdy bi kid with the hot jock he’ll never have...”

“What, no… Stiles...” Derek snarls, shoving his hand into his pocket and curses when his pants are too tight to let him in. Arching, he presses back against the seat, lifting his hips, his still mostly hard cock on display as it strains under his zipper and Stiles eyes zone in on it. Derek yanks his phone out and opens his gallery app, clicking on the photo he frowns at it. It’s just his stupid scowling face.

“I don’t understand.”

“Dude,” Stiles says incredulous, leaning over the console to tap on the photo and zoom in on the mirror.


“Yeah, oh .” Stiles laughs, “but that’s not why I didn’t text you back... I mean, even if it was the reason…. what was I supposed to say to something like that in the first place? I figured you didn’t even realize what you sent, so should I point it out, or should I ignore it?”

“I guess you ignored it.”

“No! I wrote a poem dedicated to your glutes and lower back!” Stiles says fanning his hands out between them as if a poem is the most logical choice of responses. “But then Boyd called to let me know they lost the keys to my handcuffs and I had to go and unlock Erica from her bedframe because I keep the extra key on me. Luckily, this time, everyone had at least some semblance of clothing on when I got there. After that, it just seemed like too much time had passed.”

“Handcuffs?” Derek chokes, and Stiles eyes narrow, his lips kicking up in the corner.

“Yeah, Big Guy, handcuffs.” Stiles drags his eyes over Derek’s body in a slow perusal, and Derek simmers with a fresh wave of arousal.

“My place, instead?” He asks, leaning towards Stiles again, angling for his lips but Stiles groans turning his head away.

Fuuuck, Derek,” Stiles grunts and Derek can’t stop himself; he wants it, he wants to touch and taste, he wants Stiles. It burns under his skin hot like lava; it makes him crazy. This is why he denies himself; this is why he keeps his distance from the people he finds attractive because when he doesn’t, he does shit like this.

“Yes, let’s fuck Derek,” he mumbles, leaning in to suck at the exposed skin of Stiles’ neck.

The noise that erupts from Stiles’ throat can only be described as a tortured whimper. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek watches Stiles' hand fly to his crotch, squeezing, as his legs press together and he leans into Derek’s mouth.

“I’m going to kill Erica. Fuck, fuck.” Stiles pants, his leg shaking more as he grips the door handle with white knuckles. “She’s dead, a dead woman. Fuck me.”

“We could do that, too,” Derek says, working his way up Stiles’ neck as his hand slips over the console and he dips his fingers between the seam of Stiles' thighs, his palm a heavy weight, calming the bouncing of Stiles’ leg.

“Ohmygod, Stiles whines, popping the door open. “Rain check, ok? Rain check.” He leans over and pecks Derek on the lips, once, twice, a swipe of his tongue and then with another pained noise, he pulls back. Derek growls pressing forward, trying to deepen the kiss again.

“Fuck man,” Stiles says, resting their foreheads together, taking a slow breath before nodding and pushing away. “I’ll text you, ok? I’ll text the shit out of you. You have no idea what you just got yourself into. I’m going to text you like nobody's ever texted you before. I hope you have unlimited texting, cause I’m going to text you so much you’ll wish you never gave me your number.”

“I didn’t give you my number,” Derek huffs, as Stiles slips out of the car, closing the door and turning around, only to frantically wave for Derek to lower the window. He leans back into the car; his swollen lips parted in shock.

“You didn’t, did you…?”

“Nope.” Derek pops the ‘p,’ dropping his hand onto his thigh and slowly adjusting himself as Stiles watches. “But I would have if you asked for it.”

“Fuckmylife,” Stiles groans dropping his head “Ericaaaa!!” He looks up, eyes desperate before nodding. “Ok, ok, see you tomorrow, right? Yeah, practice, see you at…. practice.”

“Sure,” Derek says turning in his seat but keeping his eyes on Stiles as he backs up from the car, mumbling to himself. Derek revs the engine and Stiles flinches, his hands snapping to his hair and pulling, his cock a prominent bulge against the dark wash of his jeans. Derek can just hear him grumble ‘hottest guy ever…. wants me to fuck him… I say, rain check, raincheck! ... before he slumps and turns, stomping back towards his apartment.

Derek gets twelve text messages before he even makes it back to his apartment. Three of them are photos. After he gets off from the sight of Stiles’ beautiful cock, flushed and red and curving ever so slightly up towards his stomach, Derek raises his phone, arms shaking and sends a photo back. Come splattered over the dark hair on his abdomen and up his stomach. Stiles sends back a text with a bunch of nonsense letters, and sixteen emoji’s alluding to his death.

Chapter Text

“Listen up, you little shits!” Coach booms, the megaphone held off to the side of his mouth. Derek pops his helmet and props it against his hip. Next to him, Stiles appears a water bottle in his hand, a sly smile stretching across his lips.

It’s been over a month since they started seeing each other and Stiles is more than true to his word. Derek’s sent and received more text messages in the past few weeks than he has in most of his adult life.

They’ve gone on more dates and Derek thinks the structure of his face has permanently been rearranged from how often he’s spent the night smiling. They come easier now, his smiles, thanks to Stiles. Stiles and how handily he beat Derek at mini golf. How tightly he held Derek’s hand through one of the scariest, cheesiest movies he’s ever seen. How he didn’t make fun of Derek for spilling their popcorn when he jumped.

When Stiles’ took him to his favorite burger place and Derek learned of Stiles’ love of curly fries. The heated and heavy promise he made that if Derek ever ended up in Beacon Hills, he’d show him what a real curly fry tasted like. Though, these are an okay substitute.

So, they’re taking it slow and it's nice. Derek hasn’t brought up Stiles’ suggestion to Netflix and Chill– no matter how much he wants to–because on their second date Stiles confessed–while sinking his third hole in one–that he’s never actually dated before. After choking on his surprise and ensuring Stiles that, yes, it’s really okay, and no, it’s certainly not a turn-off, Derek’s actually felt a lot more settled.

Taking the pressure of rushing their intimacy off the table makes it that much easier for Derek to just let go and be himself. Honestly, all of this, the shy caresses, the languid smiles, the way Stiles' eyes light up whenever Derek laughs, is more than okay with him, considering his baggage and history.

Just because they’re taking their time doesn't mean they aren’t moving at all. Derek gets a crash course in Snapchat. Which is something he never knew he needed until Stiles sent the first video of him after a run, drenched in sweat, his t-shirt clinging to his perky nipples. Needless to say, Derek is a pro at the app now.

He does finally get Stiles to crawl over the center console of the Camaro and curl his beautiful body over Derek’s. Writhing and kissing until they both come in their pants like teenagers. Not that it took much convincing with how heated their makeout sessions have become. It’s been amazing, and for the first time in a long time, Derek has warmth in his chest.

“Thirsty?” Stiles asks, his eyes flashing. He keeps his hands to himself when they’re around the team. They both do, because this newness? It’s just for them. It’s not that they’re hiding, because as Derek said more than once, Stiles nor Derek’s sexuality is something he’d hide. They just aren’t being overt about it. It’s nice, and it avoids any potential issues they might have in the locker room.

Derek has a harder time controlling his gaze then Stiles’ does and Boyd’s smacked him upside the helmet more than once for staring. Today’s no different.

“Always,” Derek mumbles, his eyes dragging over Stiles in his football uniform. He may be developing a kink.

Stiles hands Derek the water bottle and he tilts it, squirting it into his open mouth as coach gives his yearly pre-first game speech.

“Is this…?”

“The speech from Independence Day? Yeah.”

“....what…? Why?”

“Honestly… we have no idea,” Isaac says, coming to stand on Stiles opposite side.

“Huh,” Stiles says as coach finishes up and then waves Stiles over to him. “Ugh, I just want a shower.” Stiles gripes as everyone else files down the tunnel towards the locker room. “See you in a few?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, watching him trot over to the coaching team.

“What’s going on between you two?” Boyd asks, almost as soon as they are out of earshot. Derek doesn’t fight his smile as he shrugs. “I know he’s good but so’s Caleb and you don’t hover around him like you do Stiles.”

“Nothing… He’s just…” Derek puffs out his cheeks, releasing a breath and looking down at his cleats as they walk.

“Dude! Did you just… smile?” Isaac asks, shoving Derek’s shoulder. “I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“Yeah well, I can,” Derek says, stopping in front of his locker and dropping his helmet into the footwell.

The team is hyped up around them, shouting and shoving one another as they strip and race for the showers. It’s always like this after the last practice before the season starts. The air buzzes with excitement. Derek tosses his practice uniform into the communal laundry bin and grabs a towel. Boyd and Isaac follow in his wake.

There are a number of shower stalls along the walls but the majority of the room is an open air shower. Some of the guys care about showering in public and some don't. Derek is normally the latter. He hangs his towel on the little hook outside his stall before slipping inside and pulling the low curtain closed.

“All I’m saying, man, is you should do it more,” Isaac shouts 'cause he and Boyd are not the type to care about everyone looking at their junk.

“Maybe he’s finally getting laid?” Boyd’s voice rumbles out and Derek drops the little shampoo bottle he’s holding.

“Oh fuck.” Isaac breathes, his face appearing, dripping with soap, at the top of the low privacy wall of Derek’s stall. “Do your smiles directly relate to how many orgasms you’re having?”

Derek reaches over the low wall and shoves Isaac’s face away from him.

“Maybe you just need to work a little harder for my smiles, Isaac,” Derek says as soap runs over his face.

“Well, I’m not going to suck your cock, if that's what it takes,” Isaac says without missing a beat and Derek pops his head over the low divider, a grin splitting his lips.

“You only say that cause you’ve never seen it.”

Boyd and a few of the other guys close enough to hear their exchange, crow with laughter. Isaac smirks.

“You know, you might just be right!” He laughs tossing a washcloth over the privacy wall where it smacks wetly to the floor.

“Gross man.” Boyd chuckles as Derek lifts it and tosses it back.

“Get it together,” Derek scolds, ducking back under the water and rinsing the rest of the way off.

“Yeah, Lahey,” Jackson's voice sneers, “Hale only lets people he can use suck his dick.”

Derek goes rigid. His spine rebar straight as blood thunders in his ears. He can hear water shutting off and feet slapping as members of his team flee the area. Jackson’s known for his outbursts and a lot of the team are just plain tired of it at this point. Part of Derek is relieved they’re leaving but another part of him is furious that Jackson is so self-centered, he's trying to take the one thing that’s making Derek happy, and ruin it.

“Oh, fuck off Jackson,” Isaac says, and Derek nods, jaw tensing.

“No. No seriously.” Jackson presses, his voice drifting closer. Derek turns off the water in his stall and snags his towel wrapping it around his hips, before stepping out to face the shit storm going down. “Ah, here he is now,” Jackson sneers.

Derek holds his towel in a death grip, knuckles white, fingers tensed to the point of pain, as he steps towards Jackson. Isaac and Boyd shift on the outside of his vision, turning off their showers and grabbing towels.

“I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with Stilinski.” Jackson goes on his lip curling, his voice low. “Need to keep him happy, huh? I heard that the only reason he showed up to practice was because he forced you to take him on a date. Not that I’m surprised, the kids hopeless, pathetic, always has been. But you, Hale…” Jackson looks Derek over before his eyes settle back on Derek’s face. “What? Did you just figure you’d keep doing it? Keep taking him out, wining and dining him just to ensure your starting position in the lineup?”

Jackson sneers, and he looks even more out of place than Derek feels. He’s fully dressed, standing in the middle of the showers and he looks like he’s been chewing on this little fight for a while. Derek’s just about to open his mouth to tell Jackson off when he lands his final blow.

“When coach told you to ‘do whatever it takes’ I didn’t realize you’d take it so literally. That stoop so low, oh excuse me. That you’d bend over so far as fucking a dude.”

Derek clenches his jaw, snarling as he steps forward leaning right into Jackson space, “No,” he manages, choking on his rage. His mind reeling from the accusations. Jackson doesn’t back down if anything he bristles.

“No?! No, what Hale? No, you’re not leading him on? Just using the kid to benefit yourself? Or, no, coach didn’t tell you if you to do ‘whatever it takes’ to get Stilinski on the team? Or is it, that you’re not just using him to keep your starting spot?” Jackson pauses, his eyebrows lifting. “Oh, I get it... No, because he’s the one fucking you.”

“Fuck you, Jackson!” Isaac shouts angrily, at the same time Boyd says “Dude, not cool.”

Derek balks, flinching back and Jackson smiles like he knows something.

“That's it, isn’t it?” Jackson pushes Derek’s shoulder and advances, chasing Derek as he stumbles back a step. “You’re so desperate to keep me off the field; so fucking desperate to keep me from my rightful spot, you’d bend over like a fucking faggot for anyone. It didn’t have to be someone like Stilinski did it? He could be anybody.”

Rage erupts under his skin, his mind blanks out and he’s snarling, stepping towards Jackson, words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them. He feels hands on his shoulders holding him back but he can’t see anything other than Jacksons smirking face.

“Yeah, Jackson, that’s exactly what this is. ‘Cause fuck you. Fuck you, Jackson! Everything’s about you, isn’t it? And you know I’d do anything, anyone to keep your lousy ass off the field. Wouldn’t I? ‘Cause I’m so fucking desperate. I’m such a fucking shitty player that I’d need to con some kid with my dick to keep you on the sidelines. You stupid, self-centered, piece--”

“Wow.” The voice cuts sharp across the yelling.

“Shit,” Isaac hisses and Derek’s stomach drops. Stiles is standing at the mouth of the showers his gear half off as if he was undressing when he heard the argument.

“Wow…” he says again his eyes wide. A dark, angry flush rides high on his cheeks and spreads steadily down his bare chest. He looks from Jackson to Derek, his lips pulled thin and blinks hard a few times. “Okay…” he says his voice gruff.

“Stiles…” Derek whispers but Stiles shakes his head stepping backward. “Stiles!” Derek shouts lurching towards him just as Stiles turns and disappears.

“Looks like the truth’s out now,” Jackson says and Derek blacks out. When he comes back, Jackson is sprawled out on the shower floor clutching his face, blood leaking down his chin. Derek’s hand is throbbing.

“Derek, Der!” Boyd is saying, practically shouting. His hands slap roughly across Derek’s cheeks. His face slowly coming back into view past the red haze Derek’s looking through. Boyd pushes Derek back, wide hands on his shoulders as he calls his name again and again. “Derek, man, you there? Come on, look at me.”

“Fuck,” Derek breathes as the adrenaline crashes and his body starts shaking, not even looking at Jackson who’s screaming and cursing from the floor “Fuck. Stiles.”

“Yeah, go. We’ll take care of this,” Boyd says as he turns to where Isaac and a few other team members are kneeling around Jackson.

“That’s it, Hale, you’re fucking finished. I’ll have you thrown off the team!” Jackson’s shouts chase Derek as he sprints from the showers.

“Stiles?” Derek calls frantic, cursing himself. He shakes his hand out. Pain from punching Jackson throbbing in his knuckles. Popping between rows of lockers, startling his teammates Derek barks: “Have you seen Stiles?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Derek sprints back to his bag throwing his clothes on and jogging from the locker room. “Have you seen Stiles?”

“No man, sorry.”

Derek tugs at his hair cursing, kicking the wall, sounds of his frustration echoing down the tunnel that leads back towards the field. He hasn’t been this angry in years. His skin crawls and his palms itch. He wants to go back and beat the ever loving shit out of Jackson almost as much as he needs to find Stiles. How could he just have vanished like this?

“Hale!” Coach's voice snaps and Derek spins around. Finstock is standing with his arms crossed, looking like someone just kicked his puppy, behind him Jackson lurks, an ice pack pressed to his already swelling face.

“Motherfucker.” Derek rumbles, this is not what he needs right now. This is the last thing he needs right now.

“Get out of here, Whittemore.” Finstock sighs as Derek approaches them.

“What, no!” Jackson whines.

“I said, get out of here, Whittemore!” Finstock shouts, waiting until Jackson huffs and leaves before turning to Derek. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He says before reaching out and gripping Derek by his neck, dragging him into his office. “You have got to be kidding me, Hale! Two days before the season opener and you hit Whittemore!? Sit!”

Derek falls immediately into one of the chairs in front of Finstock’s desk. “I mean, I get it, I do. The kid’s a fucking thorn in my side. I’d love to punch him in his smug face….” Coach pauses, looking distantly over Derek’s head and then snapping back. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” His face softens. “What happened, Derek, this isn’t like you. You’re not… violent.”

Frowning down at his hands, Derek doesn’t respond. He’s not going to come out to his coach, not like this and not right now. He’s not going to risk it. He can’t. He’s spent so long letting people believe what they wanted about him. Letting people assume he’s the perfect, straight, All-American jock they think he is. He’s not prepared to shatter that image.

Not over Jackson fucking Whittemore, and not with so much rage boiling under his skin. He can’t even be sure what he’d say if he opened his mouth right now. He needs to see Stiles. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Derek, are you listening to me?” Derek shakes his head blinking and refocuses his attention on Finstock. “Come on, I have to report this to the school, so if you don’t tell me your side of things.... What you think happened. I’m going to have to go with Jackson’s story.”

Derek bites the inside of his cheek, anger flashing through him. His hands curl into fists atop his thighs. How on Earth is he supposed to say ‘Jackson called me a fag’.

Jackson insulted the guy I like.

Jackson called my honor into question…

Jackson .......


Derek’s teeth ache from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. This is all fucking Jackson’s fault.

“Do you have anything to say? Anything at all that could help your case?”

“No,” Derek growls, his anger is making his vision darken along the edges. He’s so furious, his nails are cutting into the flesh of his palm.

“No? No!” Coach says, his hand slamming down against the desk he’s leaning against. “What do you mean no, Derek? You don’t just punch someone! It’s not like you. Give me something!”

Resolutely, Derek fixes his gaze down. His brows dip and his heart pumps sluggishly in his chest. He wants to tell coach everything. That he’s not straight. That he’s maybe a little bit in love with Stiles. That he punched Jackson for using hate speech and slurs. That he’s mortified the team will look at him differently when they find out he likes guys. That because of his anger and stupidity he may have ruined his one chance at real happiness. But… he can’t, the words are stuck in his throat, refusing to budge.

“Everyone’s counting on you, Derek. Everyone, even me. Now, Jackson is going to get exactly what he wanted in the first place. Give me something, I’m begging you!”

He opens his mouth, looking up at coach who’s staring at him like Derek holds both the secrets of the universe and is simultaneously, the stupidest person he’s ever seen. Derek snaps his mouth closed, eyes dropping to the ground as he shakes his head.

“You’re suspended.”

“What, Coach. No!” The chair creaks under him as he slams his fist down on his thigh.

“What did you expect!?” Coach snaps his arms waving wide.

“Don’t do this,” Derek croaks, his throat constricting.

“You’re benched until an academic review can be done. My hands are tied.”

Dread boils low and hot in Derek’s stomach. It reaches up his throat with sharp claws and makes his esophagus burn with shame. His whole family is coming to the opening game. Half the school will be there. They’ve been putting up posters and promos all over campus, for weeks. Everyone knows he’s starting. People have been coming up to him wishing him luck, telling him to crush it.

Humiliation makes his hands shake, but more than that, it’s the absence of the warmth he’s gotten used to feeling in his chest. The loss of the lightness from knowing that after each practice, at the end of every crappy day, Derek still had Stiles. That they could sit by one another and Derek could relish the feeling of their thighs brushing when Stiles moved, when he talked so animatedly.

That he could pick up his phone and text him, just because he wanted to. Now the device weighs like a brick in his pocket. To hear his voice, ranting about Erica and Boyd kicking him out of the apartment again or having to stay late in the library to finish a project.

All of that is gone now. Stiles is gone. They were just getting started, and it was good. Too good. Derek doesn’t get nice things like that and Stiles was the best. But seeing the betrayal on Stiles’ face, watching as he turned and fled the locker room, left Derek there gawking. That he ran from Derek on silent, quick feet. It leaves him hollow as nothing has before. It leaves him numb.

Chapter Text

Derek lurches to his feet as the office door behind him slams open. Finstock jumps, eyes wide as five guys led by Boyd and Isaac pour into his tiny office. They’re all talking at once shouting and pointing. Derek turns slowly, edging away from them until he bumps up against the desk next to Finstock.

SHUT THE HELL UP! ” Finstock roars after a few moments of utter mayhem.

“Coach!” Isaac protests immediately, eyes flicking between Derek and Finstock.

“It would be you, Lahey.” Coach sighs, rubbing his forehead. “You don’t listen on the field, why would you listen off?”

Everyone shifts around, some of them are still dripping wet; others are tugging on their clothing like they got dressed in a hurry.

“Well?” Finstock snaps “What are you doing here!”

“Coach,” Boyd steps forward, “we’re here to offer witness on Derek’s behalf. We were there when the incident happened.”

“Finally!” Finstock says, reaching out and shoving Derek back into the chair. “Hale here wasn’t saying anything to save his ass. I didn’t want to have to put my star player on probation if this was all a misunderstanding. It… was a misunderstanding, wasn’t it?”

Everyone shifts not making eye contact and Finstock sighs. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding?”

“Not... not really.” Isaac fidgets, his face constricted apologetically, and Derek rolls his eyes, turning back around in his chair to stare at Finstocks desk.

“Coach,” Boyd says, and Derek twists to look over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed, brows pinched so low his face is starting to hurt. Boyd doesn’t seem phased; he glances from Derek back to Finstock. “Jackson verbally assaulted Derek in the showers using inflammatory, homophobic language.”

What?” Coach seethes, so low and dark that Derek’s head snaps around to look at him. He’s seen Coach really pissed only once, and that doesn’t even hold a candle to the silent fury taking over the man now.

“Yeah, he accused Derek of bending over for Stiles like a… a...” Boyd clears his throat standing straighter, and Derek drops his head, heat creeping up the back of his neck and making his ears turn red. “Faggot.”

Derek flinches, the word burns across his skin like a brand. The anger from earlier is gone, replaced with the mortification of his team members hearing it again. Having it directed at him again. It’s not the way he wanted them to find out. It’s not on his terms, not how he’d have done it... and he doesn’t even know if half of them will believe it, not hearing it from his mouth, but the way he sprinted after Stiles, how he’d dropped everything to go after him. That’s a sure enough sign he didn't deny Jackson’s accusations. Either way, it’s done now. They know. They know he’s not their perfect ideal of the All-American Sportsman they think he is.

Coach has gone perfectly still, his arms bulging where they are crossed over his chest as his fingers go white with how hard he’s squeezing his biceps. It’s strange and unnerving to see him like this. He’s always so full of static energy, buzzing in a way that’s manic but happy. All of that has drained out of him now, and it leaves a cold and almost frightening man in its wake.

“Stone, get Jackson. He should be in the locker rooms. That kid loves drama too much to have left this alone,” Coach breathes, his cheeks flushed, lips tight. “Get him and drag his ass back in here, now.”

Stone jumps into action, sprinting from the office. The cold fury in Finstock’s voice forcing the remaining players into stillness. Derek doesn’t dare to move a muscle as they all wait, quiet in the face of Finstock’s true wrath. Derek had been angry before, turned his anger into violence but it’s nothing to how Coach looks when Stone shoves Jackson into the office. And for the first time, Derek fully understands the power of calm fury.

Jackson’s smile slips as he looks from Derek to Coach, to the players standing clustered together, his face pinching. “What’s going on here, I thought you’d have him suspended by now!”

There’s a pinkish bruise puffing up on Jackson's cheek, his normally angular face soft and pudgy where Derek hit him. The cut on his lip has stopped bleeding but remains a dark gash against the smooth pale skin.

Coach takes a few deep breaths, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he points to the chair next to Derek. “Sit,” he says and Derek would give Jackson credit for not immediately collapsing under the cold glare Coach gives him, but he hates the kid, so he doesn’t.

“What’s going on?” Jackson presses, in the way only a person who’s had everything in his life go his way could.

“Jackson, sit the fuck down,” Coach snaps, his hand flashing out, grabbing Jackson by the shoulder and shoving him into the empty chair next to Derek. He takes a few short breaths before standing from where he’s leaning against his desk and pacing back and forth, some of his manic energy returning.

“There are very few things I don’t tolerate, on this team, or in my life,” he begins, crossing in front of where Derek and Jackson are sitting, not pausing as he reaches the end of the small office and turns back to walk the other way. “And I never thought this would come up, not here. Not at this school, not on my team....”

Coach pauses in his monologue taking a deep breath he leans back against his desk again. He eyes the players standing clustered in the entrance of his office and then drops his gaze first to Jackson then to Derek, his frown deepening. “And certainly not to someone like Derek, who has been such a pivotal and supportive member of this team, he’s had each of your backs more than once.”

“I hope I will never have to say this again, but I do not tolerate any sort of discriminative language, especially not against one’s sexual orientation, race or any of the things we don’t get to choose for ourselves. I will not tolerate it. There is no faster way to lose your place on my team than pulling shit like this.”

Finstock drops his narrowed gaze to Jackson. “Anything you’d like to say for yourself?”

Jackson gapes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he starts, sitting rigidly in his chair, an angry flush rushing up his neck. “You’re serious?! You’re fucking serious right now? He attacked me!” He gestures wildly at his face, the steadily darkening bruise.

“Though I don’t condone violence, and what Derek did was wrong, and he will be reprimanded for it, from what I’m being told, it wasn’t unwarranted.”

“What?” Jackson seethes, twisting in his chair to pin the other players with his glare. None of his teammates even flinch under his rage.

“Plead your case now Jackson, and I want the truth this time, or not only will I be benching you, but I’ll also be submitting you for an academic review,” Coach says all too calmly.

Jackson’s lips compress, his eyes spark with barely controlled anger, nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Yeah, I did it!” he snaps, his face going from pale to flushed in an instant. “I called Derek out on his shit! I called him out on using Stiles to keep me off the field.” Jackson’s eyes narrow and he breaks his staring contest with Finstock to cast his cold hard gaze on Derek. “I called him on bending over like a fucking faggot just to keep his spot on the starting line up,” he cuts back to Finstock. “Anything, right,  Coach, do anything you have to Hale. That’s what you said right? Coach?!”

“Jesus, Jackson. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Boyd rumbles, and Finstock’s head snaps up as if seeing the rest of the players for the first time.  

“I’d never do that,” Derek growls, but no one seems to be listening to him.

“Derek’s gay, Jackson!” Isaac snaps, his fists clenching by his sides and the whole room goes very still. Derek swears everyone can hear his heart pounding in his throat. That they can see him break out into a sweat, his hands bunching in the fabric of his gym shorts, nails biting into his palms.

“Not cool, bro,” Boyd mumbles, bumping shoulders with Isaac who makes a shocked sort of regretful noise in his throat. He turns wide pleading eyes at Derek who frowns, his face heating to match Isaac’s.

“You’re gay?” Jackson sneers, leaning away from Derek as if he’s something slimy that just crawled out from under a rock.

“N– I’m– not..…” Derek tries but his voice is soft, barely a whisper and the room is full of sound, shifting feet, clearing throats. Derek feels pinned by the scorn in Jackson’s eyes, unable to look away. This is exactly what he always feared.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay!” Coach says, his face sliding into that strange relaxed tension he seems to always have. “My boyfriend’s gay!”

Everyone stills at that proclamation, even Derek, who turns his attention to Finstock. That didn’t just happen, Coach didn’t just come out to them.

“You’re gay too?” Jackson sneers.

“No,” Finstock shakes his head and Derek can feel his heart hammering in his throat, it’s uncomfortable, the choking sensation. “My boyfriend’s gay. I’m bisexual. Not that it’s any of your god-damn concern, Jackson. The point stands, I don’t tolerate bigotry of any kind on my team.”

“I’m not going to play with a fucking fa…” Jackson starts but Coach kicks back, banging his foot against the hollow metal of his desk making everyone in the room jump.

“Don’t say that word again,” Finstock warns.

“I’ll report you, I’ll report you to the board of directors…” Jackson seethes. “You… you’ve been in the locker room. You go in there when we change… you…”

“You do what you need to Jackson, but you’ll look like a damn fool if you think they don’t know about me.” Coach points to the wall to his left where a number of newspaper clippings and framed photographs hang.

Dead center, in a small, unassuming frame, is a newspaper article, old and faded from just how long its been hanging there, but the title has the air whooshing from Derek’s lungs.  

'The University of California, Berkeley; Golden Bears Take Home the Championships Under First Openly Gay Head Coach; Bobby Finstock.

“Now, I’m going to give you both an option. We can set this aside and I can overlook the hate speech,” Coach tips his head towards Jackson who bristles, “...and the violence.” He looks to Derek who finds himself nodding. He wants to just get passed this so badly it makes him sick. He wants to put an end to this and never think about it again. “...and we can move forward as teammates. Or I can write you both up and place you on athletic probation until there‘s been a proper review.”

“Fine,” Derek says, gritting his teeth. He just wants this to stop. “I just want this all to go away,” he glares at Jackson out of the corner of his eye and sees him sit straighter, rigid.

“No fucking way. I refuse to play with someone like him.”

Coach goes stiff again, his brows dipping and his jaw flexes. When he speaks, his tone is light, conversational, and Derek is impressed with his control. Derek however, wants to beat the ever loving shit out of Jackson. His bruised knuckles throb with the ache to blacken Jackson’s other eye. He can’t believe he only got to hit him once.

You know Jackson, I’ve never felt the need to share my personal life with any of my students. It doesn't affect how I do my job or how I coach this team. Who I go home to every night doesn’t reflect on the six state championships I’ve won this school since taking charge of the football program eight years ago. And if you can’t shove your bigotry aside to play on a team with a gay man, then you obviously can’t be coached by one.”

“I’m not gay!” Derek blurts out and both Coach and Jackson turn to him.

“You’re not? I … That’s fine too, I mean you don’t have to be gay, Hale.” Coach flounders for a moment. “You could be a unicorn for all I care, the sentiment is the same.”

“I…know. I know that. For fuck’s sake,” Derek breathes, he just needs to get it out, he just needs to say it, it’s building up inside of him like a tsunami and if he doesn’t let it out he knows he will drown.

“I’m Bi… I’m Bi. Christ.” Derek flushes, standing. His fists balling at his sides. He doesn't know why the distinction is so important to him but it just is and now that it's out, now that everyone knows he needs to go. He has to get out of here. He can't look at them, can't see the disgust and disappointment in their faces.

“I’m also done with this conversation. None of this should have ever happened. Suspend me or don’t. I don’t care. This has been...” Derek grunts, cutting off his speech and biting the inside of his cheek. “Crap,” he snarls turning and pushing out of the office, the players part for him, stiff and uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at him.

“Derek,” Boyd says grabbing his upper arm. Derek levels a glare at him, pulling his arm free and shoving out of the room. The door slams behind him and a cacophony of noise erupts, voices shouting, yelling, people moving, furniture scraping. Derek tilts his head up towards the ceiling and breaths until the stinging behind his eyes fades.

Everything is going to change now.

Chapter Text

“Laws,” Derek croaks, his voice raw and choked. His head drops back against the mattress, and he squeezes his eyes closed. He’s sitting on the floor of his apartment, back braced against the low bed frame; a faded, well-loved stuffed wolf squeezed between his bent knees. God, he feels small and far too big for his skin all at once. The normally open feeling of his loft presses in on him, trapping him in the confines of his mind.

“Der-Bear?” Laura says the sound of dishes clinking in the background goes quiet. He can feel the shift in her attention. “What happened, what’s wrong?”

“Law...,” he says again, his voice breaking and she coos softly over the phone. He only uses her nickname when he’s really hurting.

“Der, talk to me, honey,” she says and in the silence that follows he hears the sound of a chair pulling out, rough wood on wood as she sits down at her kitchen table. Derek bites his lip, listening to her breathe softly over the line, words caught in his throat.

“Ok, first off, are you hurt?”

“No,” he gets out, the knot tightening.

“Did you hurt someone?”

“No... not really?” he sighs, “yes.”

“Ok, I’ll go back to that,” she says, and just the sound of her voice soothes him. The tension drains from his limbs, and his shoulders drop from where they’ve been pinched up by his ears. “Is someone pregnant?”

Derek huffs out a laugh. “I wish…” he says sourly. That he’d be able to deal with.

“Oh Der. Is it Kate? Did she contact you again?”

“No, Laura. No….” Derek bites out, his back snapping stiff with tension.

“Ok, just making sure,” she sighs. “Go back to the hurting someone, who and what?”

“Jackson Whittemore, I punched him in the locker room.” Derek chokes out, “and now I might be kicked off the team. And… and Stiles...”

“Derek,” Laura cuts in her tone firm. Derek drops his head forward, fingers gripping the worn fur of the old plush like a lifeline. “Why, why would you do that?”

And just like that the dam breaks and everything that’s happened over the day spills from Derek's lips. He tells Laura everything. Of his violence against Jackson and how scared he was to be that angry; to feel so much rage that he completely lost himself.

“I didn’t even remember hitting him; it was like I blacked out and then suddenly…”

“Derek,” Laura sighs softly, sympathetically. Normally Laura is the one quick to anger; she runs on her emotions, it makes her a great lawyer. Her passion and drive are unbridled, and when she really puts her mind to something, nothing can stand in her way; but for Derek, it just scares the crap out of him.

“I’m scared,” he confesses, and she clicks her tongue.

“You have no reason to be scared if anything happens to you, Derek; I swear I will bring the full force of my law firm down on that school faster than you can throw a football.”

“No, that’s... That’s not why… Laura. I don’t want to be an example. I don’t want attention, not for being queer. I just wanna play. I don’t want to have to do interviews or be a symbol or anything. I don’t want my sexuality to define me. It doesn’t make me special; I’m still me. I just want things to go back the way they were. I want to talk to Stiles,” his voice breaks on Stiles’ name, it’s the first time he’s said it out loud since the locker room.

“Stiles? This is the quidditch kid?”


“Cora…,” they both say in unison. Derek a question, Laura a confirmation.

And he’s talking again, talking until his voice cracks and his mouth is dry, and his cheeks are wet. Talking as he swipes his face and sighs up at his ceiling, telling Laura everything he can about Stiles; the ache in his chest growing canyon wide.

Laura makes small noises as he rambles about everything from Stiles’ laugh to his hair, to the way he makes Derek feel; warm and content, powerful and attractive. To how much he texts, and they talk–yes Laura, on the phone–and how Derek’s never once felt clingy or controlling or needy.

He spills about all their dates and that–no, they haven’t had sex, but yes, they’ve exchanged sexy texts and snaps, and also no, no one calls it snexing–but also they’re trying to take it slow.

“You can’t just combine two words and expect it to work.”

“Why not, it worked for sexting?”

“That’s not… no… Laura, sending sexy snaps is different….Snexing just sounds silly...” Derek smiles, pushing the wolf’s little forehead against his own, the soft ears rubbing against his temples. “That’s not how this works, that’s not how any of this works.”

“You did not just meme me, did you? Oh my god. What has the world come to…? Who are you? I’m disowning you.”

Derek snorts, rubbing his nose against the stuffed wolf’s as his sister fake sobs into the line. “Laws,” He says softly, and she quiets.

“Seriously Derek, have you even tried to talk to Stiles since all of this happened?”

“No, what am I supposed to say? Hey, Stiles about that… ha-ha, just kidding. I’m not trying to seduce you to keep my spot on the team, I actually really fucking like you?”

“Uh, yes?!” Laura hisses, a soft laugh in her voice. “Do exactly that.”

“Laura…” Derek groans. “That’s never going to work, do you know how long it took me to get him to believe I was even interested in him? He was still trying to figure out if this was a joke on our fourth date. He asked if I paid the couple behind us to take photos of him making a fool of himself at mini-golf.”

“Oh, Der…”

“Yeah… he hasn’t responded to any of my texts.” Derek admits softly. “I don’t know what to do; I don’t want to lose him. He’s amazing Laura; I feel so good when I’m with him. He thinks I’m funny.”

“He must really like you because you are not funny.”

“He’s also the best wide receiver I’ve ever had.”

“Derek!” Laura laughs.

“It’s true though; he gets me. He can anticipate what I’m going to do before I even do it.”

“He gets you…” Laura says solemnly, and Derek nods before remembering Laura can’t see him.

“Yeah, he does.”

“Only one thing to do, Der.”

“No... Law,”

“Oh yes... Go big or go home.”

Derek groans, tossing his head back. His fingers scratch through the worn fur of the old wolf plush.

“Really big, Derek. If this kid means as much to you as you say he does then make sure he knows it. Don’t leave space in his mind for doubt.”


“Okay?” she asks with a dissatisfied grunt.

“Yes, alright.”

“Good. You’ve got a few days until the game right? Your coach usually gives you some time off beforehand, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, we get a few days to rest up and review plays. I’ve got a couple of meetings to watch the tapes of the Bruins but not much else.”

“Alright make a plan and get those two idiots involved. I’m sure they’ve gotten you into this somehow.”

“Boyd and Isaac?” Derek asks with a huff, a smile spreading over his lips.

“Yes, those two.” She snorts, and then more seriously, “I want to be able to meet Stiles when we come out for the game, Derek. I want you to be able to introduce me to the kid who’s got you so wrapped up.”

“Yeah, me too,” Derek sighs “Hopefully, you will.”

“I hope so, and I hope he can see you baby bro, not just what everyone else thinks they see. But the real you.”

“Yeah…” Derek agrees, a nervous determination settling in his stomach.

Laura bids him goodbye, telling him to give Scout a kiss for her and Derek squeezes the stuffed wolf between his knees before he stands up. Sometimes he forgets just how good of a sister Laura is once you get past all the sarcasm and teasing. “Let’s fix this shit, Scout,” Derek says, placing a soft kiss between Scout’s ears before tossing the stuffed plush onto his bed up by his pillows. Cellphone in hand Derek makes a call, plan already forming in his mind.


Two hours later, he and Boyd are standing outside Stiles and Erica’s apartment. Derek’s stomach squirms like he swallowed a few hundred snakes. His palms itch, and it’s only by the sheer power of will he’s not fidgeting.

“You’re sure he’s not home?” Derek whispers and Boyd nods.

“Erica said he’s out with Allison, dancing or something.”

Derek grits his teeth. It’s a fucking Wednesday. There aren’t even any good specials on Wednesdays! Immediately, an image of Stiles sweating and writhing amid a mass of faceless people fills his mind. It makes his blood boil to imagine someone else touching Stiles the way he wants to, moving against those slim hips the way Derek should be.

He did this to himself, Derek thinks with a grimace. His poorly thought out words, the moment he caved to Jackson’s bullying, was the moment he put Stiles second and hurt him. He drove Stiles into the arms of some faceless person who’s making him feel wanted in every way that Derek is still trying to figure out how to. He knew he would inevitably screw everything up. He always does, but this time Derek really hopes he’s not too late to fix it.

Erica pulls the door open, snapping Derek from his rapidly darkening thoughts. Her eyes land on Boyd and a slow smile spreads over her cherry red lips before they slide to Derek and she rolls them, moving out of the way before motioning for them to come inside.

This is not how Derek envisioned being invited into Stiles’ apartment for the first time–under duress–but he takes a moment to look around all the same. It’s a small place, one main room with a small kitchen off to one side and three doors on the opposite wall. Two of the doors are ajar, and Derek can see a bedroom and the bathroom. He assumes the third is another bedroom. The main room is cluttered with mismatched furniture, bookshelves, and a small wooden table which appears to be used more for schoolwork than eating. There are movie posters and collectible figurines, video games, and half empty snack bowls scattered around. It’s warm, and cozy, and lived in, and Derek loves it. He instantly feels relaxed.

“So, what do you want,” Erica snaps, her arms crossed, looking highly unimpressed.

“Babe,” Boyd starts, but Erica glares at him for a moment before she turns her attention to Derek. One of her sharply manicured brows lifts, the longer he makes her wait.

“It’s not what you think,” Derek says finally, and Erica cracks the fakest laugh Derek’s ever heard. It knocks him off kilter for a moment, but he recovers with a growl, “It’s not!”

“Sure, it’s not.” Erica starts, her eyes narrowed darkly, her lips pulled back into a snarl and Derek can tell this is going to be a fight. His heart sinks at the thought of no one believing he could be interested in Stiles, in any guy for that matter. Sometimes Derek hates how he looks, the way he’s perceived for the hobbies he chooses, the stereotypes he faces. “Guys like you…”

“Guys like me?” Derek whispers, harsh, angry, his eyes dropping.

“Yeah, fucking guys like you––” Erica shouts, stepping towards them her finger raised, pointing accusingly at Derek.

“Erica,” Boyd cuts across her sternly, makes her draw up short, eyes wide. “It’s not what you think, just listen,” he says more gently, pointing towards the couch. After a moment, Erica stomps over to it, throwing herself down onto one of the cushions. Boyd drops down next to her, and reluctantly Derek takes the armchair. It takes Derek a few tries to start speaking, and Erica huffs indignantly the longer he stalls.

“I’m not even going to try to convince you that Stiles telling me to take him on a date was one of the best things that happened to me. I’m never going to be able to prove to you that I actually like Stiles, and you know what, I don’t really want to. I don’t need you to believe me. I need him to believe me. And I’m ready to do whatever it takes to prove it to him.”

Erica’s expression steadily relaxes as Derek speaks, her eyes remain narrowed but her lips soften. Boyd gently loops his arm around her shoulders, and she snuggles against him.

“What’s this got to do with me.”

“Well…” Derek begins, and Boyd smiles.

Halfway across campus, Isaac is tucked on a couch next to a pretty brunette, cozied up under a Hufflepuff blanket watching the third Harry Potter movie and explaining the sad tale of two star-crossed lovers. She’s hanging on his every word.

The next morning a mass text goes out, both teams are brought up to speed on the plan; Operation: Fantasy Football, is underway.

Down to his core, Derek is glad he can count on his fellow Puffs to have his back through this. He's wanted to be part of this since he watched their very first game. And though they don't even know him, they're remiss to turn a fellow badger away in their time of need. Or so he's been told, many times, and is now painfully aware–through the sheer volume of messages he’s received from the Hufflepuff players– that everyone loves a good inter-house romance.  And, while it should be odd, but for the first time, no one questions his alignment. No one is surprised he’s a Hufflepuff, they’re just happy to have him. Maybe he’s been playing the wrong sport all along.

Chapter Text

“Stiles, for fuck’s sake, hurry up!” Erica’s voice carries clear across the field as she bodily pulls a slumped Stiles after her.

Noooooo. ” Stiles groans, but he’s got his red and gold duffle bag slung around his shoulders and his broom held in his hands. “I’m hungover, let me go back to sleeeep.”

Nerves explode in Derek’s stomach like fireworks, angry and hot, threatening to climb up this throat and burn him alive. He grips the borrowed broom in gloved hands, the plastic creaking under his palms until he can’t stand it anymore and hastily turns away. As Stiles draws closer, Kira, the pretty Hufflepuff captain is going through the rules and their plays once more. Derek's used to memorizing things on the fly, so it hasn’t been a problem thus far, and to be honest, he’s rather impressed with the complicated calls and maneuvers she’s come up with for her team. He’d like to have her look at his playbook once this is all said and done.

Derek pulls on the borrowed black and gold jersey, it’s a little tight around his chest and biceps, but they didn’t have time to get him a proper one. He can’t seem to stop tugging on the outfit. It clings to him, much more form fitted than his football one and even rolling his shoulders does little to alleviate the second skin feeling. Derek nods along behind his repurposed lacrosse helmet, fingers adjusting his slotted face mask behind the tinted sun visor.

“It’s going to be ok, Derek,” Kira says, her eyes bright and her smile small, but excited. A hand roughly pats him on the back, as another Puff player steps up to his side. “We’ll give him a run for his money; you just cover the goals.”

“Thanks. Thank you all for doing this.” He says, shifting his broom back and forth between his hands.

“Heck yeah man, we love playing this game, and we love the Gryffindor team.”

“We like Stiles!” someone else adds.

“Plus, because you snagged him for football, we won our last game against them.” A few of the players try to hide their gleeful laughter, but others high-five and whoop loudly. Something warm and bright unfurls in Derek's chest, and he laughs.

“I don’t know why I have to be here; I’m supposed to be resting!” Stiles' voice complains loudly, and Derek glances out of the corner of his eye, his smile fades under the onslaught of nervous energy. It makes his limbs feel heavy and doubt swirl in his gut.

“You’re here because Kira asked for you personally.” Allison–who’s been informed of the plan, and wholeheartedly supports it– shouts. “She wants you to put their new Keeper through his paces before they face off against Ravenclaw next week.”

“Why meeeee??!!!” Stiles flops forward, then to the side. He pouts, big golden brown eyes up at Allison and Derek clears his throat, looking away again.

“Oh my god, stop being a baby!” Allison scolds “You and Danny have a very similar style of play. It’s just one day, Stiles.”

“Fine! But I’d rather be home.”

“Sulking,” Allison says, there’s a small yelp, and Derek looks back in time to watch her push Stiles off the bench.

“Why are there so many people here!” Stiles shouts from the ground, and Derek glances over his shoulder at the stands. “This is a scrimmage! We’ve never had this many people at our actual games!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Stiles, shut up and stretch out.” Erica snaps.

There are a ton of people in the stands, half of the football team is here. Coach is wearing a ‘Slytherins do it better’ t-shirt, and standing next to a slightly flustered man in a ‘Huffle-Hugs are Free’ shirt. There are even a few of Derek’s classmates clustered on the bleachers, looking confused but excited.

Isaac and Boyd are there, dressed in house colors, though opposing sides. Boyd in red and gold, and Isaac in gold and black. Derek has no idea how word got out, or why so many people showed up; whether to support him or ridicule him; he doesn't know. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t really care. He’s not here for them, he’s here for Stiles and he’s not hiding anymore.

A bright, shrill whistle blast makes Derek jump, and Kira shouts to take the field. Derek takes a deep, calming breath, meeting Kira’s eye who gives him a little wink. He trots out to take his position at the goal posts scanning the field from behind the grate of his helmet.

“That’s your new Keeper?” Stiles shouts, “That guy’s huge! Where the hell did you find him, Yukimura?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Stilinski!”

“Yeah, that’s why I asked!” Stile shoots back, a smile splitting his face. “Doesn’t matter, I’m going to score on him all the same.

“You wish!” Kira shouts and Derek snorts.

I wish, Derek thinks.

Two short whistle blasts and the game is on. Stiles wins the faceoff, and before he realizes it, Derek is jumping, his right foot kicking out as he spins in the air, holding the broom between his knees to block Stiles’ shot. It’s harder then it looks, to move and keep the broom steady.

The crowd erupts into cheers as Derek lands, a rush of joy and adrenaline flushing through his system. Stiles is scowling at him, a slow flush crawling up his cheeks, and for a moment, Derek thinks he’s been recognized, but Stiles just purses his lips.

“Lucky…” Stiles grumbles, turning and trotting back down the field.

By halftime, Derek is sweating, panting, dying to take his helmet off and get some fresh air. He’s never been more glad for the agility and gymnastics elective Coach had conned him into taking. While it turned out it was not the ‘parkour’ class Coach had promised him, it had ended up improving his footwork on the field.

Derek’s never had the opportunity to use his mastery over the hands-free front and backflip. Now guarding the goal posts from Stiles relentless attacks, it's becoming one of his most used skills. It feels terrific to tap into the agility and aerobatic manovers he learned in that class. As Keeper he’s stretching an entirely different set of muscles then he usually does in football. It’s exhilarating, and he can’t keep the smile off his face.

Kira squirts some water in through the grate of his helmet and hands him a towel as he flops down onto the bench. Her eyes are wide; she’s flushed and shaking. The excitement of the game and his acrobatic performance has the puffs buzzing around him. Kira squeals wordlessly, slapping her hands down on his shoulders a few times, her joy vibrating within her skin.

The entire Hufflepuff team is a mess, boundless with elation. Even their old Keeper is bouncing on his toes, patting Derek on the back and gushing about the amazing plays he’s been making. It’s really fun. It’s more fun than Derek imagined it would be; even after all those weeks watching from the sidelines. He’s proud to be wearing the yellow and gold, to be defending the hoops for these people, with their endless enthusiasm and positivity.

Chancing a glance at the Gryffindor bench Derek sees a completely different scene. Though they are up fifteen points, Stiles is stalking back and forth in front of the bench like a caged tiger. He’s gesturing wildly, and a few of his team are nodding along. Allison has a clipboard out, and Erica is squirting water over her head, long blond hair matting to her neck. Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s eye scowling, his teeth bared in frustration, and Derek has the sudden urge to laugh. Everything is going according to plan. Stiles has taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Erica called it when she said that it would be easy to get him riled up, that nothing gets under Stiles’ skin more than a talented Keeper.

He’s beautiful in his passion, running his hands through his soft brown hair until it’s sticking up all over the place from sweat. Derek is enchanted by the way his eyes flash, and his lips, his mouth, indescribable in its beauty as Stiles speaks, hushed, rapid, animated words to his teammates.

“Everyone ready?” Kira chirps clapping her hands, and Derek pulls himself back to his feet, shaking out his arms and legs, and grabbing his broom. The referee blows their whistle to signal the end of halftime.

Both teams lurch back onto the field, and as Derek takes his spot in the goal area, Stiles looks out at him and slides his pointer finger across his throat before shouting, “I’m coming for you Millat!”

Derek’s confused for half a second before he remembers the name on the back of his jersey. He gives an exaggerated shrug and holds his hand out, fingers curling and relaxing in a ‘ come on ’ motion that makes Stiles growl in frustration, stomping his foot.

After that, Stiles gets sloppy for the first time. He’s charging at Derek with all he has. Allison is screaming at him to stick to the plays, but Stiles seems to have caved to tunnel vision. He shoots recklessly, intercepts passes to his own teammates just so he can try and get a shot in on Derek. Halfway through the last quarter Stiles screams, throwing his broom down, and charging towards the end-zone.

“Who are you!? Where did you come from!?” Stiles shouts, hands flailing through the air. The referee whistle blasts, loud and long, signaling a penalty on Stiles number, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Kira appears between them stopping Stiles a good fifteen feet before he even reaches the end-zone, reached Derek. “No one is this good, Kira, no one! Where did you get him? Where? Is he a transfer? There’s no way he’s new. I want him! I want him for Gryffindor...”

“What, no!” Kira yelps indignantly, real hurt crossing her features now. “You don’t even play anymore!”

“All the more reason!” Stiles seethes, no longer making any sense. He runs his hands through his sweat-slicked hair again, frustration written into every line of his body.

“You know that’s not how this works. We get sorted….” Kira is trying to say, her voice pained.

“You can have me,” Derek shouts over the din, deciding it’s now or never. Stiles' head snaps up; eyes narrowed as Derek says: “I want you to have me.”

Taking a few steps forward, Derek’s heart flutters wildly in his chest. He drops his broom reaching for his helmet. “Just hear me out,” he says as he pulls his helmet off and Stiles' eyes go impossibly wide. His mouth falling open, and he takes two steps back before he running into Allison and Erica, who force him forward again. Derek advances on him; now or never he thinks..

“What are you… How did you?” Stiles looks around wildly.

“Stiles, that shit I said to Jackson, none of it was true.” Derek drags his fingers through his hair, frustrated “I’m not using you, I never could because I’ve… I’ve liked you for a long time.”


“Yeah,” Derek laughs because Stiles honestly looks shocked, “I’ve been watching you play since that game where it rained, and that Ravenclaw slipped and broke her ankle.”

“Oh my god, that was like my second game.”

“Yeah, yeah. I noticed you, and you were amazing.” Derek takes a deep breath and steps into Stiles space, reaching out and taking his hand. “You’re still amazing. I started watching because I’m a huge nerd…”

“What… No” Stiles tries to interrupt, shaking his head in disbelief, but Derek plows on.

“Yes, I am. Like, a huge nerd, and I love Harry Potter, but I couldn’t play because of football. Stiles, I started watching cause I love the sport, but I kept watching because of you.”

Stiles face breaks into shy disbelieving laughter, rolling his eyes. “Come on… Derek, please no ones going to belie–”

“I know you don’t believe me. I know you’re probably thinking some stupid shit like I’m out of your league or something, but you have to know Stiles, I like you.” Drawing a breath Derek reaches out and takes Stiles hand, “I’ve liked you for a long time. I’ve wanted to... to… ugh, just to talk to you. For so long.... so long, Stiles, but I’m a fucking coward and couldn’t get my shit together.

“When you told me to take you out on a date I felt like the luckiest person in the world. I couldn’t believe that you wanted me, in the same way, I want you. But you do, and it’s amazing. You’re amazing, and… I want to see where this goes. I want to be with you. I’m not ready to give up on you, on this, on us. If you’re willing to give me another chance…. If you still want me.”

Stiles stands there gaping at him. His warm honey eyes flicking over Derek’s face as if he’s trying to see the lies Derek isn’t telling. There’s a long moment where no one moves, even the stands–noisy as they are–seem to be holding their breath. A moment that is probably no more than a handful of seconds but to Derek it feels like an eternity, it feels like a goodbye, and he struggles to hide the fact that his heart is crumbling in his chest.

Then, Stiles hand contracts in his, long elegant fingers wrapping around Dereks and he asks: “Did... did you really punch Jackson in the face?” A smile tugging at his lips

“How did…?” Blinking in surprise, Derek drops Stiles’ hand, and tugs his sweat-soaked glove off, lifting his cut and bruised knuckles into the scant space between them.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” Derek confirms with a small smirk.

“Oh shit… that’s so fucking hot.” Stiles grabs Derek’s hand examining the cut with a huge smile on his face. His eyes, when they meet Derek’s are molten warm, “I really wanna kiss you right now.” Stiles breathes softly into the steadily shrinking space between them.

“I always want to kiss you,” Derek whispers as Stiles steps closer.

“Always?” he asks one expressive brow tilting. A challenge Derek is more than willing to meet written into his expression.

“Always.” Derek purrs, closing the final breath between them and capturing Stiles’ lips. Curling his arms around Stiles’ waist and tugging him until they are pressed tightly against one another feels like the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd erupts around them, draining out onto the field and mixing in with the teams. Someone, Derek thinks it’s Erica, is calling them idiots, but he doesn’t care. Stiles is moving against him all warm skin and soft lips. His long fingers pulling in Derek’s sweaty hair, the muscles of his back flex and roll under Derek’s palms.

It’s intense, and when Stiles pulls back, moaning softly on his exhale, his eyelashes fluttering, Derek is struck by his beauty all over again, and quite suddenly he needs to be off this field, away from all these spectators, and alone with Stiles, right now. His body’s amps up, burning, at the feeling of Stiles back in his arms. He doesn’t want to do anything to stop it, he wants to burn, want’s to feel anything, and everything Stiles will give him. Derek dives back in for another kiss, and this time when Stiles pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, eyes flicking between Derek’s in shocked sort of joy.

“I can’t believe you like me,” Stiles says like it’s just dawning on him now. He glances around at the chaos orbiting them. “I can’t believe you like me enough to kiss me in front of all these people….”

“Stiles,” Derek sighs, a small smirk tilting his lips, “I don’t have anything to hide. I don’t want to hide; I just want to be me. The me who likes you. And I do like you, enough to kiss you anytime, I don’t care who’s watching.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now,” Derek swoops in and nips at Stiles’ plump bottom lip, sucking the flesh into his mouth until Stiles groans and pulls Derek by his hair into a proper kiss.

“Fuck!” Stiles yelps and they jump apart, shivering as the now empty water cooler crashes to the field by their feet. Boyd and Isaac are crowing, leaning against one another for support as they laugh. Derek is suddenly very calm. His body shocked out of a hormone spiral by the ice water now streaming down his face and soaking into his too small jersey. Derek's wide-eyed for a moment, shivering, before Stiles crashes into his side, wrapping him up in long, chilly arms.

He’s laughing, dropping his forehead onto Derek’s shoulder when he says: “You like me enough to sneak your way onto the Hufflepuff team. You like me enough to play Quidditch!” Stiles looks up from where he’s hiding against Derek’s shoulder, flushed and wet and happy as Derek wraps an arm around his shoulder. “No one's ever liked me like this. You like me to 'Always'  levels...” He seems shocked as he whispers the last part, a calm sort of awed reservation falling over his features. He looks at Derek like he’s never seen anyone more wonderful before. It's a lot and it makes Derek uncomfortabale and ecstatic all at once.

“First of all,” Derek starts, clearing his throat, “I am a Hufflepuff, so there was no seeking involved. I wouldn’t play for any other team...”

“What, no way.”

“Yes, way.” Derek interjects with a smile, touching Stiles’ cheek, and then grimacing. “You’re sticky, why are you sticky? Why am I sticky?”

“That may have been Gatorade....” Allison chirps, as she darts past squirting her water bottle at Kira.

“You jerks!” Stiles shouts. He’s got that spark in his eye that spells out mischief, and already, he’s bouncing up onto his toes to join the fray. Derek can’t have that, not when he’s finally able to touch him again, not when he’s so sure of what he wants.

“Stiles…” Derek whispers into his ear, and is pleased when Stiles shivers, his eyes fluttering closed. “Don’t you think we need a shower?” he asks, slowly dragging his palm down Stiles back, enjoying the way Stiles arches, cat-like, against his fingers. “I could show you just how much I missed you…”

“Sweet mother of Merlin,” Stiles chokes, his hands fisting in the fabric of Derek’s jersey. Derek smiles, pulling him in tight and nipping the shell of his ear. “Yes…. Now, please,” Stiles gasps, shivering against Derek’s chest, and this time Derek’s knows it’s not from the cold.

Chapter Text

Stiles staggers back as Derek shoves him against the lockers, his mouth gaping, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded and glowing amber in the yellow lights of the locker room. His hair is a mess, spiking everywhere from them both running their fingers through it. He gasps for breath, exhaling Derek’s name.

He’s totally and completely debauched and Derek made him that way. The thought sends a thrill through him. An electric current that starts at his scalp and tingles all the way down to the tip of his cock. He needs to get his jock off right now. No, he needs to get Stiles’ jock off.

Dropping roughly to his knees in front of Stiles makes him flail, his hands flying out to brace on Derek’s shoulders.

“Oh, my god. Oh fuck, oh fuck .” He whines, seemingly unable to stop the words falling from his mouth, “oh god, this is happening.”

Derek smirks up at him, his fingers dipping in and stroking the soft skin along the waistband of Stiles’ gym shorts. “This is happening,” Derek confirms and instead slides his hands up and under the edge of Stiles’ jersey, his thumbs stroking along that thick trail of hair below Stiles’ belly button, fingers teasing over his quivering abdominal muscles.

“I’ve, uh...” Stiles arches up onto his toes, shoulders pressing back against the lockers, his hips tilting forward in offering as Derek drags his fingers over Stiles’ already hard nipples. His mouth falls open on a silent noise before he shakes his head and blinks wide eyes at Derek. “I’ve never done this before…” Stiles gets out, a dark flush rushing up his neck, making his ears pink.

Pulling back, Derek looks up at him in disbelief. He’s so lovely, so utterly beautiful there’s no way… “Never done… this, like, in a locker room or this as in… at all?” Derek asks, needed to clarify the line they are walking along right now.

Stiles looks pained for a moment, his entire body vibrates, his stomach fluttering under Derek’s palms, and he licks his lips, rushing to whispering, “ all. At all…. Please… oh fuck. Derek, please...”

It’s unbelievable, impossible, Derek is stunned into immobility, there is just no way… he’s actually hearing what Stiles is confessing. Arousal swells and crashes through his body at an alarming rate, works over his skin in waves of heat and desire. Stiles’ hand drops from Derek’s shoulder, and he grips the bulge between his legs, whimpering, twitching, his body rolling under Derek’s hands.

“You’ve never…. not with anyone?” Derek clarifies, grabbing Stiles by his wrists, stilling the frantic motion of him trying to yank his shorts down.

“No, no I have not, okay? How many times do you want me to say it? Shit, Derek…. Please, please help me.”

“Stiles, breathe,” Derek looks up at him, a smile spreading over his lips at the agitation and frustration his stalling is causing. Stiles is beautiful, grunting and whimpering, his breath stuttering out through his nose as he tries to still the anxious twitching of his limbs.

“Please,” Stiles begs, voice strained.

“Tell me you’re ready, we can wait. I can wait. We don’t have to do this here, or now...”

“Jesu–” Stiles head thunks back against the lockers before snapping back down to glare daggers at Derek. “I’m ready! Derek, fuck are you…? You’re serious? Right now? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.”

“Jesus Christ….Yes, please. Suck my cock, Derek. I want you to,” Stiles whines slumping, his head falling back against the lockers again so he misses Derek’s devious grin. “I want you to do everything to me. I. Want. You. You fucking jer––”

With one swift motion, Derek tugs the shorts from Stiles’ hips, ending his rant on a yelp and exposing his straining jockstrap. Stiles’ fingers spasm on Derek’s shoulders, his thick thigh muscles jumping tantalizingly. They are more beautiful close up than Derek has ever imagined, strong and toned, dusted with dark coarse hair. The sight makes him ache to touch, taste, feel. To dip his face between them and never come back out again.

Derek’s obsession with Stiles’ legs takes the forefront for a moment, his mouth flooding from the urge to run his tongue from Stiles' knee to the sweaty bend of his hip. To feel the coarse hair against his lips, and bite the warm flesh between his teeth.

Derek leans forward, pressing his cheek against Stiles’ thigh, tucking his nose into the humid skin of his groin and breathes for a just moment, savoring everything there is, everything that’s going to be his. Stiles lets out a high air whine above him and Derek moves, dragging his nose through the crease where Stiles’ thigh meets his hip.

Unable to resist any longer Derek opens his mouth and follows the path with his tongue, licking at the soft sensitive skin, savoring the salt and sweat he finds there, breathing in where Stiles’ scent is heavy and potent. It makes Derek lightheaded, finally having what he’s craved for so long. His cock aches behind the confines of his cup but he won’t free it, not yet.

Moaning low in his throat, Derek reaches between his legs to adjust himself, relieving some of his tension before he slides his other hand around Stiles’ hip, up over the lush curve of his ass, tracing the elastic of Stiles’ jock. He moves slowly over the firm curve until his fingers dip into the warmth of his crease. Stiles shivers over him, pressing his hips forward, rubbing the coarse fabric of his jock against Derek’s cheek. One of his hands lands in Derek’s hair, tugging lightly on the strands.

“This is going to be over really fast…. Really, really fast…. You,” Stiles’ throat clicks as he swallows. “You have no idea how you look.” His eyes are wide, owlish, as he angles Derek’s head back by his hair.

“I better get started then,” Derek says, and his voice is a low rumble, foreign even to his own ears.

Gently, Derek tugs Stiles’ jock down, freeing his cock. The hand in his hair tightens and Stiles shivers as his dick is exposed, hanging thick and heavy from a nest of neat dark curls. The photos they’ve exchanged did not do Stiles justice. Derek’s mouth salivates at the sight of it. Long and thick, curving up towards his stomach, it’s beautiful, just like the rest of Stiles.  A bead of pre-come emerges from the flushed red tip and Derek darts forward to taste it, flicking his tongue and making Stiles spasm, the hand not in Derek’s hair slaps back against the lockers as he hisses his pleasure.

“Oh my god, Derek.”

Smirking, Derek gets to work, leaning in, dying to have more of Stiles’ uninhibited reactions, hear his whimpers, the way his breath catches. Bracing one hand on Stiles’ hip, Derek curls the other around the base of Stiles’ cock, hooking his thumb up under Stiles’ balls and curling his pointer around the base. Derek knows he’s being mean, applying pressure like an impromptu cock ring, but the way Stiles reacts, his cock jumping against the top of Derek’s mouth, the smell of him, the sounds of his soft gasps and half choked off whines–Derek wants it to last. He wants more. He wants to sear this moment into his memory and never forget a single detail.

Opening his mouth, Derek swallows Stiles down in one go, relaxing his throat and closing his eyes against the urge to gag because Stiles is not small. The flared head leads to a thickly veined shaft, covered in warm velvet that drags along Derek’s tongue in the most delicious way.

This isn’t Derek’s first time, and though he craves to go fast, to take Stiles apart quickly, he also wants to make this special. Memorable. He breathes shallowly until his nose bumps into the knuckle he has pressed against Stiles’ abdomen, taking the full length down his throat. He licks around the base, coating the skin by his bottom lip, before drawing back, making the tip of his tongue a firm point as it glides up the underside of Stiles’ cock. He plunges back down, faster this time, sheathing Stiles fully in one fell swoop.

“Fuck, ohmygod .” Stiles’ voice goes up a full octave, his hips rocking forward, straining against the hand Derek has holding him steady. Derek looks up at Stiles through his eyelashes and swallows, his throat constricting around the head of Stiles’ cock and Stiles groans deep and long. His eyes rolling back, he swallows too, licking over his plump lips before dropping his chin to his chest and staring open-mouthed at Derek again. His eyes water as Stiles’ cock leaks thick and syrupy, bitter precome coats the back of his throat and tongue. It has Derek’s cheeks tingling as saliva floods his mouth.

He’ll never forget the way Stiles’ stomach flutters, how his eyes go wide before rolling up, and then snapping right back down again. The way Stiles licks his lips, tongue dragging over the plump, bitten flesh. The helpless little noises that escape him, like they are leaking from his lungs, stolen air, a gift, all for Derek.

Sucking in a breath, Derek draws back, sealing his lips around the head, he sucks, flicking the tip of his tongue against Stiles’ slit without rhythm, sweeping under the head before returning to the tip, collecting the moisture gathered there and swallowing it down. Stiles’ hips twitch helplessly with every touch of Derek’s tongue.

“Shit, shit.” Stiles curses, his knees squeeze Derek’s ribs as he curls forward over Derek’s head. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he whispers, like a prayer, hushed under his breath, his cock jerking in the tight ring of Derek’s fingers.

Derek pulls back for a moment, sucking in a breath and watches Stiles’ cock bob, the head flushed so dark and leaking freely. It’s a sinful sight, so much better than he ever imagined and it makes him hungry. He pushes Stiles’ torso back against the lockers again and slurps along Stiles’ shaft. Pressing his lips to one side and then the other in a slick slide. Derek pulls back suddenly surprised as Sticks’ cock jerks and leaks, a thin hot line of precome lands across Derek’s cheek, streaking warm down into his stubble.

“Ooohmygod, I’m so sorry. I can’t… I can’t stop,” Stiles gasps. His hips buck ineffectively under Derek’s hand and he groans high and breathy. His cock twitches, the tip oozing thickly.

“Would you like to come?” Derek asks, his voice raw from having Stiles’ cock down his throat.

“Yesss,” Stiles flat out whines, high pitched and pathetic, his legs tremble and Derek feels too big for his skin, pride swelling in his chest at bringing Stiles past the point of no return.

“Where?” he asks looking up at the other man, trying for innocent even as he flicks his tongue out and licks a wet, filthy line up the underside of Stiles’ cock.

“W...WHERE?” Stiles chokes, the veins in his neck straining, his entire chest is pink with arousal, nipples flushed and hard.

“On my face?” Derek asks, dragging the head of Stiles’ cock down the bridge of his nose. Stiles whimpers, biting hard onto his lower lip. “In my mouth? Make me swallow you down, take everything you’ve got?” Derek goes on, cool as he can manage before swirling his tongue around the head of Stiles’ dick just to hear him hiss. “Make me taste you all day long?” He blows on the tip of Stiles’ dick and that seems to break him.

The hand in Derek’s hair spasms and Stiles yanks his head forward pulling on the strands and sending tingles down his spine. Derek gets his mouth open just in time, as Stiles cockhead hits his tongue and slides down his throat. Derek seals his lips around the base and finally releases the tight ring of his fingers.

Stiles bows, curling over Derek’s head as his cock pulses, his orgasm taking him so completely he wheezes out each breath. Stiles’ legs tremble so badly that Derek braces both of his hands on his hips, keeping Stiles propped up against the lockers while his mouth floods with bittersweet come. Derek swallows, tongue rubbing, stroking, as he sucks every ounce of release from Stiles. He only pulls off when Stiles tugs at his hair, panting weakly.

The moment Derek pulls back, Stiles sinks, wide-eyed, down to the floor, his legs splayed on either side of Derek’s kneeling form. He’s breathing heavy, shocked lips parted around each labored breath. He lurches forward, grabbing Derek around his neck and pulling him in, smashing their lips together and licking into Derek’s mouth.

“You.” Stiles gulps when they part. “Now you...” Stiles’ hands tremble as he reaches for Derek’s shorts. With a huff Derek grabs his wrists, stopping him and Stiles looks up confused. “”

“Oh yes, trust me. Yes.” Derek says, licking his lips and savoring the bitter tang of Stiles on his tongue. “Not here though,” Derek leans in and kisses him softly before rising. He holds his hand out and Stiles slips those long, strong fingers into his grip, climbing to his feet.

With careful hands, Derek guides Stiles towards the shower, slipping out of his clothes as they walk, keeping the slimmer man in front of him. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ shoulders as they step across the tile, bringing their bodies into alignment. With a shiver, he presses his hips forward, nestling his weeping cock against the curve of Stiles’ ass as they walk.

The mounds of Stiles’ soft, plush cheeks drive Derek crazy. Each step they take across the cold tile has his muscles bunching and relaxing on either side of Derek’s cock. He corrals Stiles over towards the wall with the shower heads until Stiles slaps his palms against the tile, cocking his hips back to press up into the cradle of Derek’s pelvis.

“I…” Stiles bites his lip, glancing shyly over his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose the rest of, uh... my, um... virginity in the shower,” he says and he so adorable, Derek falls for him all over again. His cock throbs, demanding, but Derek needs control, he needs a moment or this is going to be over too quickly.

Dragging his hands up from Stiles’ hips he places his palms over Stiles’ on the tiled wall and nuzzles into the space between his shoulder and neck. He sucks a bruise, kissing and biting, marking because he can, and he wants to. Humming softly as the flesh pinkens, all to give himself time, a moment to get his control back.

“Stiles,” Derek says finally lifting his gaze to meet Stiles’ eye, “I’m not going to, I’d never. When I finally take you, it will be in my bed after you’ve gone hoarse begging for my cock. Not in the communal showers. Trust me, okay?”

“Yeah.” Stiles breathes, his shoulders dropping. “Yeah, I trust you.”

“God…” Derek says softly, waves of affection making him light-headed. “You… you’re so good, so perfect.”

Stiles rolls his eyes but arches his neck to capture Derek’s lips. His mouth is soft and sweet like Gatorade. Blindly, Derek gropes for the water and twists in on in haste, Stiles yelps pulling away from the kiss as the too hot spray hits him before Derek can adjust it to something more comfortable.

“I trusted you!” Stiles snips playfully before relaxing and leaning back to bring their slick bodies together, Derek’s cock slips wetly between Stiles’ cheeks and he shivers.

“Yes…” Derek hisses, and Stiles rolls his hips again. “More, God… Stiles.”

Derek’s hands slap against Stiles’ hips, holding him firm and pushing his cheeks together, fucking into the hot, wet channel created between the firm mounds. Stiles cants his hips back and up, pressing his chest to the wall, his spine bowing beautifully, pale and wet and Derek has to bite his lip to keep from spilling to quickly.

“Like this?” Stiles' voice is soft and breathy, echoing in the large space.

“Perfect, you’re perfect.” Derek pants, his hips pumping, pleasure shivers over his skin, lifting the hair along his arms and down the back of his neck. Dragging his eyes from where his cockhead is appearing and disappearing from between Stiles’ cheeks to look at his face pressed up against the wall. Stiles’ eyes are closed, water runs freely over the angles of his cheeks and the ridge of his jaw, and Derek’s heart hammers against his ribcage at the sight Stiles makes.

His lips are parted beautifully, red and slick, a flush runs high on his cheekbones, highlighting the dark fan of his waterlogged lashes. The moles scattered over his face and the hair plastered to his forehead makes him look like a siren emerging from the sea. Unearthly in his beauty. Each breathy moan that sighs past his lips calls to Derek, pulling at something somewhere deep inside of him. A melody Derek knows in his soul and isn’t sure how he’s lived so long without it.

Stiles’ tongue darts out to lick the bow of his lip, just a quick flash, collecting little drops of water before disappearing into the hot, dark depths again, and Derek loses it. He tips up onto his toes, hands gripping Stiles’ ass as he fucks hard and fast between his cheeks until he’s gasping, cursing, his cock pulsing. Thick white strands splatter up Stiles’ back, landing between his shoulder blades and dripping down to well at the small of his back, only to be washed away a moment later.

Derek doesn’t remember the last time he’s come this hard. His skin is buzzing, his mind blissfully blank. He doesn’t remember the last time he wanted to keep his come on another person, to rub it into their skin and mark them as his own. He mourns each time a new stripe is washed from Stiles’ back.

“Fuck, yes,” Derek grits out as his orgasm begins to fade, more to himself than anyone else, completely absorbed in the feeling of Stiles underneath him. Sliding his hand up Stiles’ hips to wrap around his chest, Derek steps forward until Stiles is caged under his body, against the wall. Though they are close in height, Stiles is all lean muscle, strong but not bulky like Derek, and Derek loves the feeling he gets when he surrounds the younger man. Like he’s truly powerful. The way Stiles presses against him, tilting his head and exposing the long length of his neck, the way his curves and angles fit into Derek’s so perfectly. Like they were made for one another. It’s overwhelming. It solidifies in Derek’s gut and he knows he’ll never be the same again.

“Good, so good. Fuck... Stiles.” Derek moans, biting Stiles’ broad shoulder, drowning in the taste of his skin until Stiles shivers and forces himself around until he’s facing Derek.

“Good, yeah?”


Stiles smile is warm and genuine as hands find their way back into Derek’s hair, tugging until he brings Derek’s mouth to his own. The kiss is soft and Derek groans into it. The contrast of how hard Stiles is pulling on Derek’s hair and the gentleness of his kiss is almost too much. Stiles arches against Derek, pressing the hardening length of his cock against Derek’s hip.

“Baby…” Derek mumbles against Stiles’ lips, a smile pulling at his mouth.

There’s a long, sharp wolf whistle, quickly followed by a rumbling, almost amusingly disappointed groan,  “Dude… in the communal showers?”

Derek pulls back, sucking air and glancing over his shoulder, in front of him, Stiles stiffens. Boyd’s frowning and Isaac is bouncing on his toes, hands shoved into his pockets, a shit eating grin on his face. Derek shrugs, angling himself to block out Stiles’ smaller form from their gazes, feeling oddly possessive over his nude body.

“What…?” Derek asks calmly, like nothings wrong, likes Stiles’ hands aren’t creeping up his chest to tweak his nipples. “You’re the ones who walked in here when the showers were running.”

“You always use a stall.” Boyd counters, rolling his eyes and Derek grins.

Stiles is–for as much as Derek has come to know about his exhibitionist streak–not phased by the arrival of Boyd and Isaac. He’s certainly not helping Derek with how his nails scrape over Derek’s nipples dragging a full body shiver out of him.

He glances playfully at Derek before dropping his mouth to Derek’s collarbone and roughly dragging his teeth over it. Derek’s eyes widen, his sight going fuzzy as his body heats up with a fresh wave of arousal. He must make a face because someone snorts bringing Derek’s attention back to his friends. Isaac is laughing into his palm and Boyd is looking somewhere high over Derek’s head.

“You… you should probably go.” Derek says, a tremble in his voice as Stiles huffs, dropping his forehead against Derek’s shoulder, his chest heaving with silent laughter.

“No, you should probably go,” Boyd says, keeping his gaze averted. “Coach is on his way down here and you know he does a walk through before he heads home.”

“Right, yeah. Thanks, guys.” Derek’s voice cracks as Stiles shifts, his hips rolling against Derek’s, slotting his flushed, hard cock into the space between Derek’s softening one and his hip. One of Derek’s hands snaps out, slapping against the wall and his eyes drop, wide with lust and surprise. Stiles smirks at him, opening his mouth to swipe his agile tongue around one of Derek’s nipples. “Stiles!” he hisses.

“Dude!” Boyd groans and Derek looks back as Boyd shoves Isaac, who’s craning his neck to watch, towards the exit. “Perv, Boyd mumbles, dragging Isaac from the mouth of the shower.

“My place?” Derek asks, turning his attention back to Stiles.

“How about you both go home and rest up for the god-damn game!” Coach Finstock’s voice booms from somewhere far off in the locker room.

“How about we do that!” Stiles shouts back, grinning like a loon, “Now that we are nice and clean... so clean, now. The cleanest ever… We better get home and rest…. Since… we’re… so clean?”

“Sounds like a brilliant idea.” Coach booms, a door slams, the sound echoing over Stiles joyous laughter.

Chapter Text

Sorting through the team's box of DVD’s, Derek sets aside the ones from last season’s Bruins games. He’s been making preparations for today’s final review session since he and Stiles parted yesterday afternoon. Today is Derek’s last chance to really drive home the strategy he and coach think will work best against the Bruins’ substantial defensive line.  Derek plans to keep them in this small planning room most of the day.

He’s got a rolling whiteboard set off to one side and atop each chair is a thick binder of plays. There are a few new ones Derek put together after a late night phone call with Kira and he’s really excited about them. It’s not his usual style to introduce new ideas this close to a game but the rivalry between Berkeley and the Bruins go back years, and Derek really wants to shake things up. Plus, if things don’t go to plan tomorrow, it will be good for the team to have a few tricks up their sleeve.

“Looks like you owe me twenty bucks,” Boyd says, a yawn stretching his lips.

“Fuck,” Isaac grumps as they both slouch into the room. “Why can’t you be like, a normal person?”

“Excuse me?” Derek asks, turning around his brows lifted.

“Isaac bet me that you’d either be late or cancel this morning... since you know…” Boyd shrugs, handing over the second insulated cup he’s holding.

“Obviously,” Derek says, a smile pulling at his lips, ”you are my only true friend since you know that I’d never cancel the last review session before a game,” he smirks over the edge of his cup at Boyd, who inclines his head like the gentleman he is. Derek brings the cup to his lips taking a long swallow, he sighs, it’s Chai tea, just the way he likes it, sweet but spicy. “Thanks, bro.”

Isaac scoffs; “I know you, I care….” before flopping down into one of the chairs and immediately jumping back up, the thick binder he sat on clutched in his hands.

“Come on, Derek,” he whines long and loud, holding the binder up before dropping it with a thunk to the floor. He squints at Derek, blue eyes narrowed before dramatically slumping into one of the chairs facing the DVD player. “Oh my god! Derek, there’s that smile again! Seriously, this is something I’m going to have to get used to. Derek Hale smiling. Your fan club is going to lose their minds.”

“I don’t have a fan club,” Derek says, embarrassment swooping low in his stomach.

“Yes. Yes, you do.” Isaac counters as he unceremoniously shoves some of Derek’s lovingly constructed binders to the floor and stretches out across a few of the seats.


“No, you really do,” Boyd says and Derek rolls his eyes turning back to the DVD’s.

“They’re going to be so upset now that you’re taken,” Isaac sighs wistfully from his impromptu chair-bed.

“To be fair, you’re not the only one with a ‘fan club’,” Boyd says, lifting his binder and placing it on his knees as he sits down by Isaac's feet.

“His is the biggest!” Isaac complains, toeing at Boyd's leg.

This time Derek doesn’t bother to temper his smile. He doesn't care about this supposed fan club, he wasn’t even aware of it until recently, but every time he thinks about Stiles, which is almost constantly now, he grins. He can’t help it. He’s so thankful to have this chance, to do it right this time. He’s not sure what makes this thing between him and Stiles so different from anything that he’s had before, but it is. There is just something so pure and easy about it.

Derek blinks, looking up. It’s easy, caring for Stiles, having him in his life. Stiles fills all those little gaps, all of Derek’s cracks, in a way no one ever has before.

“I don’t care what they, or anyone else, think,” Derek grins as he powers on the TV and loads the first disk.

“You’re, like, inhuman….” Isaac complains, the words distorted behind a yawn, “Did you even sleep last night? Are you just on an orgasm high? The tired will hit you all at once, you’ll see,” he yawns again and then blinks up at Derek. “You’re one of those freaks who gets all, like, hyper after they nut, aren’t you?”

Clearing his throat, Derek looks down at the cup in his hands. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Stiles didn’t stay the night last night.”

That has Isaac sitting up, eyes wide and hungry for information.



"It's too early,"

"Good morning, guys."

The arrival of his teammates saves Derek from addressing Isaac’s imploring looks. He nods to each new person that files in, carefully avoiding Isaac, who’s actively trying to catch his eye. Derek picks up his spiral notebook and flips through the pages of notes he’s made for today's session when Isaac leans forward and whispers, “you’re not escaping this conversation,”

Boyd shakes his head, leaning back into his chair and flipping open his binder of plays. Isaac eventually gets pushed to the floor, scrambling back up to his feet and into a singular chair, as the room begins to fill up. It’s about a quarter past eight in the morning when Derek decides whoever is late is late and he needs to get started if they’re going to keep on his carefully constructed timetable.

“Alright everyone, let’s settle down.” The chatter dies off slowly and Derek loads the first DVD. “We’re going to start by reviewing last year’s game.” A chorus of groans erupts and Derek lifts one placating hand. “Not the whole thing, but we have some new faces that need to be brought up to speed; Adam, can you get the lights?”

With a glance around the room, Derek notes that sadly a few faces are missing. He knew there would be some fall out from his ‘ outing’ . Not everyone comes from a place of understanding, and, really, that’s the beauty of college. People from all over, mixing together, and becoming better then they were before. Well, most become better, some only get worse.

He had hoped that his team, these guys he knows so well, would be an exception, able to accept him for who he is, how he plays, and not who he loves. It appears a lot of them have, but not all, and that makes him inordinately sad. Derek knows he shouldn’t take it personally, that it’s not really him, but he can’t help it.

Of course, he doesn’t see Jackson, but that was expected.  What comes as a surprise is that he doesn’t see Stiles either. As the movie picks up, Derek directs the team's attention to the outside linebacker and the cornerback. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone, checking for any missed calls or texts. The last one he received from Stiles was early this morning.


#24 : See you in a few, I’ll bring coffee. ☕

#24: ... which means I’ll be bringing you tea.

#24: weirdo 😘😘

Me: Don’t be late. I like seeing your face first thing in the morning.

#24: Who doesn't!?

#24: seriously though, we could make a habit of it…

#24: … you seeing my face first thing in the morning, I mean…

#24: like before you even get out of bed….🍆🍑

#24: speaking of, I should get out of bed.

Me: You’re going to be late. If you’re late the chair next to me might be taken, then where will you sit?

#24: on your lap, don’t tempt me. I’ll do it.

Smirking down at the conversation, the happiness Derek feels is short lived as he compulsively glances around the room again. Still no Stiles. Looking down at the cup of tea clutched in his other hand, Derek frowns. He creeps over to Boyd and kneels by his chair.

“Have you seen Stiles?”

Boyd looks around the room before shaking his head. “No man, I figured he’d be here already.”

“Wore him out huh?” Isaac whispers, his brows bouncing, but Derek doesn’t validate him with an answer. Instead, he hits the power button on his phone, checking for anything from Stiles.

“He said he’d be here, that he was bringing me tea. I thought he handed this off to you, or something…” Derek holds up the cooling to-go cup.

“No man, I haven’t seen him. I just know you're less cranky after a cup, so . . .” Boyd frowns and this time Isaac looks over his shoulder, scanning the bored faces of his teammates illuminated in the glow of the TV screen.

“Something’s not right…”

Derek frowns at Isaac, but he agrees. Pushing his notebook onto Boyd's lap, Derek leans in, “cover for me, okay.”

“What? Derek. No, man… I can’t.”

“Boyd, please. You’re my Center. I count on you on the field, what makes this so different?” Boyd frowns and Derek glances towards the open door, anxiety spreading through his limbs and making him antsy. “You can do this, we’re always on the same page, and I’ve written down everything I was going to cover today. It’s all here, you’ll be fine.”

Grimacing, Boyd pulls Derek’s carefully written and detailed notes towards himself and Derek stands, not giving him a chance to second-guess his decision. He slaps Boyd on the shoulder and before he even makes it to the door, Sam, one of his linemen, comes stumbling through it. There’s blood running from his nose and smeared along his top lip like he’s wiped it away in a hurry. His eyes are wild when they lock on Derek’s, he looks like a bull just released from its pen.

“Derek…” He chokes, stumbling forward, Derek is at his side in an instant, helping him to stand.

“What the fuck happened?”

Chairs squeal and topple as the team jumps to their feet. Derek holds up a hand to keep them from crowding around Sam while he catches his breath.

“We got jumped,” Sam clears his throat and swipes at the smear of blood on his lip again. “They took him to the clinic, he’s a bit more banged up than me.” Derek grips Sam by the shoulder examining his face. The skin under his left eye is starting to turn a deep pink, the beginnings of a black eye. “I’m fine, dude, they didn’t even break my nose. Fucking cock suckers… Came at us from behind.”

“Who did they send to the clinic? Who was with you?” Derek asks, dread already swooping in his stomach.

“S–Sti..” Sam doesn't even get the name out of his mouth before Derek is running. There's an explosion of shouting and movement behind him but Boyd’s voice tops them all.

“Sit down and shut up. We have work to do.”

Derek bolts up the tunnel from the sports arena and across the parking lot, his heart pounding in his chest as panic fuels his mad dash across the quad. The clinic is on the other side of campus next to the freshman dorms, and, of course, the campus cafe. He has a decision to make, go directly through the student union or around it. Through would mean slowing down for doors and people but around is easily twice as long.

The decision is made for him when one of the front doors opens and Coach steps out looking frazzled. He’s got a coffee cup in one hand and a folder in the other. His entire expression lights up in a grim sort of way when his eyes lock on Derek racing towards him. Derek really doesn't have time right now.

“Sorry Coach, talk later,” he pants, slowing down just enough to try and squeeze past him into the building.

“Nope. No no,” Coach counters, tucking the folder under his arm and grabbing Derek with his newly free hand. It’s times like these that make Derek remember why he respects the man so much. Coach is fast, his reflexes alarmingly accurate and it always surprises Derek because those skills come out at the strangest times. He’s a highly trained athlete, even if he did take one to many hits to the head while he was playing, making him a little crazy.

Out of pure respect, Derek pulls up short, his heart thrashing in his chest, a cold sweat drips down his back. “Coach, please…”

“I know about Stilinski,” Coach says and all the breath wooshes out of Derek's lungs.

“Then you know I need to go,” Derek says, reaching for the door.

“Not so fast there, tiger,” Finstock says, grabbing Derek by his arm again. “Stiles is fine. He’ll be fine, we have a game tomorrow, after all.”

“Coach!” Derek says eyes wide, Finstock rolls his eyes.  

“Listen, I need you to sign these papers.”

“Papers? You need me to sign some papers ? Stiles just got jumped! On campus!”

“Derek,” Coach cuts across him, his voice a rough whisper. He leans in looking around to make sure Derek’s outburst hasn’t garnered any unwanted attention. ”I know this all seems terrible right now, but I’m telling you, Stiles? He’s fine, and as soon as you take care of this,” he lifts the folder fluttering it in front of Derek's face, “...the sooner you can go to him.”

Grunting low in his throat, Derek nods and Coach slaps him on the shoulder with the folder. “Good, follow me.”

Chapter Text

Coach leads him into the student union and Derek casts a fleeting glance towards the bay of doors on the other side, the tan stucco of the health clinic just visible through the glass. With an anxious sigh, Derek follows Coach up to the second floor and into a small private study room.

Finstock makes a show of sitting down on one side of the small table, the folder and his cup of coffee from the campus cafe set before him, his brows arched in anticipation of Derek settling in the chair opposite him. With a frustrated grunt, Derek flops into the empty chair.

“So, it turns out that Jackson filed for a late transfer yesterday,” Coach begins, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his coffee.

“W...what?” Derek breathes, he cannot believe what he’s hearing right now. For a moment all his other thoughts are pushed out of his head. Jackson’s gone? Elation and surprise battle in his mind. “You can’t be serious…”

Flipping open the folder, Coach smiles over the rim of his to-go cup as he spins the file around towards Derek. They are all here–the transfer papers–filled out with a request from the head coach over at the Bruins, asking for Jackson's stats and an evaluation.

“Not that it would matter what I put in that evaluation, mind you,” Coach says sliding the paper out from under Derek's fingers. “Jackson's father has recently made a sizable donation to the Bruins campus. Looks like they’ll be able to replace some of the outdated fixtures in their stadium now. I believe the rumor mill is that the west entrance to the stadium will now be renamed Whittemore West gate.”

Derek knows he looks as shocked as he feels. His forehead pricks from how hard his eyebrows are lifted in surprise. A grim sense of satisfaction wells up inside of him. Jackson is not his problem anymore. Jackson is not his teammate anymore. He’ll never have to see Jackson-shitty-Whittemore’s face ever again.

“What did you need me for?” Derek says cutting off Coach’s rambling monologue of all the better names for the gate he could come up with.

“You know,” Coach says, gazing just over Derek’s head. “The Whittemore family tried to do the same here, but dean Deaton doesn’t take kindly to those types of donations.”

“Uh-huh…” Derek says, not entirely sure where Coach is going with this one.

“Deaton and I share a similar view when it comes to things like this. Hard work, dedication, maybe a little natural talent. Those are the things that get you far here.”

“Uh… yeah.” Derek glances at the large flat-faced clock hanging over the door. His leg bounces, and he shifts in his chair.

“It’s why, Derek, I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in and out of meetings, it’s why I need you here, now, signing these papers, when I know all you really want to be is someplace else. I think you’re worth it... and I need to get them filed before noon today.” Coach pauses taking a sip from his to-go cup, and the cartoon logo of a golden bear smiles up at Derek.

It’s then he realizes it. It all hits him at once. Coach was at the cafe this morning. He saw the fight. Derek glances wildly at the man sitting across from him, notices how his shirt is stretched around the collar, how the zipper on his Golden Bear’s windbreaker is broken, like he didn’t hesitate. Like he jumped in and stopped the fight before it got bad. Derek drags his wide eyes to the man before him. attempting to really try and understand Bobby Finstock, the lengths he’d go to protect his people, his team. The man in question leans in, his eyes strangely clear, coherent.

“I don’t think that one poor action, Derek, in a moment of weakness, should affect your career, or your chances of going pro. People get into fights all the time.” Coach says matter of factly, pulling a sheet of paper out of the folder and sliding it across the table towards Derek. “Due to the delicate nature of this scuffle and your recent coming out... I think that, if both parties agree, we can brush this… quietly under the rug.”

Derek's heart soars as he glances down at the paper, hope fluttering alive in his chest. No suspension, nothing on his record? This can all just fade away? He never thought it was possible, but reading the thick block letters across the top page, Derek’s mind races.

Disciplinary Action Report.

There is a brief description of the school's code of conduct, their stance on fighting and violence. The form details how Derek could lose his scholarship, be suspended, even arrested. It all blurs together as his eyes slide down the page to stop over the section that says Administrative Recourse Recommendations, and next to it in coaches stick figure scrawl is written: none.

None. Not for him. Not for Jackson. It will be like it never happened.

Coach is talking, his voice a pleasant burr in the background of Derek’s buzzing mind. He’s going on about this only working if both sides agree, about how it’s a one time, get out of jail free card, about life and liberty and … Derek zones it out. Coach tends to get lost in tangents and Derek can’t focus on anything but the looping swirling signature of Jackson Whittemore already written along one of the four bottom lines.

Coach’s is there too, and dean Deaton, the only signature missing is Derek’s. “How did you get him to agree?” Derek says, looking up, shock rocking his system.

Coach pauses mid-sentence, he blinks and his eyes focus back on Derek. “I didn’t but when six of your teammates went barging into the dean’s office threatening a player strike, talking about hate crimes, going to the media…” Coach leans back in his chair puffing out a breath. “Let’s just say dean Deaton and I might have implied to Jackson that, even though he’s transferring, having the words ‘suspended from extracurricular activities due to hate crimes’ on his record was not going to endear him to any school. No matter how many donations are made in his family's name. Deaton also might have implied  that there was no way these records would be sealed from the public if he ever got drafted.”

Derek laughs, elation surging through his system. “No way….”

“Way.” Coach clears his throat, pulling a pen from his pocket and sliding it across the table to Derek. “No matter what happens from here on out, consider this document kinda like a restraining order. You take no action against Jackson, and Jackson can take no action against you. Sound fair?”

“And I get to play? No questions asked, no review? Nothing?” Derek grabs the pen, clicking it a few times as he stares in disbelief at Finstock.

“Yes, and so does Jackson. Look this is… out of the ordinary, and just between us, this thing that happened between you and Jackson, well, you’re not the first on my team, hell, any team, to come to blows. It happens, we play a high energy sport... it’s just that Jackson is such a….”

“A prick? Pain in the ass? Blowhard? Spoiled brat?” Derek offers, grinning as Coach nods along a few times before waving his hand through the air.

“Anyway, he’s difficult . Normally these things just blow over. A few extra laps. A few hard practices and I can burn the anger out of you guys. It just wasn’t going to happen that way this time.”

“I understand,” Derek says, dropping his eyes to the page. He clicks the pen just about to sign when Coach’s hand lands on his wrist.

“No retaliation can come between either of you, Derek. No matter what, okay? Or all of this,” Coach swirls his pointer finger over the stack of pages in the folder, “will be null and void. Jackson… lawyer ” Coach rolls his eyes at the word “stipulated that if you come after him in any way, that the Berkeley gag-order on our playbooks goes up in smoke. I’ve cultivated this playbook half my life, Derek. I need you on the same page as me. The Bruins cannot get their hands on my baby!”

“Coach,” Derek says with all the seriousness he can manage even though elation flows through his veins. Jackson is gone. Forever, for good. He needs to see Stiles, share this good news. Shit, Stiles… “I totally understand,” Derek rushes, glancing down at where the pen is swooping the D of his first name. “I won’t let anything happen to your baby. You don’t let anything happen to mine.”

Coach looks confused for a moment, then his face breaks into a smile. Derek doesn’t give him the chance to launch into what feels like is going to be another very long, very confusing speech. He stands, the chair almost toppling to the ground behind him and hands Coach the signed Action Report.

He’s out the door and down the stairs, heading towards the clinic before Coach even scoops up the folder from the table.

“Derek!” Stiles greets, a huge smile splitting his face. He’s holding an ice pack to his jaw and a nurse is examining his left hand but other than that, he looks.. alright. He’s okay. Derek feels all the air rush out of him.

“Stiles,” he breathes, stepping up to his side and gripping Stiles face to see the extent of his injuries.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Stiles bats him away with the ice pack. “I’m guessing Sam found you?”

“Yes, what happened?”

“Did you see Finstock?”

Yes !” Derek hisses, frustration making him light-headed. “What. Happened?”

“Got jumped…”

“Okay, Stiles, you’re all set,” the nurse says, “be careful tomorrow and be sure to change your bandages if they get dirty.”

“Thanks, Macey,” Stiles says, flexing his wrapped fingers and sending the nurse a blinding smile, even though his lip is swollen.

“Flirt,” Macey says with an eye-roll before dropping a pile of gauze and some tape down on Stiles’ lap. “Kick ass tomorrow, Hale,” she says, clapping Derek on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Stiles cocks his head to the side and holds out the arm not holding the ice pack to his face, in offering, spreading his knees just enough so that when Derek steps up to the exam table he fits right between them. Cupping Stiles’ neck Derek gently angles his head and places a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Stiles’ sighs, as if this was what he was waiting for, and attempts to deepen the kiss but pulls back all too quickly with a soft hiss of pain.

“Damn it, damn it.” He winces and flops back against the exam table. “I haven’t gotten into a fist fight in, like, years . Not since, like, middle school, seriously! And in all that time, I never, ever fucked my mouth up. But, for some reason, now that I actually have a reason to use it other than running it. No, now that I have a boyfriend... No. No wait, now that I legitimately have the hottest boyfriend on the planet. I get a bruised lip. Figures. It so fucking figures.”

Derek chuckles, as Stiles rambles, adorably frustrated, and not nearly paying enough attention to him, so he slowly runs his palms up Stiles’ thighs and leans over him. The moment Derek’s palms ruck up Stiles’ basketball shorts, cupping the muscle, he quiets, his breathing slowing in apprehension. It’s so good to see he’s okay. It settles the anxiety building in Derek’s stomach.

“You’re absolutely wrong,” Derek says and Stiles lifts the arm he’s thrown over his eyes to blink up at him.

“How so?”

“You don’t have the hottest boyfriend on the planet…”

“I think I’d disagr–”

“I do,” Derek smiles at the wide-eyed look Stiles gives him, a blush rising up his cheeks.

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles grumbles, turning his face away and dropping his arm over his eyes again. The blotchy blush on Stiles’ cheeks spreads as Derek slowly runs his hands up Stiles’ thighs to curl around his hips. With a quick yank, he pulls Stiles down the table until their hips press firmly together.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Derek says softly, his fingers drifting up Stiles’ hips, curving around his waist, and slipping his thumbs under Stiles’ hoodie to run along the sharp jut of his hip bones. He needs to touch him, taste his skin, feel Stiles alive and writhing beneath him. He wants to kiss every mark, every bruise, and abrasion that mars Stiles’ soft, pale skin. The only person who should be leaving their mark behind on this man, is Derek.

“Yeah,” Stiles licks his lips, his voice cracking. Slowly he lifts his legs, calves wrapping around Derek’s thighs. “Me too.”

A knock at the door has them jumping apart like teenagers, Stiles almost falling off the exam table in his haste to sit up. They glance at one another, both cracking smiles. Stiles adjusts himself before clearing his throat and calling, “Come in.”

A campus security guard enters, his back stiff, a notepad in his hand. “Mysi...Mysicla..”

“Stiles is fine.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Stiles…” The guy takes off his cap, rubs his head, and puts it back on again. “I’m here to let you know that we’ve filed your incident report and have an ID on one of the two of the assailants. He matches the description you and Sam Wesson gave.”

“Uh, yeah, okay and? Did you catch them? Are they going to come back? Am I going to have to look over my shoulder everytime I try and cross the quad?”

Derek steps next to Stiles and gently uncurls Stiles’ clenched fist, slipping their hands together, interlocking their fingers. Stiles looks up at him startled but then relaxes, giving Derek’s hand a little squeeze.

“We identified one as a student from UCLA…”

“Okay...” Stiles says cautiously, sliding from the exam table. His hand tightens around Derek’s almost painfully. Derek’s eyes snap up to the cop, his brain jumping into overdrive. He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that a UCLA student jumped Stiles, not with Jackson transferring there.

“Unfortunately, we were not able to apprehend them, but we’ve sent our report to campus security over at UCLA and shared whatever footage the cafe camera captured. We believe that the second assailant is also a student there. We are doing everything we can to identify and apprehend the second attacker.”

“Alright…” Stiles says softly, deflating against Derek’s side. The officer looks between them, shifting his feet. He does that thing with his cap again, before lowering his eyes to the notepad held in his fist.

“What?” Derek snaps, tension stiffening his spine and making him clutch at Stiles' hand.

“We.. uh, we want to… We think.”

“Hate crime,” Stiles sighs like it’s nothing new, and the officer nods, shoulders slumping.

Derek tenses. It’s starting, this is what he feared. He’s putting the people he lo–cares about in danger. This is only the beginning. It will only get worse from here.

“It’s something we are looking into.”

The cop is talking but Derek can’t seem to focus on anything he’s saying. Next to him, Stiles keeps up the conversation, asking questions Derek doesn’t hear. Panic crawls up his throat and the only thing keeping him tethered to the spot is Stiles’ hand in his.




“Dump some water over his head, that seems to work for us.”

“I’m not going to do that. Though, last time it did end in some really hot sex….”

“T.M.I,” Isaac chuckles.

“I have to hear about all your conquests, you can hear about mine,” Derek says, blinking until his vision clears.

“Hey, I do not kiss and tell… all the time…” Isaac smiles. Boyd’s there too, but the face right before his own, the warm hand cupping his cheek, belongs to Stiles. Without thinking, Derek reaches for him, curling his hand around Stiles’ neck and pulling him into a kiss.

“You’re okay…” Derek breathes, resting his forehead against Stiles’ as the other man chuckles.

“Yeah, I’m okay and you’re back with us.”

“What happened?” Derek asks, looking around. He’s seated in a little plastic chair off to the side of the exam room. His head hurts and he’s really tired. “Where did the cop go?”

“His names Parrish, and left a little while ago. You had a panic attack,” Stiles says like it’s no big deal. “How are you feeling?”

“I... had a what?” Derek says his brows lifting. Automatically he takes the cup Boyd is holding out for him. It’s cool to the touch and full of water and the sight of it has Derek groaning, suddenly aware of how extremely thirsty he is. He drinks, emptying the cup in two gulps before Stiles is pulling it from his fingers. Boyd refills it and hands it back.

“A panic attack,” Stiles says again, squatting down next to Derek, his hands braced on Derek’s knees. “I get them sometimes.”

Stiles’ doesn’t push, doesn’t make Derek talk about what sent him over the edge. He just squeezes Derek’s knee and offers a small smile as Derek drains the second cup of water. Derek catalogs his injuries again, unable to look away from the scrape just under Stiles’ eye. The bruise on his lip that splits every time he tries to smile. His fist clenches, crumpling the cup in his hand. Stiles slowly wraps his long unbandaged fingers around Derek’s and peels the cup free.

“Bet you're tired,” Stiles says softly, standing and tossing the ruined cup into the trash.

“We covered everything in your book,” Boyd says, handing the notebook back to Derek. His mouth is set in a grim line. He looks determined. “Everyone was hyper-focused once Sam explained what happened.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Derek waves his hand through the air. “Was this a ha--hate crime? Were you targeted because we’re together?”

“No, god.” Stiles laughs, rubbing the back of his head, “I mean maybe? I hope not… but either way, it’s not your fault, it's not anyone's fault. Well, it might actually be my fault… That’s beside the point, I’m not going to press charges. I told Parrish that I thought it was the team’s rivalry. The Bruins are already in town for the game tomorrow and Sam and I may or may not have made a banner…”

“A banner?” Derek says brows lifted. This kid is going to be the death of him.

“Yeah, a banner, that may or may not have depicted a… golden bear… peeing on the Bruins logo?”

Derek groans, dropping his head into his hands and Isaac laughs; Boyd, the traitor high-fives Stiles.

“Why was Sam with you?” Derek asks, lifting his head to squint at Stiles.

“He’s the only one tall enough to hang the banner on their bus,” Stiles says like it’s only now dawning on him how bad of an idea this was. “I mean, come on Derek, it’s my first time playing on a real sports team, with a real decades-old rivalry. It’s like, the stuff every college rom-com is made out to be. Guy meets guy, guy pines for guy, guy wins homecoming….and sweeps the other guy off his feet?” Stiles' voice peters out questioningly and he shrugs. His face twisted in what Derek assumes is supposed to be an imploring adorable look, but it doesn’t have the same effect with his bruised lip.

“There has, legitimately, never been a rom-com like that, ever,” Derek says flatly.

“How would you know,” Stiles counters, blushing and looking to Isaac for help. “There could be?”

No matter what Stiles says, something about this just doesn’t sit right with Derek. It’s all too convenient. Jackson has to be behind it somehow, the snake.

“Well… if there is, I wouldn’t know it,” Isaac says unhelpfully before turning back to Derek. “Word’s already traveled through the team, by this time tomorrow, every Golden Bear will know what happened.” His normal joviality is gone and his eyes glint dangerously as he watches Derek climb to his feet.

It takes everything in him not to wince. His body aches and he really wants a nap. He’s never had a panic attack before and he certainly doesn’t want to experience another one.

His thoughts tumble over one another as they make their way out of the clinic. Stiles gives a friendly wave to the reception nurse as they exit the building.

“How much does everyone know?” Derek asks, squinting to protect his eyes from the early afternoon sun.

“Only what Sam told us, but it’s enough. Stiles said they ID’d one of the guys as a UCLA student?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, rolling his shoulders to try and work some of the stiffness out of his neck.

“Tomorrow’s going to be a bloodbath,” Isaac says almost joyfully.

“Hey,” Derek cuts in sternly, he grips Isaac by the shoulder and makes sure he has his full attention. “We play clean or we don’t play at all. Make sure everyone knows.”

Isaac nods. “Yeah, yeah of course… I meant that, in like, the biblical sense...”

“That, if possible, makes even less sense,” Stiles says, grinning at Isaac.

“Rest up,” Derek points his finger at Isaac. “I’m serious, I need you guys at peak performance tomorrow. We can worry about all of this after we pound the Bruins into the turf.”

“You too,” Boyd says, offering his fist for Derek to bump his against.

Together they turn, heading back towards the student union, Isaac already pulling out his phone. Derek shakes his head, watching them go. At least it won't be hard to get everyone pumped up tomorrow.

“How about you and me grab some junk food and spread out on my couch to watch Deathly Hallows?”

Releasing a slow breath, Derek scrubs his fingers through his hair. “That sounds really nice.”

Smiling, Stiles slips his unbandaged hand into Derek's, giving him a little tug towards the campus commissary. “Maybe… if you’re really good, we can take another shower together. You know how Coach likes us to be really clean...”

“Oh yeah? And maybe you can tell me how he jumped into the middle of your fight and saved your ass?”

Grinning, Derek tugs on Stiles' hand until he stops and turns around. He’s smiling sheepishly, an embarrassed blush riding high on his cheeks. Looking down into Stiles’ honey warm eyes, Derek puts Jackson and the possibility of him being involved on the back burner. Stiles is here, in his arms, smiling, and that's all Derek needs right now. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Mmm, I’m well aware, it’s just convincing everyone else that’s the tough part,”

“Fuck‘em,” Derek says, grinning as he wraps Stiles up and presses a careful kiss to his bruised lips.

Chapter Text

Thunder wraps around him, pressurizing the air until it’s a heavy living thing. It blankets him, suffocating, fragrant with sweat and dirt. It lays thickly on Derek’s tongue, and he wants more .

His blood bumps, heart beating like the drums of war against his ribcage. All around him the dark tunnel echoes with madness; carrying the fever that's infected them. It spirals up towards the ceiling only to crash back down onto them. Multiplying, swelling, expanding until it’s something bigger than him. Bigger than them all.

Thunder and lightning, an electric current that flows from one person to the next, infuses them. Derek feels alive, his skin tingles, and before he can float away, lost to the tempest, someone smashes their hands down on his shoulder pads. He buckles then strengthens under the blow of their heavy hands. Just as quickly they’re gone, moving onto the next person.

The earth quakes and heaves and all together, they roar.

Boyd grabs Derek’s helmet and smashes their heads together; his eyes glow from behind his facemask. Teeth bared a slash of white in the dark shadow of his face. Boyd yells, rumbling and deep, it vibrates into Derek and drags an echoing call from his lungs. They smash their helmets together again before Boyd turns, seeking out Isaac and doing the same.

At his right Stiles is there; face flushed, lips parted, eyes wide. He’s panting with it, heaving with it, flowing with it, letting it lift him until Derek can only laugh and crash their helmets together. Stiles is beautiful, overcome by the madness like he is.

He shoves at Derek’s shoulder pads, and Derek pushes him back. He’s glorious, alive and bright. His swirling amber eyes scan the group, and Derek watches as mirth bubbles up inside of him, making him glow. Stiles tosses his head back and whoops, Derek, infected by his joy, tilts his head back screams. Around them, the team, his pack, rise to his call.

“Are you ready?!” Coach screams, his voice distorted, his smile wide and demented behind his megaphone. He looks over the mass of writhing players, his warriors primed and pumped for the battle ahead.

Derek’s ready. He feels it, the energy, it’s in his blood. It’s alive and writhing inside of him, separate but whole. Searching, seeking, needing an outlet, the explosion of play, the collision of bodies. He feels it as keenly as he feels Stiles at his side, bumping against him as the team roils like angry ocean waves.

“ARE YOU READY!” Coach calls again, his arms flying wide and everyone screams, erupting like lava, the clash of titans, surging forward, “Let’s rain down some pain!”

Together they race towards the thunder, towards the stomping feet and screaming crowds in the stadium above them. Together, they barrel for the bright light of the field and the glory awaiting them.

This is the moment Derek loves; erupting from the tunnel to the noise and the lights, feeling the excitement of the crowd, of his teammates. The turf is familiar and grounding under his cleats, and slowly he begins to tune everything out.

He closes his eyes, blocking out the brightness of artificial light, of cameras flashing. He turns his focus inward, on the immediate; the heat around him, the team bumping and swaying as they take the field together.

Each slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. The steady thump, thump, thump of his heart. The noise of the fans in the stands drifts away, replaced by the crackle of the headset in his helmet.

Now is his time.

He’s in charge.

His teammates touch him as they rush the field, a hand on his arm, a slap to his butt. And Derek is validated by the trust they place in him.


His eyes snap open, and he sucks in a breath; a serene sense of calm washing over him, familiar and comfortable. 

This is his space. 

He knows this field, his team, these fans. His jaw tenses around his mouth guard as he grins.

“I’ll be there,” Stiles says, before shoving his mouth-guard in and gripping Derek’s bicep. His touch lingers, warm through the glove he’s wearing, before dropping.

“I know you will,” Derek says.

“Good, then what are you waiting for?”

“You!” Derek barks a laugh, his grin spreading. Stiles rolls his eyes and shoves Derek’s shoulder.

Together, they take the field.

The UCLA Bruins team is massive, and it feels like their players are cultivated from birth to be imposing, hulking, beasts of men. The game’s a downright slogfest with his friends as pumped up as they are, for Sam, for Stiles. Nevermind how the Berkeley v. UCLA rivalry goes back ages.

The teams fight through their growing fatigue, the game rapidly devolving as the quarter's pass. Both sides are trying to start their seasons off right, to bring home the win.

Derek hits the turf hard. All the air in his lungs forced out of him in a sharp gust that leaves him groaning, gasping under the weight of the opposing blocker. Hands and legs wheeling, Derek's already scrambling to get back to his feet before the blocker is entirely off his chest. He’s not even close to upright when the stadium erupts, vibrating around him as the fans lose their minds.

He’d released the ball just in time, the sweat-slick leather flying from his fingertips to where he hoped Stiles would be. So far, Stiles has been exactly where Derek needed him, even with the Bruins persistent defensive line. This time proves to be no different.

There’s one guy that has been on Stiles’ tail all night. Derek can tell that he’s running Stiles dry, keeping him going at top speed all night long. No one on their team has been able to keep up with Stiles’ speed and agility like this player from the Bruins.

Clamoring to his feet, Derek scans the field seeking Stiles out; joy rips through him, and Derek punches his fit into the air. The stands erupt in euphoria as Stiles deftly doges a back fielder and takes off towards the end zone. The opposing players are hot on his tail, but no one moves like Stiles, those long toned legs pumping, and he’s rapidly leaving them in his dust. The touchdown comes easy, and Derek decides that there is nothing quite as lovely as Stiles’ smiling face. Their kicker makes the extra point, and that's it. 

It's done. 

It's over. 

They’ve won.

Derek feels like fire ants are marching under his skin as he scoops Stiles up and spins him around. The younger man shouts his excitement arms flying wide, laughter bubbling up inside of him sweet, like cotton candy and Derek is dying for a taste.

The stands empty onto the field, and the band kicks up, blasting the universities theme song into the night sky. The team swarms them, and Derek pulls his helmet from his head, his breath panting from his lungs; Stiles does the same. They’re wrapped up in one another at the epicenter of the storm, players surging around them. The calm in its center, Derek leans in and presses his lips to Stiles’, shocking the younger man.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Derek says, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Stiles breathes, rolling his eyes but reaches up, all the same, to run his long fingers into Derek’s sweaty hair and pulling him down for a much deeper kiss. Their shoulder pads bump and before they can get too carried away someone dumps a cooler of ice water over their heads.

“EVERY TIME?!” Derek roars, jumping back from Stiles.

“Keep it in your pants, Hale!” One of his teammates shouts before squirting him with a water bottle, and that’s the last straw, all hell breaks loose.

By the time Derek is standing in front of his family, he’s panting and swaying; one arm looped around Stiles' shoulders the other gripping an empty squirt bottle. He’s drenched in sweat and water, Gatorade and who knows what else, yet he can’t wipe the smile from his face.

“Laura. I’d like you to meet Stiles.” Derek beams. Stiles shifts nervously at his side before extending his hand.

“Oh my god, he’s adorable,” Laura says before scooping Stiles up in a hug.

“Excellent choice, nephew,” Peter adds as Stiles is passed off to his uncle. Peter spends a little too long embracing Stiles.

“That’s enough, you creep,” Cora says elbowing Peter in his side. “I’m Cora; you can hug me when you’re dry.”

“C’mon, you can’t blame me, can you?” Peter asks, his brows lifted appraisingly. He turns his smile on Stiles, “I didn’t think Derek has such good taste. Especially with his history.”

“Peter!” Talia sighs exasperatedly, slapping her brother on the shoulder. “Hello, sweetheart. I’m Talia, Derek’s mother and this is my husband, Evan.”

“Stiles, is it?” Evan says with a fond smile, extending his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Stiles responds, as he takes Derek’s fathers hand and gives it a good shake before shrinking back against Derek’s side.

“Hale, Stilinski, PAR-TAY!” Isaac’s voice reaches them just before he’s swept away with the rest of the team down towards the underground locker rooms.

“I’m going!” Cora states folding her arms.

“Ugh, fine.” Derek knows better than to argue with her

“Me too!” Laura says clapping her hands, a devious spark in her eye.

“Laura, no.”

“What, why not?”

“Well, if Laura’s going, I'm going,” Peter says.

“Okay, no. Definitely not,” Derek says, and at his side, Stiles begins to laugh.

“Peter!” Talia says with fond exasperation, a small smile on her lips. “We are going to dinner; you’re not going to bother the kids.”

“Well, you are no fun at all,” Peter gripes, but he doesn’t sound upset.


Under his arm Stiles spins around, a look of pure terror sliding over his features.

“We’ll catch you later Derek.”

“Great job, son.”

“Text me the details, Der.”

With a wave, Derek’s family heads back towards the stands. But his attention is held firm by the whirlwind coming across the field towards them right now.


“Don’t you Lyds me.” The stunning redhead snaps as she comes to a stop in front of them. One of her perfectly manicured brows arches sharply over a calculating green eye.

Her gaze slides to where Derek has his arm firmly wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders, assessing, before a deadly pointed and lacquered nail is thrust eyelevel with Stiles. “Did I seriously have to find out from Erica Reyes that you were playing football!? Not only playing, but starting! Do you know how much it cost me to get a plane ticket from New York to Cali on such short notice? Do you have any idea how much hotel rooms were this close to the opening game?”

“You’re staying at a hotel?”

“Of course I’m not staying at a hotel, you idiot. I’m staying with Erica.”

“You’re staying at my apartment?”

“Am I speaking a different language? Did you hit your head one too many times tonight?”

“Lyds…” Stiles smile spreads slowly, it’s soft, endearing, and for an instant, Derek is jealous. Just who is this woman and what kind of relationship does she have with Stiles? “I’m so glad you're here…. I can’t believe you came. I was afraid you’d tell me not to play.” As Stiles speaks he steps forward his arms spread out like he’s going to scoop the petite woman up.

“Don’t you even dare, Mieczyslaw!” She says stepping back, her face affronted. “This is Prada!”

“” Derek mouths looking at Stiles as a blush rushes up his cheeks.

“Lydia…” he wines. “Don’t...”

“Unforgivable,” She says crossing her arms and turning away from him. There is a slight upturn to her lips though, and Derek gets a distinct impression that they aren’t actually fighting.


Derek doesn’t get to ponder the relationship between Lydia and Stiles for long. A blur of tan skin and brown hair appears out of nowhere to tackle Stiles, knocking him right out from under Derek’s arm and sending Stiles tumbling to the turf.

“DUDE! You were awesome!”

“Oh my goodness,” Lydia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Scott.”

“What the hell…” Derek manages, about to grab the new guy by the collar and rip him off Stiles when Stiles kicks out and flips the pair, pinning Scott to the ground.

“I know right! Who knew I was a natural receiver?” Stiles shouts back, laughing as Scott squirms.

“I mean…,” Scott says, and Derek watches him bounce his eyebrows. “We all know you like…”

“Oh my god,” Stiles yelps, dropping down and shoving his armpit in Scott's face as he looks over his shoulder at Derek. “Don’t mind him; he’s an idiot.”

A very muffled “I am not,” is followed by more flailing.

“Derek, please meet my best friend Scott McCall,” Stiles sits back enough that the now ruffled brunette under him can wave sheepishly. “and, of course, the platonic love of my life, my queen, my angel, the one person….”

“That's enough, you heathen.”

“The one and only Lydia Martin.” Stiles finishes quickly.

“Lydia, Scott. Meet my boyfriend, Derek.”

“Boyfriend?” Scott says at the same time Lydia murmurs, “Interesting…”

“What do you mean interesting?!” Stiles whines, clambering to his feet looking like a wounded puppy. “And you! Boyfriend, as a question!? Why can’t I have a boyfriend?”

“I mean.. It's not that you can’t have one it's just that…” Scott says as he gets up, looking between Derek and Stiles before he leans in to whisper “he’s kinda, like, model hot.”

Derek fights the urge to smile, or roll his eyes; he can’t decide.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Stiles says, beaming and rocking on his feet as he side-eyes Derek. “You should see him naked.”

Derek slaps a hand to his forehead. “Stiles…,” he groans as his face heats. Lydia is still staring at him, appraisingly, both of her eyebrows creeping higher the longer Stiles talks. Scott, on the other hand, tilts his head like he’s trying to picture Derek naked and he has the sudden urge to cover his crotch.

“Stiles!” Lydia says, her tone all business, “I hear there is a party tonight?”

“Oh shit, yeah! We rented out an entire bar! Two floors!”

“Confidant, you were going to win?” Scott says with a smile as he bumps shoulder with Stiles.

“I mean you watched the game. Derek and I are unstoppable!”

The praise makes Derek grin, warmth spreading through his chest as Stiles smiles at him. “You’re amazing,” Derek says stepping in towards Stiles, the urge to hold him taking over and he leans in to kiss him.

“Gross.” Scott groans but not in the ‘two dudes kissing is gross’ kinda way, more of the ‘my best friend is kissing another human’ kinda way, and Stiles flips him off. “My moms here!”

That has Stiles pulling back, his eyes wide and excited. “Melissa’s here, does that mean?”

“Yep!” Scott practically oozes excitement. Derek can easily imagine his puppy dog tail wagging.

“When were you going to tell me?” Stiles asks, slapping Scott on the shoulder.

“Come on man; you know he wouldn’t miss this.”

“I didn’t even tell him I joined the team! He thinks I’m playing Cribbage… whatever that is?”

All at once everyone's eyes turn to Lydia, who happens to be examining her nails.

“You’re a complete and utter idiot, Stiles Stilinski.” She says simply.

“Oh, I love you, Lyds,” Stiles says, going to grab her again. She must be used to him though because, without even looking, she dances out of his reach.

“Praadaaa!” She sing-songs at him and Stiles laughs, turning his bright eyes on Derek and making his stomach swoop. God, he loves this man.

“You’re going to meet my dad!” Stiles declares, grabbing Derek's wrist and tugging him towards the stands. They make it about three steps before he pulls up short and looks over his shoulder. “Uh, where?”

Both Scott and Lydia point towards the stands at the same time. An older man and woman are pressed close together holding a sign high above their heads with the number 24 emblazoned in blue and gold.

“Dad!” Stiles yells jumping and waving with his free hand. “Melissa!”

Derek stumbles as Stiles pulls him forward, the two of them climbing the metal stairs with thunderous feet. Stiles crashes headlong into this father, wrapping him up in a hug that has the older man laughing, and heartily patting his son on the back.


“Dad, I'm so sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry. I'm so glad you’re here.” Stiles' eyes are large and round, and his voice is choked. Derek looks down and away trying to give them some semblance of privacy.

“Ah,” Mr. Stilinski clears his throat, shaking his head, they embrace once more before Mr. Stilinski catches Derek’s eye over Stiles’ shoulder. “And who’s this young man?”

“Dad, meet Derek. Uh, Derek Hale. Derek Hale the star quarterback of our team, and, uh, my boyfriend.” Stiles expression is caught somewhere between a grimace and a smile. His dad nods like this kind of rambling, repetitious talk, is something he’s used to.

“Derek, Derek Hale.” Mr. Stilinski says, his eyes narrow slightly.

Derek stands a little taller, his arm is sore, and his shoulders are stiff. All he wants to do is get his gear off and take a shower, but he knows this is important, so he shoves his aches and pains to the back of his mind and meets Stiles’ dad’s eye.

“Mr. Stilinski…”

“John.” Mr. Stilinski interrupts.

“J–John.” Derek parrots, looking from Stiles to his dad. He extends his hand, and John takes it, shaking it with an overly firm grip. It’s suddenly not as funny as it was when Stiles met Derek’s dad. He kinda feels like he’s under a microscope. It’s less intense than with Lydia, but he still gets the impression that Sheriff John Stilinski knows more than he lets on.

“Oh, boys,” the pretty brunette to John’s right rolls her eyes. “That is quite enough of that. I’m Melissa, Scott’s mom. It's so nice to meet you.” She says extending her hand, which Derek takes. “If I know anything about these kinds of things, I’m sure we are making you late for a ‘very important’ party.” She smiles, and Derek's reminded of his mother.

“Ah, yeah,” Stiles says rubbing the back of his head.

“I know I don’t have to tell you to behave, Stiles. I better not hear about the cops having to break up this party tonight.”

“Dad, you don’t even work around here.”

“You know that doesn’t matter; I have connections…” John arches a brow, and Stiles smiles sheepishly.

“Isn’t Ms. Martin going with you?” Melissa says kindly.

“She’ll keep you in line.” John nods as if Lydia's mere presence has just solved a plethora of issues. Exactly who is this Lydia Martin? Derek chances a glance over his shoulder; the redhead is easy to pick out, even from the stands. She’s got a crowd of people around her and seems utterly bored as they vie for her attention. At her side, Scott looks uncomfortable.


“Go,” Melissa says, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Stiles' cheek. “Have fun, ignore your old man. College is the time for stupid decisions.”

“Just don’t get arrested!” John shouts as Stiles takes his leave, again pulling Derek behind him. “Lunch tomorrow!”

“It’s a date!” Stiles shouts back.

“B..bye” Derek manages with a wave over his shoulder as Stiles tugs him back down the bleachers.

They stop by Lydia and Scott to let them know which bar the team has reserved for the after party, before heading for the locker rooms. As much as Derek wants to lay his hands all over Stiles, the locker rooms crowded, and the showers are noisy. The team is buzzing, and the two of them seem to be the focal point of everyone’s attention due to their stellar performance on the field. He’s just going to have to wait. He can wait. He can…

Stiles pulls off his shoulder pads, dropping them heavily to the floor, his under armor shirt is next, and he absently runs his palm down over his bare, sweat-slick, torso. He talks to Greenburg, smiling, laughing at something the other guy said… and Derek cannot wait.


“Yeah, babe?” Stiles says glancing up at him, and Derek’s heart thuds heavily in his chest.


“I left something in my car. Would you come with me to grab it before we head to the party?”

“Sure,” Stiles smiles as he shoves out of his pants, grabbing a towel out of his locker and heading for the showers. Derek bites back a groan and strips as fast as possible, following in Stiles wake.

Chapter Text


It’s dark in the corner of the athlete's parking lot by the time Stiles backs Derek up against his car. The whole vehicle creeks with the force of his body as Stiles steps in between his spread feet and brings their mouths back together.

“Want you,” Stiles breathes, nipping at Derek’s bottom lip “wanted you from the moment the game ended.”

His hands slide up Derek’s hips, pushing his shirt out of the way. His fingers are warm and strong and burn along Derek’s skin as they make a steady path toward his nipples.

“Stiles…” Derek cants his hips forward, the press of his erection through his jeans meets the warm expanse of Stiles' thigh and Derek shivers.

“Yeah,” Stiles groans directly into Derek’s mouth, flicking his tongue against Derek’s lips as his fingernails scrape gently over the stiff peaks of Derek's nipples. He loves Stiles' muscular, thick thighs.

“Touch me. I need you to touch me.” Derek breathes desperately, his hands slap back, fumbling against the car, searching for the door handle. Stiles tips against him awkwardly, mouth sliding wet and open along Derek's jaw unwilling to part for long as Derek fights the back door open. It takes a moment but eventually he ends up tipping into the back seat, Stiles flopping down on top of him.

“This… this is a tight fit,” Stiles grunts trying to press himself into the small space over Derek and ends up bumping his head against the upholstered ceiling instead. His hand slips on the leather of the back seat and he flops forward onto Derek’s chest. 

“Th–that’s what she said…” Derek huffs and Stiles laughs, the melodic sound bursting out of his mouth like he’s surprised. He leans forward, kissing Derek, sucking air through his nose and moaning it out against Derek’s lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles wiggles, dragging their bodies together as he tries to get comfortable on top of Derek. Each motion has his hips pressing down onto Derek’s, their erections rubbing. He whines low in his throat, forcing his hips up. His hands snake around Stiles’ hips to grip his ass and press them more firmly together.

“Jesus. Wait just a sec… oh fuck” Stiles eye flutter closed, his legs twitch, and he tries to find some leverage. The car door’s still wide open because they’re too tall to fit in the back seat with it closed, and the overhead light is on. Stiles looks angelic, the light forming a halo around his head, a bright pink flush riding high on his cheeks and his cherry red kissed lips parted around each heated breath he takes.

“You’re beautiful.” Derek hears himself say and Stiles smiles, blushing and rolling his eyes.

“You’re dick drunk,” he says before swooping in and kissing Derek. It's soft and slow, his fingers slide into Derek’s hair, stroking through the strands like they’ve got all the time in the world. It’s a stark contrast to the heated, frantic way Stiles pushes his knees up until Derek’s legs are lifted, calves curled around Stiles' thighs, pressing the hard line of his cock against Derek’s. The kiss flows over him, passionate and driving. It takes Derek's breath away and leaves his heart aching with it. He can’t think about what kisses like this from Stiles mean right now.

“I’d have to have your dick in me to get drunk off it,” Derek counters when they break apart, breathing heavy, and Stiles groans long and full of frustration as he drops his forehead on Derek’s shoulder.

“This is not the ideal location for that, no matter how badly I want it.” Stiles complains into Derek’s neck.

Reaching up Derek flicks the overhead light off and scoots as far back across the seats as he can; pressing his shoulders up onto the opposite door and spreading his legs, dropping one foot down to give Stiles as much room as possible to settle between his thighs. His dick throbs behind his jeans, the back window is fogging up, and Derek feels like laughing. He can't remember the last time he felt this happy, this secure, this aroused. The way Stiles stares down at him, like Derek isn't real, like he could vanish at any moment, emboldens him. 

“How about something close?” Derek says, a smile tilting the corner of his mouth because Stiles is already nodding, his hips twisting forward in abortive little thrusts against Derek.

“Fuck yes,” Stiles says scrambling to drop his knees in the space Derek created when he moved. Together they fight to undo their pants, Stiles shoving his jeans down below his balls just as Derek wiggles his boxer-briefs low enough to free his cock.

Goddamn .” Stiles breathes, his eyes fixed on Derek’s dripping dick. He licks his lips, pupils blown wide in the dim light of the parking lot and Derek can’t look away. Stiles props himself up along the back seat with one hand, reaching between them to wrap the other around both of their cocks. Derek arches, his body jolting, skin lighting up with sensation like he's never felt before. Overcome, his eyes flutter closed at the feeling of those long, strong fingers wrapping around him. Stiles pauses his grip loosening, and Derek drags his eyes open again. 

“Too rough?” Stiles asks, glancing up from under his lashes. “Here. Lick.”

His palm is in front of Derek’s mouth before he even has a chance to process Stiles request and he’s licking. His tongue is swiping out over the salty skin, dipping in between Stiles’ long elegant fingers. Derek loses himself sucking on Stiles' palm, bathing each inch of skin with his tongue until it's practically dripping and his chin is wet, and his mouth is dry. “For fuck's sake.”

Stiles stares at him in awe for a moment before he snaps into action wrapping his slick hand back around their dicks and sucking a breath as they slide together. It’s warm and frantic and more than once Derek bangs his head against the door. Stiles' knee slips at some point, and the end up smashed together, but it doesn’t stop them.

Derek is barely breathing, his fingers digging into the meat of Stiles’ jean clad ass as he rolls his hips up into Stiles' hand. The drag of skin on skin, the slick sounds of their cocks sliding between Stiles' fingers makes Derek crazy. He’s hot, sweating, the leather of the backseat is creaking with their movements, and as quick and sloppy as this is, it’s also one of the hottest experiences of his life. Stiles bites his bottom lip, eyes fluttering as he exhales, and drops down to kiss Derek.

“Close, fuck...close,” he breathes against Derek’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Derek says, nipping Stiles' lips, “Yeah, shit.  You feel so good. You make me feel so good...”

With a groan Stiles drops his head onto Derek's shoulder, panting hot, moist breaths against Derek’s neck and he doesn’t know why he does it, but there is something about having Stiles’ mouth that close to his jugular, feeling Stiles' frantic, broken breaths on his skin. It makes him tingle with need. It makes Derek lift his chin, and angle his head in offering. The want bubbling inside of him, the need to feel those strong teeth nipping at his skin, marking him for everyone to see. It pushes him higher, closer to his peak. Pleasure spirals rapidly at the base of his spine, his thighs flex, pushing his dick up into Stiles' hand.

It's frightening. How powerful the desire is, how each stroke of Stiles' hand burns like a brand, scaring directly into Derek's soul. Stiles moves, groaning, and latches his mouth onto the column of Derek's throat.

“More,” he wines, needy, desperate and Stiles bites, scraping his teeth over the tendon, lathing Derek’s skin with a soothing swipe of his tongue. “Yes, fuck yes. Oh god, oh god.”

Derek manages to wiggle one of his hands between them pulling his shirt up and exposing his stomach as he comes. Stiles bites his neck again, harder, the press of his teeth pulls a pathetic groan from Derek’s lungs. His toes curl in his boots as Stiles' hand milks him through his orgasm, relentless until Derek collapses shivering and twitching, his eyelids heavy with fatigue.

“You’re fucking unreal.” Stiles pants, he’s tipped back as much as he can, his shoulders and neck pressed up against the roof as he strips his cock. A frantic, desperate look on his face. “Oh god, I'm gonna come. I’m gonna come all over you. Yeah, fuck. I’m gonna mess you up so bad, fuck.”

The first pulse has Stiles keening, his eyelashes flutter, and his sinful mouth drops open around a silent groan. The hand not on his dick hits the window next to Derek’s head, hard as his back bows and his abs twitch with every harsh exhale. Each warm stripe that lands across Derek’s chest stirs him up inside. It makes him feel owned, and cherished. Makes him feel like he belongs to Stiles. Derek knows it’s weird, possessive, obsessive, but the way Stiles looks as he comes is so fucking beautiful, with his white teeth pressing into the plump meat of his bottom lip, his brows dipped and his eyes wide open and focused fully on Derek. Like looking anywhere else would ruin the pleasure he's feeling right now. It leaves Derek feeling powerful, fulfilled. 

He'd love to bask in those emotions, the cocktail of endorphins rushing through his body. To curl up with Stiles and sleep until they're ready to go again. Sleep until his muzzy brain, and tired body is recharged. He'd love to do any of that, but it's hard to think as Stiles scoots back, curling down to lick their release from Derek’s soft cock and stomach.

“Oh shit,” Derek moans, legs twitching, hands landing roughly on Stiles' shoulders, “No, fuck- fuck . Too… too much.”

“You’re a mess.” Stiles breaths as he looks up licking his lips, his eyes almost fully black in the darkness. “We still have a party to go to.”

It takes Derek a minute to get his brain back online, and he has just enough wherewithal to press his palm to Stiles’ forehead as Stiles tries to dip down and lick his stomach. “Fuck, Stiles,” Derek groans, Stiles smirks up at him, his long pink tongue poking out of his mouth. "Let's skip it. I’m tired. I wanna take you home.”

“Dude, no way,” Stiles says looking around, he stretches up between the front seats and pops the glovebox fishing out some napkins, “this is the first time people on a recognized sports team wanna celebrate me. ME! And you of course, and everyone but also me! I’m not going to miss that.” He rocks back onto his knees and stares down at Derek's stomach. “God, your so fucking sexy.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek grumps and Stiles smiles dragging the napkins through the mess on his chest.

“How’s about Big Guy?” Stiles waggles his brows as he drags a napkin around Derek’s soft cock, gathering up the mess.

“How about none of the above,” Derek says as his cheeks heat up.

“C’mon, you like it,” Stiles smirks playfully swiping the majority of their mess from Derek’s abdomen. “Man, I wish we had some wet wipes.”

“It’s fine, just leave it.” The heat in his cheeks turns into a burn at the idea of walking around with the remnants of their shared orgasms on his skin.

“You’re gonna be itchy.”

“I’ll wash when we get there.”

“Alright,” With one last kiss, Stiles shuffles back out of the car, fumbling to pull his pants up as Derek scoots out after him.

“Dude, my legs,” Stiles complains, rubbing at his thighs.

“Next time we’ll use your car,” Derek says bouncing lightly on his toes as he stuffs himself away and buttons up his pants. As an afterthought, he swings the door closed behind him and locks the car.

“Oh no, man, Roscoe would be way worse.”


“Yeah, my ride is a powder blue Jeep Wrangler, used to be my moms. It’s super badass, but, you know, maybe not the best option for…” Stiles shrugs “sexing up my boyfriend.”

Derek’s ears ring with the word boyfriend , and he doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until Stiles turns around tilting his head in question. It's not the first time Stiles' has called him that and it won't be the last, but it's... nice, really nice. He likes it. Derek likes being Stiles' boyfriend. His heart pumps heavy in his chest, and Derek suddenly can’t breathe with how much he likes him. How much he wants to spend every single second with him. 


Blinking Derek snaps out of his thoughts. “Okay, you can’t call me that,” he says catching up to Stiles in two long strides.

“Why not, it’s cute.” Stiles is walking, his shoulder bumping into Derek’s with each step they take towards the bar that’s hosting the after party.

“My sisters call me that and I just can’t have that nickname coming out of your mouth.”

“What,” Stiles chuckles, “why?”

Gripping him by his upper arm, Derek swings him around and backs him up against the side of a building. With a low growl, he cages Stiles against the brick wall, leaning in to lick at his lips, savoring the stuttered breath Stiles exhales and how he goes loose-limbed against Derek’s chest. Pliant, beautiful with his amber eyes half-lidded. It's just not fair that Derek seems to be the only one swimming in emotion right now; that he's the only one feeling happily off balance. It's time to even the playing field a little. 

Slowly, Derek runs a fingertip along Stiles’ jaw; then down his neck, Stiles tilts his head back, expressive lips parting on a silent moan. “Because,” Derek starts, his voice low, rumbling. Stiles sucks a choked breath as Derek nips the lobe of his ear, pressing the pad of his thumb to Stiles plush bottom lip. “I don’t want the name my sisters call me falling from lips that’ll be wrapped so beautifully around my cock later.”

As he speaks, Derek slowly sinks his thumb into Stiles’ mouth, pressing down on his tongue and drawing a deep moan from the younger man. Stiles goes to close his mouth around Derek’s thumb, but no, Derek's not going to let him retake control. Even if he enjoys giving it up, this time Derek wants Stiles left blinking, craving, off-kilter. With a quick step back, Derek arches a brow. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, a satisfied smile stretching across his lips as Stiles slumps, his face incredulous.

“Coming?” Derek asks, stepping back out onto the dimly lit sidewalk.


“I thought we had a party to get to? One full of people who are all just waiting around to celebrate you, or… have your plans changed?”

“Wha..? Uh, y...yeah?” Stiles blinks like he’s having trouble connecting the dots. “The party…” He blinks again and then shakes his head, surging up off the wall, one hand dropping to his crotch, he adjusts himself as he points the other at Derek, “you play fucking dirty, Der-Bear.”

“Hey!” Derek grunts, smiling as Stiles sidles up to his side. He drapes an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him in to drop a kiss on his temple. “Don’t push your luck, the fact that your sexy will only get you so far.”

“Oh, Der-Bear. I am so good at pushing buttons though,” Stiles says as he circles his arm around the Derek’s hips. “Wait, you think I’m sexy?”

“I’m pretty sure that was obvious, but just in case. Yes. I do.”

There is music pumping out of the brick two-story pub. The building, large as it is, is barely containing the team. It's a wave of bodies, laughing, dancing, the second-floor balcony is crowded with players and friends alike. Someone up on the balcony hoots, waving down at them, calling out their last names and that triggers a raucous cheer to erupts from inside the building. It's a hero's welcome and beside him, Stiles steps falter. He's looking up at the balcony eyes wide and shimmering as a group of linemen calls his name, the banner he and Sam made- now taped up the middle where it was apparently ripped in half- is hanging proudly on display.

"Wow" Stiles breathes, his arm tightening around the small of Derek's back. Derek presses a kiss to his temple, and the balcony erupts again, showers of beer cascade around them as they get good-humoredly catcalled. 

“About time!” Lydia says, she’s standing outside the bar tapping her toe. Her eyes drag over them both and Derek fights the compulsion to stand up straighter and fix his hair. “Well,” She sniffs, “I really can’t blame you. At least you attempted to clean yourselves up.”

“Don’t be jealous that I’m finally getting some, Lyds.”

“Derek!” Cora comes flying out of the bar, crashing into his chest a wicked smile on her face. “We’ve got a flip cup team going. Team’s of four, you’re on mine. Come on, Come on!”

“Stiles, you’re with me, Erica and Scott,” Lydia says as Derek sets his sister aside. Cora flips her hair and meets Lydia's eye, and Derek is positive that the look holds for a second too long and in that very moment he decides that their meeting is either very good or very, very bad.

“Oh, hells yes!" Stiles fist pumps, slipping out from under Derek's arm and turning a blinding smile on him. "Be prepared to drown in your own booze flavored tears!” he shouts, skipping up the front steps and into the bar.

“You better bring it, Stilinski!” Cora jeers, smirking, even as she slows her stride to fall in step with Lydia. She introduces herself and the thoughtful tone Lydia gives her name almost has Derek turning to look at them. Whatever is happening there, he doesn't want to get involved in. He'll leave that to Laura and the inevitable teasing. Derek smiles, maybe he'll have some ammo to fire back at his sisters for once.  

The bar does in fact erupt when Derek and Stiles push through the front door. Stiles beams like he’s never been the center of attention like this in his life. Like he’s some kind of celebrity, and, Derek guesses, tonight he is. 

People push and pull one another to get close to him. They slap his back, congratulate him on his debut, offer to buy him drinks and try to engage him in detailed breakdowns of the quarters. Stiles laughs and smiles and floats through the crowded room with ease. They fight for his attention, and there’s a small spike of something in Derek’s chest. A strange emotion sneaking in amongst the warmth and joy. 

Jealousy, maybe? He frowns at the feeling until Stiles looks over his shoulder and smiles at him, his whole face lighting up and then Derek feels like he’s the center of Stiles’ world.

Stiles brushes off who he’s talking to and slips his hand into Derek’s, his smile spreading as Derek leans down to press a kiss to his lips. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” Derek asks.

“It’s better,” Stiles says, smile small and private, and Derek really wishes they weren’t in a room full of people right now.

“There you are!” Isaac calls, waving his arms above his head, like he isn’t one of the tallest people in the room. He’s standing on the long side of a table laden down with pitchers of beer and red solo-cups. Next to him, Boyd stands with a Golden Bears baseball cap twisted around backward on his head, a rare full smile splitting his lips as he talks to Scott and Erica, who are standing on the opposite side of the table.

“Ok!” Erica says, slamming her hand down on the table when everyone has taken their positions. “Here’s how it works, we’re playing Flip Cup Survivor Relay Race!” her eyes shimmer, cat like as she looks around at the player.

At her announcement Stiles erupts with a cheer, clapping his hands and rubbing his palms together. He and Scott high five before he turns those liquid amber eyes on Derek. The challenge held in their deps makes Derek’s gut twist with excitement. This is a test, he can tell by how seamlessly Stiles’ team moves, rearranging the order they are standing in that this is their drinking game of choice, old pro’s. Well, Derek’s team isn’t coming into this blind, even though his and Boyd’s game is usually Beer Pong, Cora and Isaac currently hold the Hale Family 4th of July Flip-Cup championship title.

Not one to be put out by a little competition, Derek glances down at his team, Boyd is stoiac as ever, but Isaac and Cora are glaring daggers at their opponents. They look determined. This is going to be good. Cora drags her eyes away from Lydia, who seems to be preening under the attention, and holds her fist up. Derek bumps the back of his hand against the back of hers, and they nod once at one another before turning back to Erica.

“Drink your beer, place your cup down on the edge of the table and try to flip it onto its rim. The person next to you can’t touch their cup until yours is flipped. The last team to flip their cups has to vote a player off but still flip the same number of cups.” She takes a moment to meet the eyes of everyone at the table.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Cora says, crossing her arms, her leather jacket creaking. Erica turns to her brows lifted. “When are you gonna shut up so we can play?”


“Oh Snap”


“Oh my god, Cora.”

“I think im in love.”

“You are not in love with my little sister, Isaac.”

"Get in line, Lahey," 

“I’m going to make you eat your words little girl.” Erica laughs.

“Bring it!” Cora says leaning towards her cup.

“Three, two, one, FLIP!”

Chapter Text

Stiles’ back slams into the door of Derek’s loft. He swallows the beer scented grunt that makes it past Stiles’ lips with another kiss. His apartment is in a much nicer part of town than Stiles’ and, as a bonus, it’s within walking distance from the bar. Not that any of that matters right now because Derek has an arm full of hot, writhing male, and he’s not about to let that go to waste.

At some point, between staggering back from the after party and getting in the elevator, Stiles had gone on the aggressive as only a person who’s gotten all of their sexual knowledge from porn can.

He jumped Derek.

One second they’re standing, swaying, next to one another looking up at the little numbers as they climb higher, and higher; and the next second Derek is stumbling back against the metal wall, his hands glued to Stiles’ ass as Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s hips.

Stiles clings like a drunk koala. Though, with more tongue, and less grace. He wraps his long limbs around Derek, and he’s gone. His cock thickening at an alarming rate.

Derek presses back, sucking kisses along Stiles’ jaw and scrambling to make sure he doesn't drop Stiles on his ass. The walk to Derek’s apartment door is quick, and Stiles writhes against Derek, moaning about how hot it is that Derek can carry him with ease. He nips hotly at Derek’s ear, his ass flexing in Derek’s palms until he pins Stiles’ back against his front door.

“Derek. Derek, fuck yes.” Stiles' arms tense where they’re wrapped around Derek’s neck. His biceps are jumping with strain as he rolls his hips, pressing his erection against Derek's stomach. “I’m going to come so hard. You’re going to fuck me in that big, giant bed, and I’m going to come all over us.”

The whine that leaves Derek’s throat has Stiles chuckling. Leaning in and kissing him breathy and wet, all tongue and teeth and soft plush lips. Derek struggles to get his keys out of his pocket, an aroused urgency making his hands clumsy.

“You’re so hot. Ohmygod , how are you so hot?” Stiles yelps as Derek shifts him, bracing his ass with one arm and freeing up his other to dig out his keys.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Derek grunts and Stiles laughs, squeezing Derek’s hips with his thighs. The action pulls a groan from Derek’s lungs, as their bodies press tightly together. His cock throbs and Stiles smiles wickedly.

“That party was amazing,” Stiles breathes in between peppering Derek’s neck with kisses. “You’re amazing; I love football! I love beer! I love flip-cup! I lov– How… how is this my life?” Stiles grins, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright. Derek surges in and kisses him until they are both breathless, noses brushing gently when they pull back.

“And you.” Stiles’ lashes flutter as he leans in, running his nose softly along Derek’s jaw and sighing his next words softly into his ear, “I’m so glad it’s you, Derek. We are going to fuck so hard. I can’t believe I get to fuck you, or you’re going to fuck me… we’re going to fuck, oh shit…”

Derek fumbles his keys, and Stiles leans in to bite at the curve of Derek’s shoulder, his long fingers trace up the back of Derek’s neck, tickling through his hair.

“Waffles or pancakes?” Derek asks, catching Stiles off guard so much he pulls that sinful mouth from Derek’s skin, and he’s finally able to force the key into the lock.

“What?” Stiles blinks, leaning back from where he’s sucking what's sure to be a livid bruise behind Derek’s ear.

“Waffles or pancakes,” Derek says again, arching a brow, “so I know what to make you in the morning,”

Stiles’ head thumps back hard against the door, the long line of his throat bobs as he swallows. He blinks up at the ceiling, a look of happy wonder spreading over his face. Derek’s just about to lean in and bite the soft flesh by his Adam’s apple when the door flys inward, sending him off balance. Derek lurches forward; toppling under their combined weight; Stiles yelps and they stumble into his entrance way.

It’s a scrape, but Derek manages to right them and not to drop Stiles in the process. He does knock over the small table by his front door and sends his bowl of change skittering across the hardwood. Stiles wraps around him, clinging with enough force to squeeze the air from Derek’s lungs.

“Pancakes, nephew. Always pancakes.”

“Peter?!” Stiles yelps, releasing his hold on Derek all at once and flinging himself away so quickly he slips on some of the change as he staggers upright. His hands fly to the front of his hoodie, yanking the fabric down, not that it’s going to do much to hide his erection.

“Stiles. A pleasure, as always.”

“What are you doing here?” Derek gapes, reaching out and pulling Stiles behind him. Stiles drops his head between Derek’s shoulder blades and lets out a choked laugh.

“I’m going to be a virgin forever…” Stiles breathes, just loud enough that Derek almost misses it. Unfortunately, it seems it’s just loud enough that one of Peter’s eyebrows twitches, the ghost of a smirk tilting his lips. Derek grits down, jaw flexing.

Peter's wearing in a pair of Derek’s sweatpants, and a snug fitting t-shirt, the university logo is inked down his right leg. They’re a little too big for him and hang far too loosely along his hips. It’s obvious his uncle isn’t wearing anything under them. Derek decides he’s going to burn them. Just because he goes commando in his sweats doesn’t mean that his uncle can. Snapping his gaze up, Derek frowns. Peter has his brows raised and is actively trying to get a glimpse at Stiles over Derek’s shoulder.

“What are you doing here?!” Derek enunciates slowly through his teeth.

Peter sucks a breath, dragging his eyes lazily from Stiles to Derek. “Oh, nephew, I fully understand how disappointed you must be at having me here.” He smirks, stepping back and motioning for Derek to come into his own apartment. “Unfortunately, there was a mix up with the reservations…”

“You could’ve stayed with mom.”

“With your mother?” Peter chuckles as Derek steps past him, Stiles scuttling around his other side, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He’s taking long, slow breaths; his face adorably pinched in concentration. “No, I don’t believe I would do that to myself. You know how she and Evan get.”

Derek is well aware of his parents’… healthy marriage. He grimaces, and that gives Peter the opportunity to clap him, commiseratingly, on the shoulder. It has never been said that the Hales aren’t a voracious bunch, open and unashamed at how deeply they love, and–previous to this moment–Derek had always hoped to have the kind of relationship his parents do. Now though, it’s just getting in his way.

“Since we’re doing breakfast tomorrow anyway...” Peter goes on, bare feet slapping against the floor as he moves towards the corner of the loft Derek's dedicated to being his living room.

“No, no, no…” Derek grunts chasing after him.

“Nephew, be reasonable.” Peter stops and turns to face Derek again, grinning his puppy-dog grin. It’s the one Derek’s watched his mother and countless others weaken to over the years. It’s tempting, Peter's got the look down to an art, with big blue eyes and a small pout. “Where am I to go? It’s only another handful of hours until brunch, surely you can't...”

Stiles clears his throat, and both men look at him. He straightens under their gazes and Derek’s heart flutters. There’s steel in his eyes, and his shoulders are set for battle. Internally, Derek smiles.

“It’s really nice to have you here, um, Peter,” Stiles says, a dark blush rushing up his neck and painting his cheeks. His fingers pluck absently at the hem of his hoodie, and Derek’s not sure what he’s up to, but whatever it is, it’s devious enough to already be embarrassing him.

“Thank you, Stiles,” Peter rumbles softly, but Stiles barrels right over him.

“However, I think that you will find Vernon Boyd’s apartment is empty tonight…” He pulls a string of keys out of his pocket and plucks one off of it, holding it out. Stunned, Peter reflexively takes the key. Derek bites his tongue, trying not to laugh at the shocked expression on his uncle's face.

“You can’t be serious,” Peter laughs, looking to Derek who shrugs, a smile lifting his lips.

“I can promise you that I am very serious.” Stiles meets Peter’s gaze and then fluidly pulls his hoodie and shirt over his head, dropping both articles on the floor.

His chest is flushed over his usually pale flesh, his nipples hard, and his skin pebbles deliciously in the cool air of the loft. Derek’s mouth floods with saliva. “I’m going to take a shower, uh, we’re going to take a shower,” Stiles says, hands going to his belt and flicking it open, his determined eyes never leaving Peter’s. “And if you’re still here when we’re out… Well, that’s a personal decision I’m not sure I’m prepared to explore at this time.” Stiles nods at Derek and then with a quick glance around the loft, walks directly between Derek and Peter as he makes for one of the two doors down the short hallway.

“Well…” Peter blinks at Derek, holding the key back out to him. “I like him, he’s feisty and brave, and he blushes so pretty but–”

“Boyd’s address is written on the whiteboard hanging over my desk.” Derek gestures with his chin towards the solid oak desk pushed up along the bay of windows on the other side of his bed. “Have a good night, Uncle.”

“Excuse me?” Peter stammers, huffing out a disbelieving breath. When Derek ignores him in favor of stripping off his jacket and tossing it in the general direction of the coat rack by his door. Peter calls, “Derek!”

His shirt is next, his steps quickening as the sound of his shower clicking on meets his ears. A grin splitting his face, a giddy feeling spurring him forward, Derek gives his uncle his back, reaching out for the bathroom door handle.

“Derek Hale!”

“Goodnight, Peter,” Derek calls over his shoulder, slipping the bathroom door closed behind him.

“Oh my god!” Stiles squeals under his breath, hands pulling at his hair. He’s standing in just his boxers and socks, pants in a heap on Derek’s pile of dirty clothes. They look good there, mixed in with his own laundry. “What did I just do! Derek!? Why did you let me do that?! How am I supposed to look any of your family in the eye tomorrow? I must be crazy, Derek! Derek! You need to talk me out of these things; you can’t just let me do stuff!”

With an elated laugh, Derek scoops Stiles up, pressing a kiss to his mouth and quietly hushing him. “Shh, listen…”

Stiles blinks, tilting his head and Derek watches him watch the bathroom door. With a dull curse and a hard slam, the sound of the front door closing shakes the walls of his apartment.

“Ohmygod... ” Stiles breathes, his face splitting into a huge disbelieving grin. His hands come up and cup Derek’s jaw, a laugh spilling from his mouth before he’s pressing it desperately against Derek’s. “Oh my god, it worked. He left. OH MY GOD, he left! Oh, fuck... oh fuck. We’re gonna fuck… Derek. Oh shit , your whole family is going to know we kicked your Uncle out so we could fuck.”

“Yes, yes they are.” Derek laughs, curling around Stiles and pressing kisses over his cheeks and forehead, down his nose until he captures his lips. Stiles melts against Derek, his body going soft and smooth in the curl of Derek’s arms. The kiss is a slow drag of lips and tongue, both of them trying to calm their rabbiting hearts; stealing just a moment in the humid quiet of the bathroom.

“Do you actually want a shower?” Derek asks when he finally pulls back enough to rest his forehead against Stiles’. “Or was that just for Peter?”

Stiles breath is warm over Derek’s lips when he puffs a laugh. “No, I think a shower would be perfect right now. I’m not much for smelling like stale beer and having sticky fingers when I finally get all up on this.” He runs his hands down Derek’s back and squeezes his ass through his jeans.

“Suit yourself; I’m just going to make a sticky mess of you all over again before the night is out,” Derek promises darkly, and Stiles bites his bottom lip, rolling his eyes.

“That is both really ridiculous and totally, stupidly, hot,” he says, stepping back a fraction and pushing his boxers off, he stumbles to toe out of his socks, his dick hard and flopping against his thighs with the motion. Derek struggles to look away from the sight of him, all lean muscle and dark curling hair.

The sound of the curtain pulling back makes Derek look away from Stiles’ flushed dick and to his face. He can feel the heat of his embarrassment scorch up his cheeks as Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I am not even going to ask if you see something you like, because I know you do. So why don’t you save me the trouble, and take your pants off already. My back is not going to wash itself.”

Derek blinks as Stiles vanishes behind the curtain again and it’s a heartstopping moment before his brain picks up on what Stiles is saying. He almost faceplants into the wall trying to pull his pants off and steps over the rim of the tub at the same time. When he finally gets inside, Stiles is leaning casually against the wall, just waiting for him. One sudsy hand sliding slowly over the length of his dick, the other rubbing froth up his chest.

Shit ,” Derek breathes, stepping through the spray to cage Stiles against the cool tile with his forearms. Stiles tilts his head, eyes closing, lips parting, and Derek doesn't waste a moment; capturing his lips and groaning as Stiles presses forward, their bodies sliding slickly together.

“I’m not going to last,” Stiles whimpers against Derek’s mouth when Derek finally gets a hand between them and curls his fingers around Stiles’ cock. His hips punch up, and he whimpers, his long, agile fingers squeezing Derek’s bicep.

“This isn’t a one-time thing, baby,” Derek says between kisses, his heart thumping heavily at the way Stiles sucks a little gasp at the endearment. “I plan on bringing you to the edge all night long.”

“Fuck–fucking get started then,” Stiles stammers, leaning his shoulder back against the wall and pushing his hips up, forcing his cock to slide soapy and hot through Derek’s grasp.

He doesn't need to be told twice. Angling the spray to clean off the dick in his hands, Derek drops to his knees and swallows Stiles down in one fluid motion. Above him, Stiles bites out a shout, his hips flinching forward, and Derek lets him, encourages him to fuck into his mouth.

Cursing and whimpering, each heavy breath, each choked sound that leaks from his lips makes Derek ache, makes him crave to lay Stiles out and see what other sounds he’ll make. Stiles has a few false starts, until he finds a stilted rhythm, fucking in jerky motions into Derek’s mouth, along his tongue.

He’s obviously fighting his orgasm, if the way he pulls out until just the tip of his cock is snug between Derek’s lips and then slowly sinks back in, his entire shaft pulsing hard. His fingers squeeze Derek’s shoulders each time he bottoms out, like he needs the reassurance like he’s testing that Derek’s really there.

“I wanna taste you,” Derek says, his voice rough, pulling back and looking up at Stiles. His lips are parted, his mouth red and gaping, as he huffs each breath. Stiles licks those lips, a flash of his pink tongue as he nods like a bobblehead. Derek has to grip himself hard to stop the sudden rush of arousal that floods through him.

“Yes, fuck…yes.” Stiles’ hand cups the back of Derek’s head, guiding him towards the flushed crown of his cock. “Okay, yes…”

It doesn’t take long after that, and Derek finds himself standing quickly, the bright taste of Stiles’ orgasm on his tongue, as he supports the younger man, pressing him back up against the wall.

“Sorry, sorry…” Stiles breathes, eyes still closed, his head tipped back against the tile. He takes a slow fortifying breath and opens his eyes; they’re liquid warm, glowing like raw honey, and Derek isn’t even remotely embarrassed by the whine that slips past his lips when he surges in to kiss him.

“You…. You now,” Stiles says when they pull apart, his hand swiping through the water on Derek’s hip, seeking his almost painful erection.



That has Stiles blinking in confusion. “Not yet,” Derek clarifies, and Stiles grins almost darkly.

“It’s not about me,” Derek continues, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ lips, “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good.”

“Then please, don’t let me and my jelly legs stop you,” Stiles says, his thumb swiping gently back and forth over Derek’s hip.

“I think we’re clean enough,” Derek says, hands sliding down the toned muscles of Stiles’ back to cup his ass. The globes fit perfectly into his palms, just more than a handful each, and Derek bites his lip as he pulls them apart, squeezing them between his fingers. Stiles arches up onto his toes, his chest sliding along Derek’s as he sucks a sharp breath.

“This okay?” Derek asks pulling back enough to catch Stiles’ eye. “We could go the other way, if you’d like?”

“No!” Stiles chokes, eyes widening. “No, like this, please. This is exactly what I want.”

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Derek growls, swooping in and pressing a hard kiss to Stiles’ lips before shutting off the water.

“You keep saying that…” Stiles snarks over his shoulder as he steps out “...and one day I’m going to believe you.”

“Good,” Derek laughs, grabbing a towel and draping it over Stiles’ head, fluffing his hair dry. “You should because you are. So. Fucking. Sexy.”

Derek punctuates each word with a twist of the towel, forcing Stiles’ hair fluffier and fluffier. The mild embarrassment he feels at acting so silly is worth it to watch the blush rise over Stiles’ cheeks, tint the tips of his ears, cascade down his chest and across his broad shoulders.

“Dork.” Stiles rolls his eyes, whipping the towel off his head, and tossing it into Derek’s face, blinding him for the briefest moment. He’s laughing when the cold blast from the bathroom door opening hits him in his very hard, very sensitive dick. The sound chokes off in his throat, turning into a groan as Stiles’ bare feet slap across his floor towards the bedroom.

“You’d be feeling differently right now if you’d let me suck you off in the shower.” Stiles’ voice carries from the direction of Derek’s bed. Growling as he rips the towel from his head, he gives his body a cursory wipe before following the sound of Stiles’ voice.

He draws up short as he exits the bathroom, finding Stiles standing unabashedly nude, his skin glowing in the warm yellow light of Derek’s desk lamp. His attention is focused on the large bookshelf, stuffed to the brim, alongside Derek’s desk; those nimble fingers stroking down one binding and the next.

“You complete nerd,” Stiles says, his hands flit over the hand knitted black and yellow scarf Derek has on display next to his wand, and a small plush of a Niffler his sister got him when they went to see the movie together. He’s got all the books there too, collectors edition, of course. Plus the official movie guide and both the Tales of Beedle the Bard and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them . His copy of Quidditch Through the Ages is actually… not on the shelf…? He has no idea where he put it.

“You draw?” Stiles soft voice pulls Derek from his thoughts, and he flushes, rushing to stop Stiles before he can pluck the sketchbook from the shelf. He doesn't make it, his damp feet slipping on the floor and certainly not conducive for the burst of speed Derek tried to put on.

“Is… is this me?”

Derek watches in horror as Stiles flips from one page to the next, his mouth dropping open, brows lifting. “It is… It is me, isn’t it? I mean it’s kinda obvious… These are really good, Derek, Jesus, this one looks just like me… I remember this game.”

“It’s nothing.” Derek flushes, grabbing the book from Stiles’ hands and setting it down on his desk. He smooths his palms over the cover, chin tucked to his chest, embarrassment making his arousal fade.

“Hey,” Stiles says, stepping up behind Derek and wrapping his arms around him. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he goes on, his hands sliding down Derek’s abdomen, making his breath hitch, “but I can guarantee it’s wrong. Sometimes I can’t believe how amazing you are. And, so that you know, I’m totally not creeped out by your stalker crush on me. It’s super hot; you’re super hot and talented…. and good. Way too good.”

Stiles’ breath is hot on his neck as he hands dip lower to cup Derek’s erection, stroking up the softening length until Derek is rocking forward, heat infusing his limbs, a soft moan falling from his lips. His hands curl against the desk, pleasure suffusing him as Stiles finds that spot behind Derek’s ear, along the tendon of his neck, and bites.

“Fuck, fuck. Stiles…” Derek moans, rocking his hips back against Stiles’, pleased to find his cock pulsing, hardening for Derek again.

“Yes, let’s fuck Stiles,” he says, mirth underlying the heat in his tone; and Derek laughs, having his words, spoken so many weeks ago in the light of his dashboard after their first date, thrown back at him.

His heart aches, painfully full. The kind of pain that reminds you you’re alive in the best possible way. Like Stiles has reached into his chest and taken those beautiful fingers and curled them around Derek’s heart, holding it tightly, protecting it, pushing all the little, broken pieces back together. Stiles twists his wrist, dragging his palm over the head of Derek’s dick and all thoughts of his heart are pushed out of his mind by the sharp pleasure that curls at the base of his spine.

Turning in the cage of Stiles’ arms, Derek shivers, his hard cock slipping from Stiles’ grip to slide wetly against the coarse hair below his belly button. Stiles wiggles his hips, cause he’s a little shit and Derek bites his lip at the feeling of all that warm skin against his cock. “Get on the bed.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Stiles says all bluster and confidence, but Derek can tell by the way he hesitates at the foot of the bed, lifting his leg slowly and crawling up towards the pillows, that he’s just as nervous as Derek is.

He makes a pretty sight though, his back arched, hips rolling, that plump ass high on display as he moves up the bed. Derek grips the base of his dick, running his hand slowly up the underside, just watching, enjoying the way Stiles hesitates, goes to drop his shoulders to the mattress and then blushing when he glances back at Derek.

“How… how do you want me?” he asks, biting his bottom lip and Derek almost comes right then and there. Maybe he should have let Stiles suck him off in the shower.

“However you want,” he says stepping up to the side of the bed, gently running his fingers down Stiles’ spine. “Maybe… on your back? I’d like to see your face.”

Stiles whole body deflates, a smile tilting his lips as he flops over onto his back and stretches out languidly. “Like this?” he asks, his brows lifting as he wiggles on the sheets.

“Yeah, just like that,” Derek agrees. His fingers gently drift over Stiles’ collar bone down towards his nipple, a featherlight caress that has the younger man sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and stilling. Derek can feel the heavy thud of his heart as he traces a pointer finger around Stiles’ nipple before slowly trailing it lower. There’s a smattering of moles that cascade down Stiles’ ribs and Derek traces between them, completely blown away by the softness of his skin, the warmth he radiates and how he’s laid out just for Derek.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek says, and he means it, his stomach clenches and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. I love you , he thinks, his throat constricting, and he aches to say it, aches to breathe it into every inch of Stiles skin until he never doubts his appeal again. But Stiles would just laugh, blow it off like some cliche movie romance where the main character is consumed with finally getting inside their partner they can’t help but confess their ‘dick love.’ Dick love is exactly what Stiles would call his mid-sex-confession.

So he doesn't say anything. He resolves to hold this feeling inside of him. Contain the stretched out, too big ache in his chest, the heat and tension that makes his heart feel too big for his ribcage. He’ll hold it all inside until he can look Stiles in the eye and show him, without any doubt, just how much Derek loves him.

“Get over here,” Stiles whines, grabbing Derek’s wrist and pulling him onto the bed.

It is the most natural thing in the world to fall on top of Stiles, their limbs instinctively knowing where to go, how to fit together. There’s no awkward flailing — no accidental elbows. Stiles is soft and pliant and uncharacteristically still under him. He breathes slowly, his amber eyes half-lidded as he tilts his chin, and silently requests a kiss that Derek is all too happy to give.

They make out until Stiles begins to twitch and writhe, his manic energy returning. Derek kisses him until Stiles whimpers on every exhale, his fingers stroking down Derek’s spine, pressing into his skin with fervor.

“Please,” Stiles gasps pulling back, his lips swollen. “Please, Derek.”

Without waiting for Derek to respond, Stiles stretches, reaching for the nightstand and pulls open the drawer.

“What are you doing?” Derek chuckles, lifting his body enough that Stiles can slide up a bit and scramble in the drawer’s contents.

“You fucking,” Stiles huffs out a laugh, turning his eyes on Derek and holding up his batter copy of Quidditch Through the Ages . “God, I fucking…” Stiles doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he surges up and kisses Derek, hot and heavy, the sound of the book thumping to the floor barely registers and Stiles presses Derek’s bottle of lube against his chest.

“I need you to fuck me, please. I really, really need your fucking perfect, nerdy ass to be fucking me like, twenty-five minutes ago. So please, for the love of Dumbledore, and Draco Malfoy’s perfect hair, please fuck me.”

“Yeah, yes,” Derek agrees, rocking back to his knees. Stiles spreads his legs a little wider, his feet planted on either side of Derek’s legs, and leans back against the pillows. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to Draco’s hair.” Derek smiles as he pops the cap off the lube and slicks up his fingers.

“Shut up; you know your beautiful bi-heart had a crush on him, just like the rest of us,” Stiles counters, stretching out and putting his hands under his head. “This okay?”

“You’re perfect,” Derek confirms, nudging in closer and finally, finally slipping his fingers between Stiles’ cheeks. He stiffens, his breath coming in little nervous pants and Derek soothes a hand over his hip, sliding it down his thigh and lifting his leg to drape it over Derek’s shoulder.

“And, while I would never deny the appeal of Draco…” Derek says seriously, and Stiles laughs, his brows relaxing a bit as Derek talks. He swirls one finger gently over his rim, meets Stiles’ eyes and confesses: “I was a fan of Ron. He... he’s adorable.”

Stiles barks out a laugh that fades into a moan as Derek takes the momentary distraction to slide his finger into the hot, tight clutch of his body. His cock flexes between his legs, anticipation making him wet and eager.

“That...” Stiles tries, breathless and airy, “that explains so much.”

“Does it?” Derek breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, his mouth hanging open sucking in each breath as Stiles arches, hips rolling, pushing Derek’s finger deeper inside of him.

“Yeah,” he moans, “more,”

Derek complies, curling another finger next to the first, and when Stiles rolls his hips back, Derek sinks them both inside of him.

“Relax,” Derek manages, sweat dripping down the small of his back. Stiles’ body is hot, tight, and so inviting as he spreads easily under Derek's minstrations. It takes all of Derek’s control not the shove his fingers in deep and rough, not to seek out Stiles' prostate and rub that bundle of nerves until Stiles is a begging writhing mess. Slow , he reminds himself. Take it slow.

He presses a kiss to Stiles’ knee and thrusts his fingers a few times, watching the way Stiles’ mouth goes slack, his lips parted around a silent cry. Stiles’ dick twitches along his abdomen, filling out, until its hard and flush, leaving a wet little trail over his stomach as it stiffens.

“More, Derek, fuck! You’re not going to break me. Jesus–”

“Can you just… Can you let me be romantic?” Derek grunts, shifting forward, frowning at Stiles as he fidgets, biceps jumping as he clutches the pillow under his head.

“This is romantic? I feel like I'm going to die before I get your dick in me.” Stiles’ eyes go wide, and he gasps hard, his legs seize, and he looks up at Derek in shocked pleasure.

“There we go,” Derek smirks, finally finding that spot inside Stiles and stroking over it again.

“Ah, my god, yes fuck.” One of Stiles’ hands drops to his dick, and he pumps it, his ass clenching madly around Derek’s fingers. He pushes a third inside, spreading them ever so slightly until Stiles wheezes out a high pitched whine and clenches around him.

“I need…” Derek puffs out a breath; his dick is leaking freely between his legs, the crown tingling with how badly he needs to get inside Stiles.

“Yes. Please, yes.” Stiles scrambles, reaching for Derek with his free hand, curling the leg he has tossed over Derek’s shoulder to bring them together. “Please,” he hiccups against Derek’s lips, his lashes fluttering.

“Condom,” Derek says pressing a kiss to Stiles' lips.

“I... I’m clean, so clean,” Stiles says, meeting Derek’s eye, “I am the cleanest clean ever to be clean.”

“I’m clean,” Derek confirms, in a rush, his head spinning, he is so clean. He got tested after their first date. Got tested as soon as he could, didn’t want his previous relationships to risk anything with Stiles.

“Good, we are the cleanest couple about to have sex ever, so please, please, for fuck’s sake. Fuck me already; I don’t know if my poor virgin heart can take any more of this.” Stiles gestures to all of Derek, kneeling between his legs, cock hard, body sweating.

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“You are god-damn right I did,” Stiles says, flopping back against the pillows.

“You know,” Derek says, pulling his fingers slowly from Stiles’ body, enjoy the way his hips twitch. “I do take offense to you still claiming virginity. How many orgasms have I given you now?” he asks, slicking up his cock, before tossing the lube up over his shoulder.

“Not nearly enough,” Stiles breathes, eyes glued to Derek’s dick, tension is creeping into his frame, and though he tries to feign confidence, it’s easy for Derek to pick up on his nerves.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning forward and settling his elbows on either side of Stiles’ head. As much as he wants to watch his dick disappear into the other man, it’s not worth Stiles’ discomfort. “Look at me.”

Stiles takes a slow breath, lifting his legs and draping them over Derek’s calves. He slowly opens his eyes, and Derek traces a thumb over his cheekbone. “I got you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, lifting up to kiss him. Derek meets his lips as he reaches down to grips his dick. He presses forward slowly, his cock sliding along the soft skin below Stiles’ balls before nudging up against his opening.

“I got you, baby,” Derek says again, his other hand lacing into Stiles’ hair, he presses forward and Stiles gasps against his lips, stiffening, his body contracting and Derek drops his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck, fighting not to surge forward into the molten heat wrapped so tightly around his cock. Stiles’ hand's cup Derek’s back, fingers pressing, and then he relaxes, sighing softly against Derek’s ear.


Derek pushes in, pulling his hand away from himself and settling back onto his elbows, more than happy to comply. His breathing is labored, and Stiles strokes his fingers down Derek’s back.

“More,” he whimpers, his legs lifting to drape over Derek’s hips.

“I can’t just, one second,” Derek stutters, and Stiles grunts, his legs flex, and he pulls, forcing Derek in hard and fast. He chokes as he bottoms out, pleasure races up his spine and he grips Stiles hard by his hair, shoulder bunching, sucking air through his teeth.

“Fuck, fuck,” Derek grunts.

“Ow, yeah, okay,” Stiles tries but Derek gasps, squeezing him with his elbows, his fingers knotting in Stiles’ soft hair.

“Please, please don’t move.”

“I told you to let me blow you in the shower.”

“God, I know, okay!”

Stiles chuckles, his face breaking into a grin as his body relaxes, pulsing with each laugh, and it drives Derek mad. “God. Fuck, I can feel that. I–I,” Derek pulls back and surges forward. They both moan.

“Oh god, yes,” Stiles pants, licking his lips and glancing up at Derek. “If you make me say more one more time, I swear to god I’m going to tie you down and take what I want.”

Derek can’t help it, the thought of being restrained and having Stiles riding him makes his dick flex hard. Stiles hisses, his eyes fluttering closed his hands convulsing on Derek’s shoulders.

“Okay, we are totally coming back to that later,” Stiles gasps out and Derek groans.

“Shut up, Stiles,”

“So romantic…”

“I’ll show you romantic…” Derek grits out, tipping back until he’s on his knees, dragging Stiles along with him. He tugs Stiles’ hand from his dick and holds his wrists down to the bed. With a fluid roll of his hips, Derek pulls out and slams back in again, satisfied to watch Stiles’ eyes roll back, his mouth fall open as he arches his neck in pleasure.

It’s fast and hard after that. Stiles sings, his voice going hoarse as Derek pounds the sounds out of him. It’s beautiful and hot, and exactly like Stiles; Derek’s not sure why he tried to make it something else. Stiles is a live wire under him. Each roll of his hips, every time he bites his lip and reaches over his head to get leverage off the headboard, pushing down to meet each one of Derek’s thrusts, every touch lights Derek up, makes him vibrate with need and pleasure. He feels too big for his skin, unable to focus on anything but moving, driving them together. Overridden with sensation, of sweat-slick skin and Stiles’ luscious mouth, a deliciously red beacon for Derek’s kisses.

Stiles begs with round eyes to touch his dick, his hand flexing under Derek’s palm, the other tossed high above his head, his tricep straining with the effort of keeping him from being mashed up against the headboard.

“No,” Derek manages, releasing Stiles’ wrist and grabbing his hard, leaking dick. “I'm being romantic…” Derek huffs. Pleasure, molten hot, solar bright, builds at the base of his cock. He’s close, so close, but he won’t go off until Stiles comes, just one more time.

“Please, please,” Stiles babbles, his cheeks flushed, his head tossing back against the pillows. He tries to punch his hips up, but Derek holds him steady. “You’re the most romantic ever. I promise. I am so romanced, the most romanced, please. Please let me come.”

“Yeah. Yeah, baby. Come for me,” Derek breathes, and he’s surprised neither of them laughs with how cheesy it is, but it feels right, and Stiles moans low and long as Derek strokes his cock in time with his thrusts.

Between one second and the next, one thrust and the next, Stiles is coming. His body locking up, contracting around Derek so he can only slide home and try not to lose his mind as Stiles falls apart.

A surprisingly quiet sob and clinging fingers preludes Stiles trembling through his orgasm. It’s beautiful in the way it takes him over; his skin flushes warmly as his cock pulses over Derek’s fingers. The vice-like grip of his ass catapults Derek over the edge. Each wet pulse of Stiles’ body around him makes him jolt with almost painful pleasure, until he can’t control it anymore; until he’s cursing and thrusting erratically and tumbling over the edge, gasping into Stiles’ mouth as he tries to kiss him but just ends up breathing against his parted lips.

It takes far longer than Derek will ever admit for him to get his shit together and lift his torso off Stiles’. He’s clinging to the younger man, wrapped around him like if he lets go Stiles will up and vanish before his very eyes.

“That was amazing,” Stiles finally says. He lifts a shaky hand and runs his fingers up Derek’s neck and into his hair. “That was perfect. Shit.” Stiles’ hand flops back to the mattress, and he sighs, sinking into the bedding with a content little smile on his face.

“Yeah?” Derek can’t help but ask, dropping a few soft kisses along Stiles’ jaw.

“Totally.” Stiles yawns, smacking his lips, and absently running his fingers up and down Derek’s ribs. “So, so worth it.”

“Worth what?” Derek asks quietly, carefully pulling back and his softening dick sliding from Stiles body makes them both groan.

“The wait,” Stiles says, pulling a pillow over towards him, “waiting for you…”

His eyes slip closed, and he smiles, snuggling into Derek’s pillow, pressing sleepy little kisses to the fabric as he drifts off. That painful tightness in his chest returns as he watches Stiles, his chest rising and falling slowly, come spattered across his abdomen, dripping from between his cheeks; yet so unabashedly adorable as he falls asleep, uncaring to his physical state.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

The thought repeats over and over again as Derek leverages himself out of bed and pads over to the bathroom. He returns with a warm washcloth to find Stiles rolled over on his stomach, legs spread akimbo, snoring softly. Carefully, Derek cleans up the mess on Stiles’ backside, spreading his cheeks to ensure his entrance is clean and the skin is unbroken before he gently rolls him over and cleans up the now smeared mess from his stomach.

The sheet is ruined, so Derek peels it from under Stiles’ hips and tosses it to the floor before climbing into the bed behind him and dragging the comforter up from the foot of the bed to drape over them.

Snuggling up against Stiles feels like the most natural thing in the world. The weight of him between Derek’s arms, the way his feet slide back to tangle with Derek’s. Stiles yawns, fidgeting until his head is resting on Derek’s bicep, he sighs, and Derek smiles, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

“I love you,” Derek whispers against his soft, warm skin and Stiles hums quietly in his sleep.

Chapter Text

Normally, Derek is a morning person. He likes to get up early, go for a run, maybe some calisthenics; check his email, and the latest from College Football News, before jumping in the shower and getting some food.

He doesn’t do coffee, but he’d never turn down a nice hot cup of tea, sipped silently while standing at his kitchenette sink and watching the sun rises over the city. It’s more of a ritual than a routine. Sets him up to have the right kind of day. Usually .

This morning, however, Derek has absolutely no desire to pull himself from the cozy confines of his bed. This morning, there’s a warm body pressed up against his chest, feet tangled between his, and a kissable mouth quietly drooling into his armpit.

Huffing a soft laugh, Derek drops a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head. He could get used to this; lazily mornings spent in bed with the man he loves, wrapped up together, warm and content.

With a softly pleased hum, Derek snuggles down into his pillows, pulling Stiles close. He’s just drifting back into a light doze when reality smacks him in the face. Did Peter say something about breakfast… brunch? What time is it? Did he dream that, no he couldn’t have. Where's his phone? Oh, shit.

Surging upright, Derek dislodges Stiles, who flails and squawks, blinking owlishly at him as Derek tumbles from the bed, tripping over the blankets when they tangle up his feet. It’s a dangerous few seconds of butt-ass-naked stumbling before he’s free and running for the bathroom.

“That…. that’s kinda closer to what I expected my partner to do the morning after…” he hears Stiles grumble, his bed creaking preludes the sound of Stiles’ feet smacking against the hardwood.

“Shut up you idiot,” Derek grumbles, but there’s no heat in his tone. He’s far too distracted digging through the pile of clothes in the bathroom. Finding his jeans, he digs through his pocket for his cellphone, dread unfurling like a poisonous flower in his stomach.

“No, no, no….” Derek groans flipping open his text messages.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks and for a moment Derek’s distracted, forgetting the rather pressing issue at hand because Stiles is wearing one of his old Berkely football t-shirts; the one with the rip in the collar, and it’s far too big on him. It’s big on Derek because he wore it for a charity flag football game and needless to say, even when it’s for charity, his team plays to win. So it’s badly stretched out.

Badly being a relative term, because the way it hangs on Stiles’ lithe frame, just long enough to cover his junk and flutter around his hips when he moves, well, it makes Derek’s mouth water.

“My eyes are up here, Der-Bear,” Stiles says with a smirk, crossing his arms. The motion makes the hem of his borrowed shirt ride just a smidge higher.

Derek groans at the same time he says “Don’t call me that,” the familiar sentiment makes his brain kick back on halfway through the sentence and he flails snapping down and grabbing his jeans.  “Get dressed, get dressed!”

“What? Why!?” Stiles asks, even as he jumps into motion–god love him–grabbing at the laundry pile with the same fervor as Derek, then hopping and stumbling into his jeans.

“Brunch, breakfast….My family…” Derek’s barely making sense, but Stiles seems to understand. His eyes widen, and he curses.

“That… that's real? That’s a thing that’s happening? I thought Peter was just... kidding ?”

“Kidding? No. Peter never jokes about breakfast.” Derek stops abruptly at his front door and Stiles barrels right into him. They fumble around getting their shoes on, and then Derek’s pulling Stiles’ hoodie from his t-shirt where it was abandoned on the floor last night, and tossing the faded red zip up to him. Stiles grabs Derek’s leather jacket, handing it off, and they’re out the door.

“Where are we meeting them?” Stiles asks, as he stumbles down two steps, catches himself on the railing, and continues after Derek without missing a beat. “How late are we? Fuck. Fuck, we’re about to do a walk of shame into a restaurant full of your family. Which includes your Uncle, who we kicked out to have virgin sacrifice sex.”

Punching out of his building and blinking in the early morning sunlight, Derek pulls up short, his eyes wide when he spins around to look at Stiles. “Virgin sacrifice sex?”

Stiles grins, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. He’s still wearing Derek’s shirt, the collar stretched out and showing off a livid series of purpling bite marks along his neck and shoulder. His hair is sticking up like he’s been electrocuted, or thoroughly fucked. And at that moment, nothing else matters.

This beautiful man is standing here beside Derek, flushed with adrenaline and covered in marks of their lovemaking, and it's perfect. He’s perfect. He’s everything Derek ever wanted, ever needed. Derek grins at him, stepping in close and slipping a hand around his waist. Stiles arches towards him and Derek lean down to capture his lips, reveling in the way Stiles’ sucks a breath in through his nose and laces his fingers through Derek’s hair. Their bodies press together and just as Derek nips at Stiles’ bottom lip his phone buzzes in his palm.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Derek curses, grabbing Stiles wrist and dragging him down the street. The restaurant isn’t far, but they are late. Stiles laughs as he twists his wrist until their hand's lace together. He’s sweet about it when he catches up to Derek, running beside him instead of outpacing him like he so easily could. Stiles is fast and agile, and Derek loves to watch him run, but they don’t have time for that right now.

“I just want to remind you,” Stiles says, not even remotely out of breath when Derek pulls up short in front of the restaurant. “That we have lunch with my Dad and Melissa, and most likely Scott and Lydia at 1 PM today.”

“Fuck,” Derek curses, running his fingers through his hair trying to tame the flyaway locks. It doesn’t help if his reflection in the window is anything to go by.

“I hope you’re hungry.” Stiles bounces his eyebrows and Derek’s not sure if they are talking about food anymore. Cause hell yes, he’s definitely hungry for what Stiles is offering. He should have texted his family that he wasn’t going to make it and just stayed wrapped up in bed with Stiles all day long.

Rolling his eyes, Derek drops a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and again his phone buzzes in his hand.

Peter: I can see you making out through the window. Do you have no control, nephew? I honestly can’t blame you, but really... get it together. Your mother won't let us eat until you’re here.

Heat burns its way up Derek’s face. He clicks away from the message and glances around, catching Peter’s unimpressed gaze through the window. Gritting his teeth, Derek grabs Stiles hand again, pulling him into the early afternoon brunch buzz.

“Ah, there you are. We were beginning to worry,” Talia says, rising to her feet as soon as Derek is within sight. Her kind smile flickers as she takes in their appearance. “Peter did tell you we were meeting for breakfast, didn’t he?” Her gaze narrows and slides to her brother.

“Of course I did,” Peter says with a slow grin, his eyes locked on Derek.

“He did,” Derek jumps in before Peter can say anything else and then quickly busies himself by pulling out Stiles’ chair and guiding him to sit before sitting himself. He searches around for the menu before noticing that the food is currently being served.

“You alright, dear?” Talia asks, retaking her seat, her eyes flicking over both of their haggard appearances. Derek clears his throat and smiles.

“Of course,” a plate is placed down in front of him, stacked high with pancakes, a matching one set in front of Stiles, he gets chocolate chip though. “T… thank you.” Derek stammers blinking at the server.

“Oh, heck yes,” Stiles groans cutting a huge chuck and shoving it into his mouth. His eyelids flutter, and he slumps into his chair as he chews. “Totally right,” he sighs after a moment, glancing at Peter. “Pancakes, always pancakes.”

Peter leans forward, grinning devilishly, and Stiles shoves another bite into his mouth humming happily. “Good huh?” Peter asks, and Stiles nods, “Nothing like a little carb loading after some... strenuous activity.”

Derek chokes on his orange juice, and Stiles’ head snaps up so fast he spills syrup all over the table. Of course, it’s that moment Laura decides to start paying attention. Her eyes narrow and Derek’s brain utterly fails him at supplying any topic with which to distract his family.

“Stiles,” Laura purrs, lifting her coffee cup and grinning over the edge. “Is that my brother's shirt?”

No respect. Derek gets absolutely no respect in his family. Stiles, to his credit, looks unfazed. He glances down at his shirt and looks momentarily confused, blinking a few times before shoving more pancake in his mouth.

“Er…” he says, not inelegantly, “I guess? I mean, yeah.”

He goes right back to eating his breakfast, and it takes the wind out of Laura's sails. Internally Derek beams, externally he grins down at his breakfast. Not to be dissuaded Laura glances at Peter and tries again.

“How was the after party?” She starts sweetly, primly cutting into her eggs benedict, “Must have been quite the time. Hopefully, those bruises are from the game and not drunken escapades.”

This time Stiles pauses mid-bite, goopy pancakes hanging dangerously from the edge of his fork, and Derek can feel the tension rolling off of him. Laura grins like the cat that caught the canary, and if they could, he’s sure she and Peter would high-five. For some unknown, god-awful reason, they seem to get most of their enjoyment out of humiliating Derek.

Stiles glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye, brows raised in an obvious help me expression and then shoves the entire forkful of pancake into his mouth, He bulges out his cheeks and motions to his stuffed mouth as an excuse as to why he can’t answer.

Derek is useless and floundering quietly inside his mind, eyes locked on Stiles’ profile and the reddish-purple mark just visible above the curve of his hood. They didn’t have time this morning, for anything. Not to dress properly, or shower, or fully examine the damage Derek’s mouth had done to Stiles soft, pale, markable skin. Stiles' eyes skitter to him, wide with panic and he rolls his shoulder pulling gently on the edge of his hoodie, bringing it up in the least subtle way possible. It doesn’t help though because Derek’s mother gasps audibly.

“Oh, my god sweetheart,” Talia says leaning forward and tugging on Stiles’ collar. “What happened to you?”

“Dear..” Derek’s dad interrupts, shifting in his seat and gently pulling Talia's hand back. The entire table, and by the table, Derek means Laura, Peter, and Cora, erupt into choked laughter. Stiles’ face flames red and he tucks his chin towards his chest, Talia glances around her concerned confusion melting into a sly grin.

“Oh,” she says knowingly, and Derek wishes that the ground would open up and swallow the entire restaurant. No, maybe just his chair. Yeah, just swallow him whole, so he doesn’t have to think of something to say that would deflect his family from thinking about him and Stiles having… sex.

“Pancakes…” his mother grins at Peter, and then with pursed lips says to Derek, “I certainly hope you earned those,”

Laura cackles out loud tossing her head back and Cora curls over the table slapping her hand down hard and making the water classes bounce dangerously.

“Sweetheart,” Evan scolds his wife good-naturedly, before leaning over and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Sex is not a taboo topic, not for his family anyway, but after his unfortunate history with relationships, it's become a bit of a sore point for Derek.

“Well,” Peter interjects, wiping his mouth, “I’d just like to say Boyd keeps a very neat apartment, for a college kid.”

“How would you know?” Cora catches her breath enough to gasp out, staring down the table at Peter.

This time it’s his parents turn to look uncomfortable. “There may have been a mix up with the hotel reservation….” his mother beings, her focus entirely on her meal and not the gaping faces of her daughters.

At the same time, his dad says, “Your mother had three glasses of red wine.” To which Talia smacks him on the shoulder. “Wine always makes you frisky, love,” he purrs pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Really…” Talia sighs with feigned exasperation, looking adoringly at her husband.

“So,” Peter interjects abruptly, “I was unceremoniously kicked out of two places last night. Talk about feeling unwanted.”

“Two places?” Laura asks glancings between Derek and Peter. Derek tries and fails to keep the tightness out of his expression, doing his best to avoid Laura's keen eye. “Oh, my god! Peter, you did not go to Derek’s apartment, did you? Honestly, you couldn’t have thought that was going to work out!”

Cora is cackling again, even his dad is laughing, and Peter huffs loudly tossing his napkin down and waving the waiter over to refill his Bloody Mary. “It was the only place I had a key for,”

“So... what?” Cora smirks, “These two show up and, surprise there’s Uncle Peter, lounging in the living room probably wearing ‘borrowed’ pajamas.”

Derek’s brows raise, and Cora hones in on his reaction. “Oh man, this is just too good.” Cora bumps her shoulder into Laura who smirks at Peter.

“Traitor,” Peter narrows his gaze at her and Laura shrugs.

“Just cause you’re not getting any doesn’t mean everyone else should have to suffer too….”

“Laura!” his mother sighs fondly.

“Such hurtful words, niece.” Peter says, draping his hand over his chest, “You’re no longer my favorite.”

“No, wait. Let’s go back.” Cora interrupts, her expression ecstatic, “So there you are, drunk, cause I saw you leave the party…”

“No you didn’t,” Derek finally pries his lips apart to fight his way into the conversation, but Cora steamrolls right over him.

“And then, boom! There’s Peter,”

“Uncle Peter,” he interjects like it’s a compulsion at this point.

“And Derek does what? Chases you out? I can’t imagine that working…”

“Actually, it was Stiles,” Peter says, sniffing dismissively, like admitting Stiles chased him out of Derek's apartment is something to be embarrassed about.

The entire table’s attention swings to Stiles, who calmly sets his knife and fork down on his empty plate. With a blink, Derek realizes he hasn’t even started his food and makes an abortive move to grab his utensils. Stiles carefully places his cellphone down on the table, the bright yellow and red case standing out against the soft cream linens, and reaches for his water glass with a casual calm that Derek wishes he could muster. With a small grin, meets Cora’s eye.

“Cora,” Stiles says smoothly, just as she goes to open her mouth again, her eyes flash with unbridled glee at catching them all with their figurative pants down.

“Stiles,” She purrs, leaning her elbow on the table so she can rest her chin on her hand.

“Lydia says to lose her number if you dare to come back to my apartment too late to bring her breakfast in bed.” He slowly takes a sip of his water and Derek is physically incapable of looking away as the smirk drops rapidly off Cora’s face. Her elbow slips off the edge of the table, and her hazel eyes flick quickly between their parents and Laura.

Like the harpy she is, Laura jumps all over the opening. “Lydia? Lydia, the older redhead, Lydia?”

“We’re not talking about this,” Cora says, suddenly very interested in pushing melon rinds around her plate.

“Lydia, as in a girl? ” Talia says her eyes comically wide. She drapes her hand dramatically across her forehead before tipping over to collapse against Evan “Oh, my baby is gay! When will it end! Evan darling, what did we do to deserve such terrible children.”

“Talia,” Evan chuckles like this is something that happens all the time, and it does.

If there was one thing that their parents drove home to all the Hale kids, is that love is love and no matter what, a shadow would never fall over their family due to someone's sexual orientation. Derek grins, finally picking up his fork and knife and digging into his breakfast.

“Evan!” Talia shouts, laughter trailing after his father’s name. She lurches in her chair, and Evan pokes her in the ribs a few more times, for good measure.

“Mom,” Cora rolls her eyes. “Stow the dramatics, you know I’ve been gay since grade school. Derek was the surprise!”

It’s a low dig, and it doesn’t work to swing the conversation away from her. Seriously, Derek could kiss Stiles right then and there for pulling the heat of his families attention off them and onto Cora. He’s flabbergasted by Stiles ability to adapt and stay cool under pressure.

“We aren’t talking about your brother right now,” his mom scolds, arching her neck and seeking out the waiter. “Seriously Cora, I raised you better than this. You never abandon a bed partner before feeding them. It’s just rude.”


Happiness suffuses Derek from his toes to the tips of his ears. Stiles is sitting comfortably beside him, talking quietly to Laura about law and law enforcement, his palm draped warmly over Derek's thigh. It’s a grounding weight, keeping him from floating into the stratosphere from pure joy.

It surprises him when there’s a firm tap against his boots under the table. Looking up from his mostly devoured blueberry pancakes, Derek finds Peter staring at him.

“Je l'aime,” Peter says in hushed French, I like him.

“Il est trop jeune pour toi,” Derek counters fluidly, He’s too young for you, before setting his silverware aside. Peter pouts expressively, and then, just as quickly, he smiles. A real smile, friendly and full of happiness.

“Je suis content pour toi,” Peter says, I’m happy for you, and Derek blushes, looking away, looking at Stiles. He’s fully engaged in picking on Cora with Laura now; they are making her second guess everything she tries to order for Lydia. His heart swells with how easily Stiles fits in. How seamlessly they’ve accepted him.

“Tu l'aimes…” Peter says it, You love him, so nonchalantly, so carelessly that Derek’s head snaps around to stare at him. “Don’t worry nephew; your secret is safe with me.”

“What secret?” Stiles asks, when the waiter is finally released for their clutches, supposedly now having an appropriate food order for Lydia, so Stiles turns his blinding smile on Derek.

“No secret,” Derek enunciates carefully at his uncle.

“See, your mouth says one thing, but your eyebrows say another,” Stiles says, and the table has a moment of utter stillness before everyone, even Derek, erupts into laughter. Under the noise and Laura flicking grapes at their father, and Cora madly texting, and Stiles snatching Cora’s fresh cup of coffee, and their mother trying to calm everyone down; Peter catches Derek’s eye.

“Il t'aime aussi, tu sais. Tu devrais lui dire,” he says, He loves you too, you know. You should tell him, the words are spoken carefully, slowly. Peter’s tries to keep his voice low, below the din of conversation.

“No French at the table!” Talia snaps waving her napkin at Peter.

“Oh, ma chère soeur!” Peter pouts wildly at Talia.

“Oh, my dear sister!” Talia mock translates, before blowing a raspberry at Peter.

“No one in this family respects me,” Peter bemoans, before turning his eyes on Stiles “Stiles, come away with me. I make more money than Derek, and I’m so much more worldly, I could take you anywhere you want to go. Paris, Japan–you’re far too interesting to be with someone as boring as my nephew.”

“Humm….” Stiles taps his chin in mock consideration, and Derek rolls his eyes, draping his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and with a gentle tug, pulls his face around and kisses him deeply, soundly. Kisses him in the way that would be deemed inappropriate for the semi-high brow restaurant they are sitting in.

When he pulls back Stiles’ eyes are still closed, his mouth is wet and red and parted so invitingly that Derek dips back in for another smaller lighter kiss.

“Fine, I get it!” Peter says and the entire table, Derek and Stiles included laughs. “No need to keep rubbing it in.”

“Just use protection, we don’t want any unplanned pregnancies,” Talia says, and Stiles nods along seriously.

“Yeah, for sure, don’t worry. We’re all about family planning here at the Stilinski household.” Stiles agrees, and Talia looks absolutely smitten.

“Oh my gosh. He’s just so lovely. I love him, do keep him, won’t you, Derek?”

“I… uh, yeah, I’m going to try.” Derek grins, and Stiles wiggles a bit under his arm.

“Please, I’m like a fungus, good luck getting rid of me now.”

“Yeah Derek, you devirginize it, you’re stuck with it,” Laura chimes in unhelpfully, smiling gleefully at Stiles. While her tone is soft, an obvious joke, it still sends a ripple through the table, especially through Derek, whose body flashes hot with sympathetic mortification.

“Peter!” Derek hisses immediately, shocked that Peter would tell something so personal about non-family to Laura, who is the worst at keeping a secret.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whines, collapsing in on himself in mortification.

“Holy shit, I was just kidding.” Laura breathes, eyes wide, face pale. “I swear, I didn’t…”

“Laura!” Talis scolds softly.

“Okay, okay.” His dad intervenes calmy, “I think that’s enough embarrassing of the children for one day. Stiles?”

“Yeah?” Stiles croaks, peeking out from where he’s hiding behind Derek’s bicep.

“I have to say; it’s honestly been a pleasure getting to know you. I look forward to you taking part in the annual Hale family BBQ.”

The arm Derek has draped around Stiles’ shoulders reflexively tightens, pulling him more firmly against Derek’s side. His dad might as well have invited Stiles to move in, take the Hale family name. No one gets invited to the BBQ this quickly. It took close to three years for an invite to be extended to Kate. He presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple and quietly whispers into his hair “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yep sure, totally fine.” Stiles rambles quietly for a second then takes a breath and leans out from under Derek’s arm.

“Aside from my utter mortification a moment ago, it’s been really great meeting you all. Derek’s, obviously, really important to me, and this day could have gone much worse. Well…” Stiles grins at Laura who pouts sadly back at him, “Maybe not that much worse, but yeah. I look forward to, once again, kicking Cora and Derek’s butts at flip-cup.”

The table erupts in a chorus of OOOOH’s and laughter. Cora mimes swiping her finger across her neck then points at Stiles, who does the; point two fingers at his eyes and then one finger back at Cora. Derek’s so happy he’s sure he’s dreaming.

“Oh shit,” Stiles says suddenly, his phone is buzzing rhythmically against the table. He flips it over and grimaces down at the alarm silently flashing on the screen. “We have twenty minutes to get to the burger place on Elmwood Ave, or we’re going to be late for lunch with my dad.”

“Lunch? You just finished brunch?” Talia says confused.

“Yes, well,” Derek says wiping his mouth and standing, “If any of you had bothered to ask if we had plans today you would have known that we did. Instead, you made plans for us, and now we have to run. “

“Ugh, don’t be so sour, nephew,” Peter says, intercepting the waiter and slipping his card into the black book before Talia can. “We just couldn’t resist spending some time with your charming boyfriend.”

“Why are you like this?” Derek asks exasperatedly.

“Maybe you should make it less enjoyable for me?” Peter grins good-naturedly.

“Peter!” Talia sighs and Cora tosses yet another roll at him.

“Come here my darling boys,” his mother goes on, getting to her feet and wrapping a now standing Derek and Stiles in a tight hug. “Keep in touch okay. We’ll be heading out later tonight, but we’ll be back for the next home game.”

“Love you, Mom,” Derek says softly pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Yeah. Uh, yeah, same,” Stiles says, and his voice is noticeably tight. He tucks his face into Talia’s neck and remains there, arms curled around, her until she laughs.

“Okay, okay, I need those lungs,” She pats Stiles on the back and gives him a fond but curious look. “Go, before you’re late for your next meal.”

With one last kiss to his mom’s cheek and a wave to the table, Derek takes Stiles’ hands and heads for the exit.

“Stiles,” Peter’s voice has them pausing and turning, “I don’t know why you have a key to that boy's apartment, but I do appreciate not having to be an unwitting bystander to your escapades.”

The key flips through the air and Stiles’ quick reflexes have him easily catching it.

“So you say,” Stiles says, with a wink and then, before Peter, or Cora, or Laura, or anyone else can pull them back into the conversation, Stiles guides them out of the restaurant.

“Okay,” he says as soon as they are on the sidewalk “We don’t have to run to the burger joint, but we should walk with, like, a purpose.”

He’s looking down the sidewalk, rocking back and forth between his feet as he plots their route through the early afternoon crowds. His brows are furrowed, and he’s chewing his bottom lip in the way he does when he’s really thinking something over. The sun casts warmly over his features, makes his eyes shimmer like newly polished brass and it’s all too much for Derek. The words are tumbling out passed his lips before he can stop them.

“I love you,” He says, his heart too big for his chest, his lungs too small for the air he keeps trying to suck into them. “I–I’m in love with you.

Chapter Text

“I love you,” Derek said, heart in his throat, almost choking on each heavy beat. His palms tingled with sweat, and he waited, wide-eyed, laid utterly bare.

“Oh, wow…” Kate sucked a breath through her teeth and smiled her little smile. “I...uh, do too?”

“Yeah?” Derek sagged, all the wind rushed out of him, tension fading into nothingness as sluggish happiness suffused him.

“Sure, sweetie, can’t you tell?” Kate flipped her hair and pressed a cherry chapstick flavored kiss to his lips. “Now, let’s go, there’s a sale at Gucci I don’t want to miss. You brought your wallet, right? Derek? Derek!”

He blinked, the snap of her voice fading into something lower, softer.


Refocusing, shaking the memory away, Derek catches Stiles’ eye. He looks scared, shocked, his amber eyes round and glassy.

“You.. you okay? Back with me now?” He’s grinning, a nervous sort of happiness written into his features.

“Yeah,” Derek reaches up and cups his hand over the one Stiles has pressed to Derek’s cheek. Stiles’ hands are warm and big, grounding him to the here and now. They’re so, so different from hers.

“Where did you go?” Stiles asks softly.

“No... nowhere,” Derek says reflexively, denial on the tip of his tongue. What type of asshole confesses his love for someone and then gets swept up in a painful memory?

“Okay,” Stiles’ smile falters, his hand slipping out from under Derek’s to fall limply at his side. Derek’s face feels unnaturally cool now that the warmth of Stiles’ skin is gone. “I’m just letting you know that I don’t believe you, and we’re going to talk about this later.”

There’s a hitch in Stiles’ breath when he turns away that makes a hot wave of shameful panic wash over Derek. What did he do, what did he miss? He can’t remember. What kind of effect did his confession have on Stiles? Did his eyes light up, did he laugh, smile? Was there barely hidden disdain in his gaze, just like hers? Shock, pity? Derek needs to know.

This moment, it should have been special, perfect. Derek should have been focused only on Stiles, watching his face, listening to his words. Did Stiles respond? Does he love Derek too? Was he happy to know how Derek feels? He can’t; he can’t remember. He can’t remember anything after those words came spilling out of his mouth.

“Come on, Big Guy,” Stiles says, reaching back blindly for Derek’s hand.


“Nah,” Stiles glances over his shoulder, a blinding if forced, smile in place. “Don’t worry about it. In fact, what you should be worrying about is sitting down to lunch with my Dad. My sheriff Dad, who treats every encounter like an interrogation.”

“Like a… what?” Derek falters, and Stiles pulls him down the street.

“Yeah,” his voice cracks on the end, and he clears his throat. Derek wishes he could go back, hold that memory at bay, give Stiles the ‘I love you’ he deserves. A movie moment, swept up together, kissing, laughing, hearts beating like crazy; as it should be, the first time. Not… not whatever that was.

“I’m sorry,” Derek tries, pulling on Stiles’ hand to stop his mad dash down the street. “Stiles, please?”

“So, you’re lucky, cause Melissa is here and she usually puts a damper on Dad’s interrogation style. But don’t count her out, she brings her own special brand of information gathering to the table.”

They are turning the corner; Stiles won’t look at him, the burger joint is just a few yards away. The urgent need to fix it burns under Derek’s skin. He feels like he’s going to vomit.

Reaching out, Derek grabs Stiles shoulder and pulls him around. The sickeningly fake smile finally falls from his lips. He looks resigned, his eyes dead, his face pale.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you love me,” Stiles says, his voice so soft it cuts Derek open from gut to heart. He can’t decide if he’d rather have Stiles yelling, shouting, or beating him over the head. This quiet sadness undoes him. “Or sorry you told me and then went comatose?”

“The second, Stiles, I love you,” Derek chokes out the words, so much harder this time than last time. It should be getting easier, he should feel relief, but the way Stiles flinches makes him want to scream, want to shake him and tell him everything.

“Oh man, for a second there, the first time you said it I… it was....” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, sighing roughly, and glances over his shoulder at the burger place, then back at Derek. “Maybe I’ll just tell them you’re not feeling well. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“No, no please,” Derek panics, gripping Stiles by his shoulders too tightly, but so, so scared that if he lets go, that will be it. All of this will be gone.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, almost tired.

“I... I dated a girl, a woman,” Derek cuts in abruptly, unable to meet Stiles’ eyes, staring resolutely at his neck, at the marks he left along that pale skin. Stiles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing and Derek plows on, “I thought… I thought it was my first real adult relationship. I was young and cocky, and she was older than me, beautiful and worldly. I mean, that’s what I thought, Stiles, but it was a sham, all of it.” Derek takes a breath, his throat tight, fingers tense where they’re clutching at Stiles like a lifeline. His tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth, but he can’t stop, he won’t stop.

“I thought I loved her. I thought that if I loved her with everything I had, it would be okay that sometimes she ignored me for days on end, or belittled me, or... Or… but, it wasn’t, it wasn’t love... it–it was abuse.” Derek looks down as the word drops out of his mouth. 

He did so much therapy to admit that nothing about their relationship was real. That all the things Kate made him believe about himself weren’t true. But damn, does it still hurt to admit he’d fallen for her trap. Derek can do it now though; he can say that he’s a victim of her abuse, physical, psychological and that he survived. He survived.

“It was all fake. She used me for years, years. I don’t even think I knew what real love was supposed to feel like, until now, until you. She was cruel, and––and it was a long time before I realized the damage she was doing to me, to my relationships with my family, my friends. She pulled me away, isolated me, made me completely reliant on her for love and affection. I became a shell of a person, completely gutted without her. She… she almost drained my bank accounts dry. She manipulated my emotions until I second-guessed everything I ever thought I was or wanted to be.”

“Derek…” Stiles interrupts, his tone totally different than before. Soft but angry, choked with a helplessness Derek is very familiar with.

“Those words? I’ve only said them to her, and after her, I vowed I’d never say them again. That I’d never put myself through something like that again, but then there was you, Stiles, and everything changed. You didn’t even know what you were doing, but you took all the shattered little bits, everything she stripped away from me; everything she made me hate about myself; and you made it okay again, without even trying. You… accepted me, all of me. You make me laugh and you treat me unlike anyone ever has before. And… and…”

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

“What happened back there?”

“I… I don’t know, one second I’m so happy, and you’re there, and I’m saying it, I’m finally telling you, and the next second it’s her, and she’s telling me to take her to Gucci.”

“Gucci.” Stiles’ lip lifts in a sneer, and a nervous laugh escapes Derek’s lungs.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ruined this, this moment for you, for us.” Derek chances a glance up at Stiles. “There’s still an us, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles says, his hands wrapping around each of Derek’s wrists where he’s still gripping Stiles’ shoulders. “I wouldn’t give up on you so quickly. I’m not her, whoever she is…”

“I know, I know you’re not,” Derek is quick to say. Stiles pries his hands free from their death grip on his shoulders and links their fingers together.

“Okay, good. Do… do you feel better now that I know a little bit, about… about her?”

Derek blinks, straightening. Yeah, he does. He does he feels better. He didn’t realize just how much carrying her abuse around with him, not letting Stiles know even the smallest bit about his history with her, was haunting him. Casting a shadow over their relationship.

“Yes, but there’s more, and, and… I want you to know, and I mean it. I.. I love you.”

This time he sees it, the slow creeping, blinding smile that stretches over Stiles’ face, how it lights up his eyes and makes him glow like the brightest star in the sky. This is what love does to a person, Derek thinks, this is what he missed the first time. What he never had with Kate.

“I know,” Stiles says, and he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’ve known for a while now.”

“You… you know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and his grin is soft, but his eyes spark with playful energy. “You talk in your sleep.”

“I… I do?”

“Post blowjob you does.”

What?” The whispered exclamation can be described as nothing but shocked and horrified. Stiles, however, laughs, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Derek’s gaping mouth.

“It’s really, really nice to hear it from fully conscious you though. The sentiment carries a totally different weight, just so you’re aware.”

Derek blinks, and Stiles’ grin deepens. “I love you too, you know.” He says it casually like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. Derek almost envies him, how the words don’t sit like bricks in his gut for weeks, how they flow out past his bowed lips like poetry and hit Derek right in the heart.

“You do?”

“Without a doubt,” Stiles grins, he puffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. “It’s really nice to say it to conscious you too. I honestly had no idea how much longer I was going to be able to keep those words locked up inside of me.”

“You love me?”

Stiles nods. “I love you, Derek Hale.”

“You love me.”

“Every single day I wake up, and am so stupidly, blindingly, utterly in love with you that sometimes the hardest thing is just believing I’m not dreaming.”

“Stiles…” Derek chokes. He can’t breathe. He’s totally, completely overwhelmed.

“Now,” Stiles says squeezing his hands, his voice a little shaky. “Now that we’ve both confessed how devastatingly in love with each other we are, can we please get our game faces on? We are seriously about to face my father, and you are seriously the first person who’s ever made it this far. And I would really like to get his approval now because believe me you do not want to start on his shit list. I’ve been there; I know how hard it is to get off of it again.”

Clearing his throat, Derek nods, “Right, okay.” A thought occurs to him suddenly, and he narrows his eyes, “Is this why you were able to handle my family so well?”

“Look. I may or may not have a, hereto, undisclosed set of skills that I have cultivated over many years of living under the watchful eye of the law. There is nothing that would drive a hyperactive teenager like myself, with a penitent for sneaking out, crazier than constantly having to outsmart an entire sheriff's department.”

“An entire…”

“Yes, an entire sheriff's department. They still put my face up on the most wanted wall every April first. I haven’t even lived in that town for three years.”

“What… what did you do?”

Stiles' eyes go dark, and his smile is devious. The corners of his lips curl up in the ghost of something Derek finds frighteningly arousing. He looks up at Derek from under his lashes and purrs, “ everything.”

“Please,” Derek closes his eyes, “please do not make me go into lunch with a boner.”

“YO! I have a direct interest in what’s going on in your pants, so like, save it for later. If we survive lunch, we can stop at the adult store on the way back to your place and pick up some rope, or handcuffs… I think Erica still has mine though….”

“Stiles! Quit stallin’!” They both jump at the sound of the Sheriff's voice. The older Stilinski arches an eyebrow and ducks back into the burger joint.

“Now or never,” Stiles breathes.

“Any tips?”

“Yeah, don’t lie. If he’s asking you a question, chances are he already knows the answer.”

“Right, okay.” Derek licks his lips, falling into step behind Stiles as they make their way towards the table.

“Make eye contact, not the obsessive staring you do to me, but like normal eye contact?”

Derek makes a pained noise, and Stiles laughs, turning suddenly and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Mostly, just be yourself. You’re perfect just the way you are, and of course, don’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That I love you. No matter what.”

“Yeah,” Derek says softly, leaning in to kiss Stiles, pressing their foreheads together. “Ditto, baby. Always.”

“Aww, he really is your boyfriend.”

“Let me take a photo!”

“Mel, Scott, please.” John clears his throat, and stands, extending his hand to Derek when they get to the table.

“Such a stick in the mud. Hey, honey,” Melissa says, pulling Stiles into a tight hug. “Have fun last night? You seem to be faring better than Scott here.”

“Yo,” Scott groans, squinting over a cup of cream colored coffee.

“I see you still take your coffee as a reflection of your soul, light and sweet.”

“Bro,” Scott feigns a hurt expression before grinning. Whatever else he says is lost to Derek because he’s taken John’s hand and the Sheriff sports quite a grip. It’s a test, he knows, so he doesn’t squeeze back… too much.

“Dad!” Stiles shouts suddenly, “I can see your knuckles turning white!”

“At least they aren’t purple!” the Sheriff says without missing a beat, and Derek dies a little inside. Stiles’ hand snaps to his neck and Melissa gasps, before inelegantly snorting a laugh.

“I… can… explain,” Stiles says, and Derek most certainly does not shake out his hand when the Sheriff finally releases it.

“I’d really rather you not,” he says arching his brows for Derek and Stiles to sit. Stiles drops like his legs are cut out from under him into a chair, wincing as he looks up apologetically at Derek.

“Sir,” Derek starts, slowly dropping into the seat next to Stiles, but the Sheriff waves him off.

“Call me John,” he says and then glances at Stiles before shaking his head and sighing fondly.  “He’s a good kid, and I actually know how to hide a body.”



“Understood,” Derek’s says unflinchingly, meeting John’s eye. “I will never give you a reason to doubt the first or utilize the second.”

“I’m sure you won't.”

A heavy tension settles over the table as John stares at Derek, and Derek stares right back.

“Ooookay….. So, this is going really, really great. Like better than great. You know I’m right here, right? Hello !”

“Derek punched Jackson Whittemore in the face,” Scott offers suddenly, and the entire table’s attention swings to him. Derek’s ears burn with embarrassment, a swirling, writhing pit of snake-shaped nerves opens up in his stomach. It has his breakfast threatening to come back up for seconds.

But John laughs, a full, deep belly laugh and slaps his palm down against the table. His bright blue eyes spark, and he asks, “please, tell me that’s true?”

“Um, yes. Yes, sir.” Derek glances at Stiles and gets a small thumbs up.

“My god, son,” John says gleefully. “Tell me exactly what it felt like. That little prick and his Dad have been making my life hell for years! Do you know how many unpaid speeding tickets that little bastard has? I can’t even tell you how many times his Dad’s come down to the station and berated one of my Deputies just for doing their jobs. Fucking Whittemore’s, entitled dicks, the whole lot of them.”

Next to Derek, Stiles visibly relaxes, slumping down in his chair as he gathers up his menu and blows a kiss at Scott who swats it away. John’s gone on a rant about self-entitlement and almost sneaks an order of curly fries past Stiles when the waitress wanders over.

“It’s a special occasion!” John fights ineffectively, and Derek can tell this is an old argument.

“Derek,” Melissa smiles as Stiles tells his dad it’s either french fries and a turkey burger or beef and a side of veggies for lunch. With a lackluster attempt at arguing the Sheriff eventually opts for steamed veggies as the side for his beef burger. “Tell me about yourself.”

That’s how Derek gets to know Stiles’ family, adopted and otherwise. He finds out that though Stiles and Scott aren’t actually brothers, they might as well be because 'family don’t end with blood.' To which Scott shouts, ‘Jerk’ and Stiles counters with ‘Bitch’ and Derek, lost in the laughter, grumbles ‘ Balls’ at the same time that John does and they share a grin. Stiles almost vibrates out of his seat.

Somehow, Derek manages to eat his entire burger and a side of fries and, of course, Stiles is right, the curly ones are better. He doesn’t say anything when John snatches a few off Stiles’ plate while he’s in the bathroom. Secretly, he feels like maybe that was the right choice because John winks at him, and Stiles casts squinted eyes between them when he gets back.

Long after lunch is over, and Melissa’s hugged the air from Derek’s lungs, and John has slapped his back hard enough to knock it all back in again, Derek and Stiles sit curled up on his couch; season four episode one of Supernatural playing in the background. Stiles is quietly repeating all of Dean’s lines in a rough voice, and Derek thinks he could spend the rest of his life like this.

He drapes his arm over Stiles’ shoulder pulling him in close. “Move in with me next semester?”

There is something about being around Stiles that makes Derek say things. Things he’d normally keep locked deep down inside of himself. Things that he should be embarrassed about confessing. He’s not though. Stiles has never given him a reason to doubt himself. It’s fucking refreshing to be with someone who just… accepts him — creepy stalker sketchbook full of drawings, and all.

Derek realizes he’s not even nervous about posing such a serious, life-changing question to Stiles. They might not have been together for long, but Derek has a confidence in their relationship, in his feelings for Stiles, that he’s never experienced before.

“Yeah, that sounds awesome,” Stiles says swiftly, without even pausing to think. He turns away from the TV and quickly presses a kiss to Derek’s mouth. “Erica was telling me she and Boyd were talking about making the big move . I was hoping we’d get there too, cause I was not looking forward to going into student housing. Could you imagine the two of us trying to squeeze into an extra long twin bed?  But… also, I wasn’t looking to rush us . You know?”

It’s easy; everything with Stiles is easy. He’s considerate and kind, and perfect, and... a little bit of an asshole, but Derek likes that about him.

“Yeah,” Derek says because he does know. Starting something new, starting this the way they did, with a challenge and a mutual disdain for Jackson Whittemore, Derek never imagined he’d end up here. Regardless of how epic his crush on Stiles, was… still is; he never thought; Derek never dreamed he’d ever have this level of happiness. Not after everything he’s been through, all the mistakes he’s made when it came to finding love, finding the one. But he found him anyway, entirely by accident, and Derek could not be happier.

The episode plays, and it’s not for a little while, but eventually, he wonders, “Hey, why did you have a key to Boyd’s apartment?”

Stiles doesn’t even look away from the TV when he answers. It’s kinda unfair because Derek’s can’t seem to pry his eyes from Stiles’ profile.

“I’ve had a key to every apartment Erica’s ever had a key to. I’m her emergency contact. If she gets a key, I get a key. Boyd knew, all her past relationships knew. If they didn’t want me to have a key, she broke it off with them because they obviously didn’t take her illness seriously.” Stiles shrugs, nestling down against Derek’s side.

The answer doesn’t surprise him one bit. Derek understands about being part of a ‘package deal.’ After Kate, he promised he’d never let someone pull him away from his friends or family again. Having someone like Stiles in Erica’s life, well, Derek wouldn’t ever dream trying to come between them.

“I guess we better make three keys for our apartment then.”


“One for me, one for you, and one for Erica. It’s only fair, plus we have to get your handcuffs back.”

Derek’s not scared thinking about the future anymore. For the first time in a long time, it looks bright, blindingly so. So much brighter and more exciting than any stadium Derek will ever charge into.

Being with Stiles makes his heart thud, and his blood sing and butterflies take flight in his stomach. He desperately wants to know what Stiles will look like with gray hair and wrinkles; if he’ll still sing as loudly in the shower at 80 as he does now. Derek wants to listen to him laugh and complain, and drool onto their pillows for as long as he can.

“You’re damn right we do!” Stiles says with a laugh, “See; this is why I love you. Now, shut up 'cause Cas is about to bust through those barn doors.”

Derek shuts up, but not for long, they don’t finish the episode, but he does let Stiles watch Dean stab Cas before picking him up and hauling him towards the bed... their bed.

Next semester Derek applies for two parking spots outside his apartment building. There’s no rush though, they can take small or large steps, like this, for as long as they need to. They’ll have forever, after all, as long as Derek has anything to say about it.

art by BenayaTrash


Art by BenayaTrash


Chapter Text

“Stop. Stop pulling on it.”

“I feel like it’s choking me.”

“It’s not choking you; you’re just nervous.”

“I’m not nervous…”

“You’d think this was the first time he wore a tie.”

“It’s not; he wore one at my graduation and my award ceremony.”

“And my wedding!”

“I know! I know I’ve worn a tie before,” Derek huffs frustrated. He glares at Laura before turning back to Stiles.

“Derek,” Stiles says softly his hands wrapping around Derek’s wrists and pulling them away from his tie. “It’s going to be fine,”

“What if it’s not?” Derek leans in, confessing in a hushed tone.

Stiles presses a kiss to his hairline and squeezes his wrists gently. “Then we’ll figure it out from there, together. But it will; it will be fine. I see those people out there, I’m watching them look at you like the hot piece of man-meat you are, and while I agree with them, I can’t help but feel a little jealous. That’s going to be our life soon, all the time; but as long as we’re in this together, it will always be fine.”

Derek huffs a laugh, his shoulders relaxing.

“Look, you took the Golden Bears to Nationals all four years you lead the team. This? This is nothing. If they don’t pick you, no big deal, but they will. I have no doubt, with your record, there is no way you’re going to be left sitting in this chair by the end of the night.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, uncertainty and nerves warring away in his stomach.

“Hell yeah,” Stiles says, giving Derek’s tie a little tug, reeling him in and pressing a soft kiss to Derek’s lips. Instantly cameras flash and heat washes over Derek’s face. He’ll never get used to that, ever.

They part, and Derek attempts to get his breathing under control, ducking and fiddling with his water glass. Stiles smiles and gives the media section a little wave; they love him. How could they not? He’s a total ham, and he always photographs well. Derek doesn’t understand how he does it, but in almost every photo Stiles manages to look fresh and happy, while Derek seems to be trying to murder the camera through the sheer power of his thoughts.

“Here’s to going in the first round!” Laura says, lifting her glass of Perseco and tipping towards them.

“Here, here!” Stiles says happily, then nudges Derek until he lifts his glass and they all clink together.

It’s hard to stay in this little bubble though, where he’s safe with Stiles and Laura. The room they are seated in is huge and around them are hundreds of other people, crowded into the banquet hall, trussed up in suits and ties and surrounded by their families. All hopeful for the same thing, for the coveted, limited spots, offered up once a year.

Up on stage, a podium sits washed in a singular spotlight. Behind it, screens the likes Derek’s only seen in stadiums and movie theaters project family photos, scorecards, stats, and fan favorite replays from years gone by. Stiles elbows him when a photo of Derek’s senior year comes up.

They’re in it together, Derek laughing, his helmet long disregarded, hair plastered down with sweat, face streaked in mud. He’s got Stiles draped over his back, legs looped around Derek’s waist. Stiles is laughing, his eyes closed, head tossed back, one arm looped around Derek’s shoulders for support, the other thrown high in the air, holding the football aloft above their heads. They are surrounded by their teammates, all in similar states of mud covered undress, celebrating a victory. It’s beautiful, a photo, a memory, Derek has framed in their small apartment. Just one of many they’ve taken over the years.

Stiles leans in, pressing his shoulder against Derek’s and the cameras take off snapping again.

“Awww, look at you guys, still the cutest ever, ever,” Laura says in a mock baby voice, her lips pouted sarcastically if that’s even possible. Derek thinks it is, and even if it wasn’t, Laura would figure out a way to make a pout look sarcastic.

“Why are you even here?” Derek groans and she flutters her lashes at him.

“I am your sister and your acting attorney, plus I need to keep an eye on Stiles.”

“What did I do?” Stiles gripes and Laura scrunches her nose at him.

“You know what you did…”

They snipe back and forth, and Derek finds himself relaxing under the familiarity of it all. It doesn’t last long though, as the lights drop down suddenly and the banquet hall erupts into cheers. The stage is illuminated and all the screens transition into an expansive video clip, the images and logos move quickly, and with all his nerves and the stimulation, Derek thinks he might throw up. A man, Derek assumes, squinting against the lights to see, takes up the podium.

“Welcome to the NFL Draft!”

Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s, giving it a squeeze.



It’s a whirlwind of a night. The venue supplies food and drinks, and eventually, Derek’s nerves slip away into a pleasantly warm buzz of alcohol. He didn’t go first, and honestly; he didn’t know if he really wanted to. There are so many amazing players here tonight or watching from home, all of them with the same hopes and dreams. All of them wishing and praying that their years of hard work, dedication, and in some cases, overcoming injury would get them here, right where Derek is, right now. It’s overwhelming, surreal. He never imagined he’d actually get here; hoped for it, maybe even prayed for it, but to really do it? Never.

Clearing his throat, Derek grins, and the cameras erupt in a frenzy. Reporters are calling his name left and right, and he points to one at random.

“Derek! Derek! How are you feeling? Is this how you thought your night would go?”

“I, uh,” Derek licks his lips and glances at Stiles, who is resolutely standing at his side, beaming like he couldn’t smile harder if he tried. “Excited, thankful, I guess. Fortunate… Um, I really had no idea how this night would go. There are so many of us, so many people who have worked hard to get right here, where I am, right now. I––I’m just blown away, and yeah, thankful. Thankful for this opportunity, thankful to be given this chance to keep doing the thing I love. And, yeah, to get paid for it.”

The crowd laughs and cameras flash. The chirping of his name picks up as the media vies for his attention.

“Derek! How do you feel about playing for the Jets?”

“Derek! Is moving cross country going to be a problem for you and Stiles?”

“Do you worry about discrimination for your sexual orientation?”

“Derek? Derek!”

This time it’s Derek’s turn to laugh, he doesn’t know which question to answer first, so he starts with the easiest. “I don’t think it will be a problem. Stiles has been accepted into an incredibly prestigious program at the FBI.” He reaches back and takes Stiles’ hand, kissing his knuckles before side eyeing the crowd, “So you better watch out.”

Derek winks playfully, and the cameras go absolutely insane, the flashes momentarily blind him. He’s never been this lively with the media before, and they are eating it up, it’s sorta fun. He can almost see why Stiles enjoys it. “Also, whoever you are… who asked? You’ve obviously not done your research if you don’t already know about Stiles’ obsession with baseball, or more specifically, the New York Mets.”

Right on queue, Stiles leans in, grinning like a kid at Christmas, and says into the bay of microphones, “we’re getting season tickets! Let’s Go Mets!”

Again, laughter fills the room; someone yells ‘We love you Stiles,’ and the cameras flash. A representative steps up and waves the crowd down a bit. “We have time for one more question.”

Through all the things to happen so far tonight, that statement settles the swarm of nerves in Derek’s stomach. This was the only part of the evening he even remotely planned for. Somewhere between going up on stage to receive his green and white jersey and being shuffled off to the press suite, Laura vanished, right on queue. Derek seeks her out now.

“Um, you? In the back?”

“Sounds like you’re having a pretty perfect night? Is there anything you could think of to make it even better?”

Grinning, Derek shrugs. “Usually this is where I’d say something about going to Disney, right?”

“We’re going to Disney?” Stiles chimes in, his tone hopeful but joking. A few ‘awws’ are heard above the camera’s rushing to capture every move they make.

“Not tonight... though, ” Derek says thoughtfully, taking a slow breath. The hand not clinging to Stiles’ slips into his pocket and latches onto the small box there. “I was hoping; instead, you’d maybe consider spending the rest of your life, you know, with me?”

Fluidly, Derek drops down to one knee, pulling the box out and popping it open. Stiles gapes, his wide expressive mouth dropping open obscenely as he looks from Derek to the ring and back again. His hand shakes as he brings it up to cover his mouth in shock. It’s a long moment filled with flashing lights and an explosion of sound that Derek ignores until it fades away into the background. It’s the easiest thing to focus solely on the man standing before him.

It feels like forever, and only a heartbeat before Stiles is nodding. His beautiful amber eyes are welling up and he’s whispering, “yes, yes! Yes, yes, you big nerd, yes! Oh my god , Derek!”

With a strangled laugh, Derek pulls the simple gold band from its box and slips it onto Stiles’ finger. He barely lets Derek climb to his feet before he’s throwing himself bodily into Derek’s arms and kissing the life out of him. Later, when they’re alone, Derek will point out the engraving that curls along the inside of the band: “For You, I Swear an Unbreakable Vow,’.

Over and over again, a circle of infinity. Reflective of the love he feels for Stiles, a promise he will forever keep. For you, I Swear an Unbreakable Vow,. Around and around, no matter where you start, no matter where you end, the message remains the same. Flowing uninterrupted, as constant and firm as Derek’s love; I Swear an Unbreakable Vow, For You,.

They’ll probably catch slack for this public display later, with the conservative media, but Derek doesn’t fucking care about that right now. He’s not the first queer athlete, and he won't be the last. The Jets knew what they were getting when they drafted him, and he won't spend another moment letting people think he’s something he’s not.


Derek Hale is a first-round NFL draft pick for the New York Jets, an All-American, red-blooded male. He’s straight as a rainbow and twice as proud of who he is and how far he’s come. Now, with the love of his life by his side, Derek is never going to let anyone believe anything different, ever again.