Archive of Our Own

Stiles is very drunk.

First, he was very high. Then he was very crossfaded. Then the high faded, leaving him drunk with his pants around his ankles in his friend’s bathtub. Dorito crumbs are smeared across his nipples, and Lydia’s dark pink lipstick is printed neatly on his cheek.

“Help!” Stiles screams, “Somebody! Anybody! Except Lydia.” The vowels feel thick in his mouth. “Lydia is...mean...” Stiles blinks, trying desperately to re-orient himself. “She took my snacks...”

“Dude, pull your pants up.” Stiles looks up, groggily. Scott is miraculously standing in the doorway. The same color of lipstick is printed on his cheek.

“Lydia!” Stiles shrieks, afraid, pointing at Scott’s cheek. “Did she get you too? She got me...” He trails off. “She got me...”

“Oh, boy.” Scott bites his lip, peering nervously into the bathtub. “Please put your dick in your pants,” he begs.

Stiles pouts. “I don’t know how.”

“Oh my god...” Scott scrubs a hand over his face, exasperated. “Isaac!” He yells. “I need back-up!”

Isaac stumbles into the bathroom, the neck of a bottle dangling loosely from his fingertips. “What’s wrong---” He cuts himself off. “Oh.”

“Get goldfish and a water bottle,” Scott orders. “It’s a guaranteed cure for drunk bitches. Proven by like...science and stuff.”

Isaac opens his mouth like he wants to question the order, but then he quickly considers who he’s dealing with. “Got it. Should I get Lydia?”

“No!” Stiles shrieks from the bathtub.

Isaac swallows, raising his eyebrows at Scott.

“I don’t even know, dude,” Scott intones. Isaac leaves without another word. Scott braces himself and returns to crouch next to the tub. “Okay, Stiles, I need you to do something for me.”

Stiles offers him a sloppy salute.

“Raise both your arms in the air.”

Stiles tries and fails.

“Stiles, please. You’re exposing yourself. You’re very vulnerable to predators.”

“Am not,” he slurs, head flopping onto his chest. Shit. Scott takes a deep breath, squeezes one eye closed and reaches for Stiles dick, bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

He tugs Stiles boxers up his hips, with minimal dick-touching. His jeans are more difficult. He maneuvers Stiles so he’s leaning on his shoulder, and basically ends up manhandling him into his pants.

When Isaac returns, Scott is washing his hands and Stiles is unconscious.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Isaac says. “Still need this?” He hands Scott a box of Goldfish and a water bottle.

“Yes. For me. Stiles has lost his privileges.” Scott slumps onto the toilet seat.

“He’s also unconscious,” Isaac adds, as delicately as he can.

“I just touched his penis,” Scott says quickly.

“Um. Okay.”

“Let’s go home so I can touch your penis and erase the memory of my childhood best friend’s penis from my hand forever, okay?”

“Are we just gonna...leave him here, then?” Isaac says, gesturing to Stiles, whose mouth is hanging wide open. He’s snoring.

“I want to, but we can’t.”

Isaac shakes his head.

“I’m sorry.”

All of a sudden, there’s a gleeful cackle from behind them. It’s Lydia, who points a long, manicured finger at Stiles, laughing wickedly. She whips out her phone and snaps a picture.

“I’m literally wet with revenge right now,” Lydia says darkly.

“You’re really scary,” Isaac comments lightly.

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder, shrugging. “Stiles deserved it.”

“He beat you on a Chemistry final.”

“By cheating!” Lydia snaps. She takes a close-up picture of Stiles’s nipples.

“What did you do?” Scott asks, mouth agape.

“Nothing. I did nothing. When Allison handed him his fourth drink, I did nothing. When Jackson let Stiles finish the rest of his 40, I did nothing again. The kid literally did my job for me.”

“You’re evil.”

“An evil mastermind,” she corrects gently, patting Scott on the cheek. “Well, I’m off! I have a Philosophy paper tomorrow that won’t write itself. Have fun dealing with this hot mess.”

She blows them a kiss over her shoulder as she leaves. Isaac takes a towel from the linen closet and places it gently over Stiles.

“He looks comfortable enough. Right?” Isaac asks, wide-eyed. Scott smiles, tugging on his hand.

“He’ll live.”

They leave Allison’s party and return to Scott’s dorm, which is blessedly empty, considering that Stiles is having a sleepover in a sorority house (though probably not under the circumstances he would like).

“Um, do you have more Goldfish? Because those were really good--”

Scott cuts Isaac off with a kiss, pushing him against the door. “Dude. No time for snacks. We have to take advantage of this,” he mumbles against Isaac’s mouth, gesturing behind him at the empty room.

“Oh,” Isaac says. “Right. Yes. Um, please.”

Scott attaches his mouth to Isaac’s neck, and Isaac, for his part, pretends that his knees don’t give out. He utters a breathy little moan when Scott’s teeth scrape for purchase against his neck. Scott pulls off, wrapping his hand around the back of Isaac’s neck. He has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes, which took getting used to at first but now he doesn’t mind at all.

“You’re adorable,” Scott says seriously. Isaac’s eyes go wide, and his mouth looks soft and red and lovely. Scott presses their lips together, gentler this time. Isaac blushes, spreading his knees eagerly when he feels Scott maneuvering between his thighs.

“I’m taking off your shirt,” Scott warns him. Isaac laughs.

“It’s sexier when you just do it without telling me beforehand,” Isaac whispers. Scott kisses the smile off his mouth, biting him playfully.

“I’m dragging you to the bed because we’re taking advantage of this,” Scott announces. Isaac laughs, allowing himself to be manhandled around Scott’s room.

“I’m taking off my shirt. And my pants. You should probably do that too.”

Isaac giggles, unbuttoning his pants shyly. Scott appears in front of him, all tan, lean muscle and competent hands. He pushes Isaac onto his back and finishes the undressing himself, putting his mouth on Isaac’s hipbones as soon as they’re uncovered.

“Damn,” Isaac whispers. Scott’s mouth moves over his underwear. “Okay, fuck.”

“Can I?”

“Is that a serious question?” Isaac whispers back.

Scott tugs Isaac’s underwear down his thighs. Isaac squeezes his knees together like he’s embarrassed, so Scott pulls his legs apart, pressing his lips to the tip of his cock. He starts slow, squeezing at the base while running his tongue down the length. Isaac draws in his breath sharply, hands clenching in the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You can like...touch my head, you know,” Scott offers helpfully. Isaac has his eyes squeezed shut.

“Um. Ah,” He whimpers when Scott’s mouth closes over his dick. “Okay.”

He runs his hands through Scott’s hair. Scott starts bobbing his head, moving faster and faster and Isaac feels dizzy with arousal, light-headed and weak and he can’t make sense of the direction his blood is flowing anymore.

“What--” Isaac whimpers, raspy-voiced. “What do I do when I need to--”

“Just...warn me.” Scott takes him almost all the way down his throat, gagging only a little bit before pulling off and repeating the motion.

“Oh...my god. Oh my god. Please -- please okay, I can feel it, oh no oh no--”

Scott almost wants to laugh, because no one should be this cute receiving a blow job, but of course Isaac manages to. He pulls off with a slick pop, and rises to his feet, reaching down to finish Isaac off with his hand. Isaac buries his head into Scott’s abdomen, muffling his noises as he releases, hiding his face in Scott’s side. Scott kisses his head and murmurs that he’s got him, petting back Isaac’s curls with his other hand. As soon as Isaac’s caught his breath, Scott washes his hands in the sink. His own cock is rock-hard, nearly purple with blood.

Isaac stares at it, wide-eyed, when Scott returns from the bathroom.

“I could um...return the favor?” Isaac offers shyly. His cheeks are still flushed from his orgasm, and his mouth is swollen with kisses. “I’ve never...before. I mean, obviously. But. If you want. I could...”

“Do you want to?” Scott asks. He doesn’t want to push him. He tries to avoid staring at Isaac’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Isaac says, a little breathlessly.

“Okay,” Scott says simply, trying to hide his glee. He sits next to him on the bed. Isaac stares at him for a moment, still pink-cheeked, before leaning in quickly to kiss Scott on the cheek. It’s so precious that Scott nearly forgets how to breathe. Then, Isaac scoots off the bed onto his knees, studying Scott’s dick with determination before tentatively reaching out. He takes it by the base, and Scott’s cock automatically jolts in his hand. Isaac smiles up at him, and Scott guides him forward, curling his hand around the back of Isaac’s head, tucking his thumb behind his ear, in his usual spot. Isaac starts slow and shy, but he gains confidence every time Scott gets a little rough with him, or makes a noise, or demonstrates his arousal in any way. He even tries deepthroating, though very briefly, gagging as soon as Scott’s dick hits the back of his throat.

“You’re doing so good,” Scott encourages, voice tight with arousal. His muscles tighten up, and he can feel his blood pulsing in every inch of his body, urgent to come.

“I’m going to come,” Scott warns. “Like, any second.”

But Isaac doesn’t pull off.

“Isaac!” Scott yells, but Isaac only moves his mouth down further, and all of a sudden he’s fucking swallowing and Scott has never seen anything as hot in his life. Isaac can’t get all of it, of course, so he catches the rest in his hand, but flecks of it land on the corner of his mouth. Scott rubs his thumb along the wet, red curve of Isaac’s bottom lip, his face slack with awe.

“Holy shit.”

Isaac smiles.

Scott dives down to kiss him, and Isaac returns it eagerly. He can taste himself in Isaac’s mouth, which is a little weird, admittedly, but also kind of hot. He lets Isaac stand up to wash his hands, falling back on the bed. His body aches with exhaustion. He feels the bed dip beside him when Isaac curls up next to him, tugging Scott’s blanket over them. Isaac tucks his face in the crook of Scott’s neck, brushing his lips under his jaw.

Scott kisses his forehead, and Isaac’s eyes slip shut.

“Get ready for chaos tomorrow,” he says sleepily.

“What, Stiles?” Isaac whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Dude needs a boyfriend. So he can have sleepovers, so then we can have more sleepovers.”

“Exactly,” Scott yawns. He leans over to turn off the light.

After a few moments in the dark, he whispers into Isaac’s curls, “I like you a lot.”

Isaac sighs happily into his chest. They fall asleep.

--

“Alllllllllright kids, you’re listening to ‘All Earz on Me’ with Stiles Stilinski. I tried to do a clever wordplay thing with 2pac’ ‘All Eyez on Me,’ but I realize that prepositionally, the resulting title doesn’t really make sense. Pretend it does anyways. Now: will somebody give me a drumroll? Anybody? Please? Lydia, fuck you, I know you’re back there! Whatever. I’ll give myself a drumroll. Anyways...it’s Thursday, AKA Throwback Thursday. In honor of my program’s musical namesake, we’re gonna start off this beautiful, completely sober-headed morning with 2pac’s ‘Never Had a Friend Like Me.’ Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Scott blinks himself awake, dragging the back of his hand across his face. He peers through the brightness, feeling confused and slightly terrorized by the sound of Stiles’s voice. He blinks again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Isaac is sitting on the windowsill with his laptop balanced on his knees, typing away while Tupac plays quietly through the speakers. There’s little particles of dust swirling in a beam of sunlight, and Isaac’s wearing one of Scott’s sweaters. He can hear the drip of the coffee machine running, and the room is empty, and Scott can’t help but think that this is already a great morning.

He stretches to his feet. Isaac looks up at him and smiles, and Scott pads over to kiss him on the forehead.

“It’s like...really early.”

“I know, I had to study though. I made coffee.” Isaac pauses. “Wait. Is that okay?”

Scott ruffles his hair. “Of course, dude.”

“So that was Tupac’s “Never Had a Friend Like Me.” You hear that Scott McCall? That song was for you. You’ve never had a friend like me. So the next time you decide to leave me in the clutches of Lydia Martin in a house full of evil sorority girls alone and vulnerable and unattended, remember that. Remember when I pushed Jackson Whittemore off the tire swing for you in second grade and he kicked me in my tiny eight-year old nutsack and I didn’t even care because I was protecting my best friend’s honor? Or remember in sixth grade when Courtney Wieser spilt milk on your shirt so I gave you mine because you’re allergic to like, polyester or some shit, and that’s all they had in lost and found. I’m a great friend. The very best.”

Isaac meets Scott’s eyes, smiling grimly. Scott takes a deep breath and dials the number for Stiles’s radio show. It’s too early for this shit.

“Oh, I have a caller! Aaaaand it’s Scott McCall. What’s up, man?”

“I put your dick in your pants for you last night because you were too drunk for basic motor functions.”

There’s a long silence. “Oh.”

“Yeah, dude. Yeah.”

“You’re a great friend, Scott.”

“Yes.

“The best.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And now everyone in the world knows it.”

“There are probably a total of like, three people listening to this right now.”

“Lies! I’m extremely popular. Lydia, how many people are listening right now?”

Scott can hear her scream ‘two!’ in the background.

“One of them is Isaac,” Scott offers helpfully.

“Please hang up now, you’re really killing my vibe here.”

“Sure thing, dude.”

Scott hangs up. Isaac muffles his laughter into his hand.

--

“So I wonder who my other listener was...” Stiles flicks a french fry at a random passerby as he slides into the seat next to Scott at lunch. “Also, who decided it was a good idea to stop serving sweet potato fries during lunch? I know a lot of people, myself included, really depend on those fries. I feel pretty lost without them.”

“Maybe you could like...eat healthier now,” Scott says.

“Scott, what are you talking about? I can’t afford to eat healthy. I have to gain weight. I look like a noodle with hair. No one finds that sexy, not even me, and I am so sexually deprived at this point that everything is sexy. Like you name it...Mitt Romney, hobbits, Amanda Bynes, post-plastic surgery, obviously...if they wanted the d, I’d probably give it to them.”

“Ew.” Isaac wrinkles his nose.

Stiles throws a Cheerio at him. “Hey! Don’t ‘ew’ at me.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, for the love of god...look, if you can find someone for me, by all means, throw them my way.”

As he’s speaking, Stiles notices another boy he hooked up with a few weekends ago, a tall, tattooed kid who works in the library. Stiles smiles and waves at him as he passes, and the kid all but ignores him. Stiles’s face falls, hand flopping uselessly to his lap.

He looks across the table at Scott and Isaac, who are both avoiding eye contact. “What about, uh...” Scott coughs, after an awkward silence. “That guy from last weekend?”

“Who, Matt?” Stiles snorts, frowning at his plate. “Ugh, no, he was a complete asshole. And also really creepy. And rough in like a...bad, weird way, like you could tell he was one of those dudes who watches so much porn that he forgets what real sex is like. And he had really short fingers, and it took him forever to find my--”

Isaac chokes on his soda. Scott pats his back, concerned.

Stiles shakes his head. “And then there was Danny’s friend...I forget his name, some big bald-headed dude...and the sex was good but he just...didn’t call me.” Stiles’s hands twist in his lap, and he bites his lip. “I texted him a few times...”

Scott sighs, kissing Isaac on the cheek before sending him off to Chemistry, and Scott and Stiles walk together to their World War II class. Stiles is holding his coffee cup to-go, and trying to wipe chip crumbs off his leg as he rambles on about something Scott is only half-paying attention to.

“Oh, can you help me with my next show? I need to work on a theme or something because Lydia says my track lists are getting too random--”

He cuts off when he slams into what honestly feels like a wall of rock-solid muscle. It’s not a wall, though. It’s a person, a very large and intimidating person, and Stiles has just spilled coffee all over this person’s shirt.

He musters the courage to look up, apologies tripping over his tongue, but it all slams to a halt when he sees icy blue-green eyes and scruffy beard and handsome face and okay, Stiles really does try his best to avoid cliches but this dude legitimately has the body of a Greek God.

“I am so sorry.”

The Greek God pulls Stiles in by the front of his shirt. Stiles tries to look like he’s not about to wet his pants (via fear or arousal, he’ll never know, though it’s probably a delicate combination of both).

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Greek God’s voice is incredibly sexy. Stiles gulps. “You’re going to run back to the cafeteria. You’re going to get napkins. You’re going to come back here, and personally attend to my ruined shirt. Then you’re going to get out of my sight.”

Stiles blinks. Of course the Greek God is a complete asshole. “Dude, look, I’m sorry about your shirt, okay, but look, you can rock the wet t-shirt look, okay, it ain’t no thang, bitches love that shit--”

A muscle jumps in Greek God’s jaw. “I don’t repeat myself. Ever.”

“Well dude, that’s funny ‘cos I think you might be about to--”

Greek God literally shakes him by the front of his shirt, like Stiles is a puppy who just had an accident on his carpet. “Now.”

“Listen, big guy, as fun as it is getting manhandled by you like a ragdoll, I have class, like, right now--” He looks to Scott for reinforcement, who is just standing there dumbly.

“Please put my friend down,” Scott says, trying very hard to sound brave and intimidating.

Greek God puts him down.

“Wait, really? It was that easy?” Stiles protests, confused.

“Dude, come on, before he changes his mind--” Scott hisses, pushes Stiles forward before he finds himself in even deeper shit. Greek God thrusts his chin out threateningly when Stiles looks over his shoulder, and Stiles yelps out loud.

“Oh my god. Scott. Did you see that guy? Scott, please. That’s the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in my pathetic 19 years of existence.”

“Yeah, and he was a huge asshole.”

“I don’t care!” Stiles hisses loudly as Scott ushers them into their classroom. They take a seat near the front, because otherwise they know they’d never pay attention.

A few seconds later, Greek God appears in the doorway.

“What the fuck!” Stiles whispers loudly. “That guy can’t be in college, he’s like 45 years old! College boys don’t look like that! College boys wear backwards visors and salmon-colored shorts. College boys are boys. Scott, hold my hand,” Stiles whispers numbly, staring in awe as Greek God takes a seat in the row next to theirs. “Please. I need moral support.” Scott reluctantly takes his head. Stiles drops it a second later. “Wait, no nevermind, it looks like we’re dating. He has to know that I am 100% available. Like, so available. I’ll be the most available thing he’s ever seen. He’ll be like, wow I can’t even believe how available that guy is--”

“Stiles, shut up.” At that exact moment, Greek God looks over. Stiles, of course, is gaping at him like an idiot. Greek God scowls and looks away, raising his hand when the teacher says his name.

“Wait. Shit. What was his name? I missed what she said.”

“Uh, Derek, I think.”

“Derek what?”

“Hale? Kale? Something like that.”

“Derek Hale?”

“Uh...yeah, I think so.” Scott blinks. “Why?”

“Dude, he’s the baseball player! He’s supposed to be like, legendary. Holy shit. Derek Hale. Okay.”

“Stiles, please stop mouth-breathing. You’re upsetting a lot of people.”

Stiles glances around. There are in fact a lot of people glaring at him, Derek Hale included.

“Shit, okay. I’m cool. I’m keeping my cool.”

“Please shut up.”

“You got it.”

--

It’s 10 PM when Scott and Isaac finally make it back to Scott’s room after a long study session in the library. The door swings open to reveal Stiles bouncing on Scott’s stability ball while reading Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory and blasting Beyonce. Scott lets the door bang against the wall, and Stiles topples over onto the floor with a shriek. He scrambles to his feet, calming down when he sees that it’s only Scott.

“Dude, how many Red Bulls have you had?” Scott asks, shutting the door, eyeing Stiles warily.

Stiles hastily turns down the music. “I dunno. One. Three. Four and a half. Who’s counting? I’ve written like...8 pages, anyways.”

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” Isaac comments delicately.

“Or pants.”

Stiles looked down. He’s only wearing his Avengers print underwear and socks.

“Oh. Right. Well, clothes inhibit liberated thinking. Also, I got hot. Anyways, enough about me, how was your study date? Did you get a lot done? Did you learn anything? How was your day? Hey, do you mind if I turn the music back up? Beyonce really helps me think. Also, did you know this guy Adorno was like...a huge asshole--”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?” Stiles rocks back and forth on his feet, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

“I think you need to like...sit down and maybe, I dunno, do some breathing exercises or something, or sleep...”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I agree, I agree completely, you’re very wise, Scott,” Stiles nods quickly. He sits down on his bed. Scott and Isaac eye him warily.

“So the thing is--” Stiles says abruptly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for like, another 100 lifetimes or so. Like I just can’t really see that happening in the foreseeable future.”

Isaac groans.

“Oh, I can be quiet though! Yeah. You guys get your sleep. In your bed. Together. Right there. Across from my bed. I’ll just be over here...you know, in my bed. Still working on my paper. While you’re over there, spooning each other gently in an unconscious state. Cool.”

Scott looks at Isaac. He sighs.

“Stiles...do you not want us to sleep here?”

“No! No. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Because we could go to Isaac’s room--”

Isaac shakes his head pleadingly.

“Wait -- why not?” Scott asks.

“Boyd’s there, with his girlfriend. And...they both sort of...scare me.” Isaac whispers this last part like he’s ashamed. Scott just stares at him fondly, and Stiles tries not to vomit in his mouth.

“No, seriously, sleep in here, it’s fine,” Stiles says loudly.

“You’re not mad?” Isaac asks, wide-eyed.

“No Isaac, and even if I was, how the fuck am I expected to say no to you? You have the face of a Disney princess. Scott, how do you deal with that? This kid puts everyone who’s ever attempted to make puppy eyes to shame, including actual puppies, like why even bother.”

Isaac blushes, and Scott shoves him into the bathroom to start getting ready for bed.

As soon as Isaac’s out of earshot, Scott plops down at the end of Stiles’s bed, looking at him with puppy eyes that could rival Isaac’s. “Dude, seriously...if this is bothering you, you can tell me. I know it can’t be the most fun thing to have us in here when--” he cuts himself off awkwardly.

“When what? When I’m feeling like an angsty lonely little bitch? Look dude, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but perennial singlehood is kind of my shtick. Pining is my default emotional state. And it sucks, okay, but I’m not about to go and make my best friend pretend like he’s not happy in love just because I want what he has. I’m not a total asshole.”

“Stiles, you’re not an asshole at all, okay, you’re a smart awesome dude and I’m gonna find someone for you, okay? Like the hottest piece of ass on campus.”

“Scott, please stop, you don’t have to play Emma, it’s okay.”

“Who’s Emma?”

Stiles blinks at him. “Emma? Jane Austen’s Emma?”

Scott cocks his head to the side. “What?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Okay -- how about this: Clueless? Do you know Clueless?”

“Wait -- is that the movie where that hot blonde chick falls in love with her brother Paul Rudd?”

Stiles gives up. “Yes. Sure.”

“I don’t get what that has to do with anything...”

“You’re matchmaking, okay, that’s the point, you’re trying to set me up, and it’s sweet, but you seriously don’t have to. I’m not a baby. I just need to...stop finding assholes, I guess.”

Isaac comes back in, with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, and a towel tied around his waist. “Shower?” He asks.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and start it,” Scott says. Stiles pretends to throw up, and Scott slaps the back of his head.

“When you find your dude, you can have all the shower sex you want and I won’t be allowed to say anything!” Scott calls back.

“Who said anything about shower sex? I was just gonna, you know, bathe myself...” Isaac teases. Scott growls playfully in return, chasing him into the bathroom, and Stiles covers his ears to block out the rest of their flirting.

--

“Good morning, everybody! You’re listening to All Earz on Me. Today I want to talk about something that I’m sure a lot of you can relate to, at least if you’re a sad unlucky fuck like me. If you’re unlucky in love, or feeling a little lonely, or if you’ve mastered the fine art of pining, you’ll probably identify with today’s track list. First up, it’s “I Can Change” by LCD Soundsystem. You’re welcome.”

Stiles turns off his mic, scrubbing his eyes with his hands. He only got about three hours of sleep. The Red Bull in his system kept him wide awake until about 4 AM. After he finally fell asleep, Isaac woke up both him and Scott with one of his nightmares. After listening to Scott calm Isaac down for a good thirty minutes or so, Stiles finally fell back asleep, only to be awoken by his alarm two hours later.

This was not going to be a good day.

Lydia seems to refute this when she dramatically swings open the door to his booth, bearing two cups of coffee and a breakfast sandwich from the university cafe -- literally the only legitimately delicious food item on campus.

“My hero,” Stiles swoons. He starts attempting to chug the coffee, but it burns his tongue and he sprays it all over the radio equipment.

“Could you not ruin the entire radio station with your idiocy? Thanks.” Lydia collapses into the chair next to him and begins to pick apart her own sandwich. “Did you finish your paper?”

“Yes, which is an even bigger accomplishment considering I wrote it while listening to the sweet soundtrack of Scott and Isaac’s shower lovemaking.” Stiles recreates a series of high-pitched moans. Lydia looks unimpressed.

“You’re on,” she remarks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Oh, shit.” Stiles scrambles to turn on his mic. “Okay, so that was ‘I Can Change’ by LCD Soundsystem. Now, in the spirit of Throwback Thursday, here’s “‘Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want.’”

He turns off his mic again.

“Really? The Smiths? You typical son of a bitch.”

“Lydia, I can’t make an emo pining playlist without The Smiths. It’s disrespectful.”

She rolls her eyes. “I think you’ve gotten a little too good at pining, to be honest.”

“Oh, have I? Have I, really? Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Philydia Martin?” Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I asked to be this way? Huh? It’s not my fault everyone I’m attracted to turns out to be a complete dicknoodle.”

Lydia pinches his cheeks. “Oh, my darling little hopeless case. Do you need me to play Emma for you?”

“Oh my god, why does everyone keep volunteering to do that? I’m seriously not that helpless, okay,” Stiles says exasperatedly. “Also, thank you for understanding that reference, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Stiles moves to turn on his mic, but Lydia beats him to it. “Hello, everyone, that was ‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want’ by the Smiths. I’m Lydia Martin, taking over for Stiles Stilinski because his pining has become so severe that it’s compromised his basic motor skills and functionality as a human being. On his behalf, I would like to extend an invitation to date this sad adorable boy so that he can return as a productive member of society. Qualifications include washboard abs, an IQ above 90, and a sympathetic understanding of ADHD. Please submit your applications to the UBH radio station. In an attempt to correct the girl power deficit that is happening right now, here’s ‘Jumpin’ Jumpin’ by Destiny’s Child. You’re welcome.”

“I hate you,” Stiles says. Lydia just shrugs smugly, kissing him on the head before standing up to leave.

“You’re dead to me!” Stiles shrieks. She winks over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her.

Stiles looks down. The mic is still on. He puts his face in his hands and yells.

--

“Yo, your shift started 20 minutes ago. Where the fuck are you?”

Stiles literally sprints across the quad, dodging a troupe of sorority girls handing out flyers for their latest charity, ducking under at least half a dozen frisbees, and narrowly avoiding running into a dickish frat boy that Stiles misguidedly flirted with at Lydia’s last mixer.

“Danny, I’m so sorry,” he pants into his phone, cradling it between his ear and shoulder as he elbows his way through some freshmen smoking on the library steps. “I’m like, almost there, I swear to god, I’ll bake you cookies for your forgiveness okay--”

He’s met with a barrage of aggressive shushes as soon as he enters the library. He flips off the entire main floor before racing up the stairs to the Writing Center, where Danny is waiting outside the door, staring him down with raised eyebrows.

“I’m now 20 minutes late to my lunch date with the hot gay baseball player. Do you know how many hot gay baseball players there are? One. There’s a total of one. And you might have just ruined it for me.”

“I can suck your dick as an apology,” Stiles offers hopefully. It wouldn’t be much of a punishment for Stiles, admittedly. Danny is fucking gorgeous.

“Ew, get out of my way,” Danny wrinkles his nose, pushing Stiles aside.

“I love you!” Stiles calls after him. He gives himself a moment to catch his breath and take a long sip from his iced coffee before entering the Writing Center.

As soon as he’s inside, his breath immediately whooshes out of him again, and he coughs up a little bit of coffee in his pathetic, spluttering attempt to regain some composure.

Derek Hale is glaring at him, tight-lipped and stony-faced, from Stiles’s desk. Stiles takes a deep breath and quickly examines himself as discreetly as possible. He’s wearing one of his 2134165756423 plaid shirts. It’s various shades of blue, and altogether not very exciting. He wishes he was wearing something cooler. Like a cardigan, or a beanie, or a leather jacket, or like, an oversized sweater that looks like something Bill Cosby would wear, or a t-shirt with a cool band on it. He’s a fucking radio DJ for Christ’s sake, why doesn’t he have more t-shirts with cool bands on them. There’s also a coffee stain on his pants, and it looks like he’s peed himself.

Derek clears his throat, and Stiles jumps, then blinks. Derek Hale is still sitting at his desk. Meaning Derek Hale is Stiles’s student today. Meaning he has to help edit Derek Hale’s paper, meaning he has to sit next to him for like, at least thirty minutes, without embarrassing himself or spontaneously losing consciousness or accidentally saying anything about his neglected dick or otherwise making a fool of himself.

Stiles is fucked.

“Uh...hello.” He coughs. Shit. “I’m. I’m Stiles. You’re...well. I don’t know if you remember--”

“Are you going to spill that on me again?” Derek asks, nodding at Stiles’s coffee. He’s so fucked.

“Ah!” Stiles gulps. “So you do remember. Excellent. Well, I’m really, really sorry, again, for that, I could like...pay for your dry cleaning or something--”

“It was just a t-shirt.”

“Oh. Okay. So um...you’re my four o’clock then?”

Derek looks at his watch. He raises his eyebrows at Stiles. He’s really good at it. “It’s 4:25.”

“Yeah, sorry about that...I’m usually much more punctual, but there was like...this person I was trying to avoid so I had to take the long way, and then my dad called, and then I got hit in the face with a frisbee, and then I realized that I left my laptop so I had to run back to my room and get that, and I accidentally walked in on my roommate and his boyfriend fucking so I had to like, give myself a minute or five to cry about that, and then I came here.”

Stiles thinks Derek might actually look amused. “Do you always talk this much?”

Stiles laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Yes. No. Maybe?”

Derek quirks another eyebrow. He’s seriously so good with his eyebrows. “You know, you can sit down.”

“Ah. Right. Cool...so uh, let’s see your paper then. Also, I never got your name.”

Derek turns his laptop towards Stiles.

“My name’s Derek Hale. The paper’s for my Public Policy class. I’m doing pretty well, but on my last paper my professor said I had trouble transgressing from my thesis, so I wanted to make sure I avoided that this time around.”

“Dude, aren’t you a baseball player?”

Derek looks at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man, everyone knows that, don’t act all coy about it. You’re like, hot shit right now.”

“What’s your point?” Derek asks icily.

“I dunno, I just...I don’t exactly get a lot of baseball players in the Writing Center. Or football players. Or basketball players. You know what I’m saying? Most of you can just pretty much skimp by on your grades and no one bats an eye. So the fact that you’re here, caring, is...pretty weird, man. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe in free passes.”

“Well look at you, Mr. Special Snowflake Baseball Player with integrity. That’s a first.”

“Look, are you going to keep being a smart ass or are you going to edit my paper? I’m not paying you to sit here and be an asshole.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. He’s not too bad at it himself. “Alright, alright, simmer down there, big guy.”

Stiles reads the paper, and he’s actually very impressed. Derek’s a good writer, if a little too concise. He’s under word limit, and he does stray from his thesis a few times, but all in all it’s one of the easier papers that Stiles has had to work with.

However, reading it takes him far longer than normal because Derek makes him so nervous. Stiles can feel his eyes burning into his cheek, and he can’t stop paying attention to his slow, even breathing, or the way the veins in his hands and forearms twist when he shifts around, or the way he leans back in his chair all calm and confident while Stiles frets and bites his nails and tries to look like he’s keeping his cool.

“So,” he says, immediately regretting the weird, breathy way his voice comes out, “This is a really good paper.” He proceeds to explain his edits, trying not to stutter or fuck up because Derek literally just stares at him, unflinching and intimidating. He barely reacts to anything Stiles says; he just stares into his soul and nods occasionally, knuckles flexing where he’s gripping his pen.

“And uh...yeah I think that about covers it,” Stiles finishes, taking a deep breath, because he’s pretty sure he just rambled on without breathing for at least a solid three minutes. “I made some grammatical edits too. You had some weird spelling mistakes.”

Derek’s face doesn’t move. Stiles swallows.

“Okay...do you have any, um, questions?” Stiles is usually very good at his job. Not that he isn’t good now, he’s just usually smoother and more efficient and less anxious.

“No.”

“Alright, great!” Stiles claps his hands together, collapsing back in his seat with a sigh of relief. “Good luck with it, man, your teacher’s really gonna dig it.”

Derek slips his laptop into his backpack, and stands to his full height. Stiles tries not to give him a hungry once-over. The dude is seriously jacked. And tall. And he smells really, really good.

“Thank you,” Derek says quietly, after pushing his chair back in.

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Yeah, yeah, sure, no problem, man. It’s...my job,” he finishes lamely. He stares at his pencil, and imagines jamming it into his own eye.

He listens for the door to close before whipping out his phone to send a long illiterate text to Scott, and Lydia, and almost every one else in his contact list. He almost doodles “Mrs. Stiles Hale” on his notebook, because who is he to pretend like he has shame anymore.

--

“Lydia, we should start having like...guests. Like to interview. Like people on campus who want to promote events and stuff, they could come on the show and we could ask them questions and they could pick songs to play and stuff.”

Lydia taps her pen against her lip, squinting at him over her sunglasses. “Stiles, for once you might actually be onto something.”

They’re studying on the North Lawn of campus, enjoying the nice weather. Lydia is reading over Stiles’s Joyce paper, while Stiles struggles through his Deleuze text. He’s got sunscreen smeared all over his pale skin, but he can already feel himself burning. Scott and Isaac are curled up next to them, both of their books long abandoned in favor of napping in the sunshine. Allison left them for her Anthro class, and Danny left them to play Ultimate Frisbee with the hot gay baseball player guy.

“So who could we invite on the show?” Stiles asks. At this point, he’ll do anything to avoid reading Deleuze. Fuck Deleuze.

“How about Jackson? He just made Student Council President. You could--”

“No,” Stiles says sternly. “Fuck that guy. Lydia, you’re not still talking to him, are you?”

She shrugs noncommittally.

“Martin - are you serious? Come on! That guy’s such an asshole! He treated you like shit.”

“I’m not...seeing him, or anything” she says lightly, flicking her hair out of her face. “We’re just...talking.”

“Lydia!”

“Oh, stop,” she pouts, throwing a handful of grass on him. It flutters to the ground pathetically. “I’m totally in control, okay! As always. So stop looking at me with your big stupid eyes. If I get screwed over, I get screwed over. I can handle it. Seriously.”

“Okay...” Stiles sighs. He frowns.

“Why are they yelling?” Isaac mumbles sleepily, lifting his head from Scott’s chest. He looks like a disgruntled puppy.

“Nothing, babe, shhhh.” Scott tugs Isaac’s head back down, burying his lips in his curls.

“Do you see what I have to deal with everyday?” Stiles hisses to Lydia as soon as it seems like they’re both asleep again. “This.” He points accusingly at Scott and Isaac. “This adorable bullshit. They make me hate myself. They make me want to die. They are a living breathing Nicholas Sparks novel. Like some serious Rose and Jack, Romeo and Juliet, Jay-Z and Beyonce shit.”

Lydia snorts.

“I don’t want to hate them, but I do,” Stiles whines. “Like it would be so much easier to ignore the fact that I eternally hold the positions for President, VP, Secretary and Treasurer of the Forever Alone Club if it weren’t for these cute little assholes and their precious heart-eyes and the adorable buttsex they have in my shower all day long.”

Lydia bites down on the end of her pen. “Stiles, my offer still stands, you know. I know lots of eligible gay men. I could totally set you up--”

“Okay, no, look it’s a sweet offer and all, and I really do appreciate it but -- I’m sorry, that only works for like, big buff dudes with minimal body hair and tans. I practically glow in the dark. And I have lots of weird moles and I talk too much. Also, I have no cool band t-shirts. Like, what the hell is that? What kind of radio DJ doesn’t own a single cool band t-shirt? All I own is plaid. And converse. My wardrobe sucks. My nail beds suck. I have no game whatsoever. In fact, I might have negative game--”

Lydia reaches over and clamps her hand over his mouth. Stiles’s eyes widen dramatically. “Listen closely because I’m only going to say this once. Stiles, you are adorable. Okay? You are. Your moles are cute. Your face is cute. Your hair is cute. You are cute. You actually have a really nice body, with like, chest definition and shoulders and triceps and whatever the fuck else. You are also funny and sweet and smart and people like you. You have good taste in music and culture and you care about your friends and you’re fun and you’re endearing as hell. You deserve love. Someone’s going to love you. But you should love you first.”

She takes her hand off his mouth.

“Thank you, Dr. Philydia Martin--” Stiles starts.

She slaps his arm.

“Ow!” He pouts. “No but really...thank you. I’m sorry I’m awful--”

“Go a whole week without saying anything self-deprecating and I’ll bake you cookies.”

Stiles puffs out his cheeks. “Oops. Sorry. Okay. I can do that. I’m a strong independent woman who--”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Stiles.”

“Yup, you got it.”

--

Stiles watches Derek’s ass as discreetly as possible as he and Scott walk behind him on their way to class. Derek’s wearing a leather jacket and black jeans, and altogether he’s still the hottest piece of ass Stiles has ever laid eyes on.

“Dude, could you be any more obvious?”

“Yes. Yes, I absolutely could,” Stiles assures him.

They sit down in their usual seats. The professor passes around her attendance sheet before beginning her lecture. Stiles chews on the string of his hoodie and tries his best to keep his eyes off Derek, but it’s impossible. He looks good doing everything, even taking notes, a task he undertakes with surprising diligence.

“Scott, I’m in love,” Stiles sighs. His hoodie string flops between his teeth.

“Mr. Stilinski, did you say something?” The professor asks. The entire class turns to face him, including Derek Hale. Stiles gulps.

“Uh...no.”

“You don’t want to comment on the 1940 invasion of Great Britain? Maybe you could share something from your last paper. I just read it, it was really brilliant.”

Stiles puffs air into his cheeks. “Okay...so um. So you’re saying it might’ve been possible for the Luftwaffe to succeed had they had radar. But the thing is, they did have radar. They just didn’t know how to exploit it. And even so, there’s no point only talking about the RAF’s superiority over the Luftwaffe when the real answer to the impossibility of a successful Sealion operation is the Royal Navy and, maybe even more importantly, the Germans’ lack of a strong navy to compete with. Churchill just pretends like it was the Royal Air Force because...well it looks much more heroic, doesn’t it? When the little underdog wins?”

The professor smiles, but Stiles isn’t looking at her. The rest of the class has turned around at this point, bored out of their minds, but not Derek Hale. His chin is propped on his hand, and his stare is hard and inscrutable. Stiles leans back in his chair, fighting every urge to wink at him.

“How do you know all that?” Scott hisses next to him, furiously writing down everything Stiles just said.

“Dude, it’s literally all in the reading. That’s the trick: do the reading.”

Scott deflates sadly. “But it’s so long.”

Stiles grimaces, patting him on the back. “Glad you made it to college, buddy.”

Scott flicks him off, and Stiles snorts. He looks back at Derek. His back is turned now. Stiles watches the muscles under his shirt shift as he writes, all broad-shouldered and serious.

--

Stiles sets up his booth all nice for Allison. She’s promoting one of her political fundraisers; it’s not particularly exciting for Stiles to interview her since he and Allison have talked about it before, but it gets him a slew of new listeners. Namely the Greek crowd, since Allison is President of her sorority. The Greek crowd is huge and they run a pretty huge chunk of the university’s social scene. Stiles is already close with a lot of them, but he hopes his new listenership could maybe earn him a DJ spot or something in a venue besides his radio show.

“Dude, thank you so much for doing this,” Stiles says gratefully. Allison beams at him.

“Of course! I mean, it helps me out too, promotionally and everything. Will I see you tonight?” She shoulders her bag and starts to walk towards the door.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Maybe make your own drinks this time?” She suggests teasingly.

“Ha ha very funny!” Stiles calls after her. The door slips closed. “Ah, fuck.”

Stiles is horny. This might be the most sexually deprived he’s ever been in his life, besides like, infancy and early development. He is very, very determined to get laid tonight.

He shows up to Allison’s sorority house with Scott and Isaac and Isaac’s hot friend Erica, who Stiles selfishly latches onto because he wants everyone to know that he hangs out with attractive people. There’s some kind of rule about that, he’s pretty sure. If you’re with a bunch of attractive people, everyone’s minds become tricked into thinking you’re equally cool and attractive. Or something.

Three hours later finds Stiles drunkenly sprawled out on the stairs with a video game console stuck under the waistband of his pants.

“Where are me?” He says groggily, blinking himself into consciousness. He spots Scott, which relieves him. He also sees Lydia, which makes him nervous. Then he sees Matt Daehler, which terrifies him. They hooked up once, two weeks ago, and Matt was genuinely attracted to Stiles, which pleased him, but he was also massively creepy. Stiles is pretty sure he took pictures of him during the act without his permission, which is decidedly rapey behavior.

Suddenly, Matt appears to be materializing in front of him. Stiles blinks again, and suddenly Matt’s image comes into razor-sharp focus. He’s wearing his predatory smile, and Stiles wishes he was sober.

“Oh. Hi,” Stile says dumbly.

“Hey, buddy, how you doin’ there?” Matt is talking to him in that patronizing way that bitches talk to drunk people. Stiles frowns.

“Not yer buddy,” Stiles assures him. He can’t tell if he’s laying down or sitting up, but he’s very dizzy.

“I could be your buddy though,” Matt says.

“Ew.” Stiles can feel his face going slack. He tries to work his facial muscles into a sterner shape. It doesn’t appear to be working, because Matt leans over him fondly and runs his fingers through his hair, like Stiles is some sort of pet.

“How about I help you to the bathroom?”

Stiles feels nauseous. “That...yeah...”

“Alright, come on,” Matt grunts, slinging Stiles’s arm over his shoulder. He half-drags him upstairs to the bathroom.

Stiles can feel himself being manhandled onto a sink. The sensations that follow blur together: a mouth against his, a hand snaking down the front of his pants, a low voice in his ear. He has a hard time opening his eyes. When he finally does, it’s Matt’s face he sees, and Matt’s thumb on his bottom lip, and Matt whispering creepy shit to him.

“Go -- go away,” Stiles tries to say, but he only gets a rough chuckle in his ear in response. “Please -- please don’t, please don’t, please don’t --” He becomes more and more frantic, pushing against Matt’s chest, but he isn’t moving. He is not moving, and his hands are still on Stiles, and Stiles can’t make him leave. “Please go, please go, please go--” He can hear himself getting louder and louder. “Go--!”

The door crashes open, and it scares Stiles so much that he falls back against the mirror.

He hears someone say “fuck,” he hears someone falling to the ground, and he hears loud masculine yelling, then loud masculine arguing, and then more voices. There are too many voices, and Stiles’s head is pounding, and he wants to go home.

He must have passed out, because the last thing he can remember is Derek Hale’s face swimming in front of him, and that could only happen in a dream.

--

Stiles hears Lydia’s voice when he wakes up. She’s rambling on about some TV show she likes, some pretentious HBO shit that only Lydia watches. Stiles lays there for a solid minute or two, listening to her talk over the drum beat pounding in his temples. He tries opening his mouth, and it makes a dry croaking sound, like he’s tugging open the door to a crypt. His mouth feels like Moria. A bunch of little goblin-orc freaks are going to crawl out from between the cobwebs of his teeth and kill him.

“Scott?” He hears someone say. It sounds like Isaac. “I think he’s waking up.”

All Stiles can think is, They better not be having sex while I’m dying over here, they better not be having any motherfucking sex or I’ll--

Scott’s hand falls heavily on his shoulder. “Dude,” he says gently. “I’ve got water. Sit up. Uh, slowly. Yeah, there we go.” He guides Stiles to a sitting position, and Stiles opens his eyes. Scott’s anxious little face is staring back at him, shoving a water bottle into his face.

“Here, drink this, c’mon,” Scott urges. Isaac hovers nervously over his shoulder. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, okay, stop being so dramatic--” Stiles takes the water and chugs it. He finishes the entire bottle, and Isaac rushes to get him another. Scott is still staring at him like Stiles’s entire family just died, and Stiles rolls his eyes again.

“Thanks for the water, man, I’m gonna go brush my teeth--”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott moves out of his way, and Stiles walks into the bathroom. As soon as he sees his reflection, he understands why they looked so concerned. He pretty much looks like death. There are bruises on his neck and wrists. He begins to brush his teeth, but he can’t quite bear looking into the mirror, so he walks back into the room as he brushes.

“Dude, do we have any ibuprofen or tylenol or like, horse tranquilizer in here? My head is killing me.”

“Yeah, I’ll get it.”

Stiles wanders back into the bathroom. He spits out his toothpaste and swills some mouthwash, gargling obnoxiously. He notices the pants he was wearing last night are on the ground, and his boxers are lying next to them.

“So who had the honor of undressing me last night--” He cuts himself off when he hears Lydia’s voice coming from Scott’s laptop. She’s talking about Mos Def, and she’s -- oh fuck. His radio show. She’s covering Stiles’s hungover ass by subbing in for his show.

He closes his eyes. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Scott says. “We...well, we didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ve never missed a show.”

“Yeah...I know.”

Scott holds out two pills in his palm, with another water bottle. Stiles swallows it, looking away from Scott’s big puppy-eyes.

“Thank you,” he says. “For taking care of me, and all.”

“Of course,” Scott says.

“So what...what happened? Last night, I mean.”

Scott swallows, and Stiles notices the little glance he exchanges with Isaac.

“Oh god. I went streaking, didn’t I? Fuck me, why do I always do that? Or...oh no, did I like, destroy something? Like a room, or a car, or just...just my dignity, then?”

“None of those things,” Scott says, a little hoarsely.

“What then? Just the usual embarrassment? Did I try to flirt with some really hot person?”

“No, um...”

Stiles becomes impatient. “Dude, will you just tell me?”

Scott takes a deep breath. “Okay...you know um, you know that guy...from a few weeks ago? You...you hooked up with him. Matt. His name was Matt.”

“Matt Daehler. So what, what about him?”

Scott’s brow furrows. “Stiles, you don’t remember anything?”

“No, I blacked out. I mean, I think I remember seeing him? And...well I can’t remember much after deciding to do body shots, to be honest. Body shots are wrong. They hurt people--”

“Matt tried to have sex with you,” Isaac says, cutting Stiles off. Scott looks at him, very sharply. Isaac looks down at his lap, and Scott puts his hand on his knee, and Stiles feels like he’s watching the scene from faraway.

“Stiles...”

Stiles tries very, very hard to breathe normally. “So what, he tried to -- he tried to fuck me? When I was drunk?” Stiles says. He still feels like he’s breathing too shallowly. His voice sounds thick and high all once, and his throat feels completely dry all over again.

“No...well, well yes, but...he didn’t get the chance to really do anything. I mean, he...like he touched your dick. Which. Well, that’s...that’s pretty bad. You were...really gone, and he took you upstairs to a bathroom and you were like, on the sink and he -- well the way Derek tells it, he had his hand down the front of your pants, and he was holding your wrists and you were pleading with him to stop. That’s what Derek says--”

“Derek?” Stiles furrows his eyebrows. “Derek who?”

“Derek, um...fuck, I forget his last name. He’s a baseball player! And he’s uh, in our history class. You spilled coffee on him once. I was pretty convinced he was a total butthole, but as it turns out--”

Stiles’s face goes white. He can’t generate enough saliva to swallow. He needs to sit down.

“Derek Hale,” he says.

“Yeah! That’s it. Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale was the one who found me last night,” Stiles intones.

“Yeah, yeah, like he was going upstairs because he left his jacket up there in one of the girl’s rooms, and he passed the bathroom and he heard someone yelling ‘stop’ so he thought he’d check in, and -- it was you. He almost killed Matt, I swear to God. That dude’s a fucking animal. I’ve never seen anyone lay into something like before, it was pretty nuts.”

Stiles falls heavily on the foot of his bed, putting his face in his hands. “Ugh, I need some kind of sustenance and my head to not be pounding before I can process this information.”

Isaac promptly begins fixing Stiles a bowl of cereal, which he accepts gratefully. He’s still shooting pleading little looks at Scott, like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.

“Okay, was Derek like...fond?” Stiles asks through a mouthful of cereal. “Did he seem, you know, affectionate? Or was it more of like a strong, silent hero thing? Oh god, how much did I embarrass myself? Was I just like a helpless damsel in distress, or did I put up a good fight?”

Scott grimaced. “Uh, I mean, you were barely conscious. And Derek’s kind of a brood-y dude it seems like. I mean he basically carried you back here, and he wanted you to be safe, for sure.”

Stiles’s eyes go wide. “I should thank him. I should do something. Bake him cookies or do his homework or suck his dick, something.”

“Maybe you could just say thank you like a normal person? Or...do nothing at all? I mean, Matt was attacking you. Derek did what any decent human being should do.”

“Maybe you could go to one of his games,” Isaac suggests. He glances hopefully at Scott, before looking away quickly. “And afterwards, you could, you know, go up to him and stuff.”

Scott pats Isaac’s knee, and Stiles can see the anxiety melt right out him.

“That’s not creepy, is it?” Stiles worries.

“No, I don’t think so,” Scott says. “I mean it’s a pretty weird, creepy situation to begin with. A dude who’s basically a stranger saved you from getting drunk-fondled by a freaky stalker.”

“He’s not a total stranger!” Stiles protests. “I spilled coffee on him once. He glares at me in History like, all the time. Plus, I edited one of his papers in the Writing Center. We’ve had moments, okay. Moments.”

“Is he even gay?” Scott asks.

Shit. Stiles hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know! He could be! Though with my luck, that motherfucker’s probably as straight as an arrow.”

“You could ask Danny,” Isaac suggests. “He knows everyone who’s gay. It’s a little scary actually.”

“You are chock-full of excellent suggestions today, my friend.”

Isaac goes a little pink. Scott gives him a proud smile, and Isaac practically glows under the attention.

Stiles shoots Danny a text. “If Danny doesn’t know, all hope is lost. I swear to god, he has a file on every eligible gay dude on campus.”

Danny doesn’t know, but he assures Stiles that he’s intent on finding out personally. Stiles asks him as politely as he can to retract his claim on Derek, which he thinks is only fair because 1) Danny is hot shit and can fuck pretty much whoever he wants whereas Stiles’s struggle for the d is much more of, well, a struggle. 2) Stiles has never been so attracted to anyone in his life. He might never be this attracted to anyone ever again, and he barely knows him.

--

Lydia, Scott, and Isaac agree to join Stiles at the baseball game. He claims he needs them for moral support, and also he doesn’t want to look like he doesn’t have friends.

“This sport is stupid,” Lydia comments, examining her nails. “I mean seriously: why is it that these half-evolved Neanderthals get their entire tuition paid for just for hitting a ball with a glorified stick? I have to have above a 4.0 and a perfect SAT score for a measly little merit scholarship.”

Stiles ignores her. He is mustering every inch of his over caffeinated, ADHD concentration on Derek’s ass.

“Lydia, please be quiet for a second. I’m trying to pray.”

She snorts. “Pray? For what?”

“To our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ for forcing baseball players to wear those tight, white pants. Look at Derek Hale’s ass, Lydia. Look at it. God is written all over those ass cheeks. I don’t think I can comfortably call myself an Atheist after witnessing this masterpiece.”

Lydia follows his gaze. Derek Hale is standing on the pitcher’s diamond. His face remains a perfect, brooding mask, even when sweat breaks across his forehead. They watch carefully as he rears his leg back and pitches, the ball flying from his fingertips with perfect form.

“Damn.” Lydia leans back and fans herself. “Can I whistle? Would that embarrass you?”

“By all means.”

The sun beats down on them as the game continues. UBH is winning, mostly thanks to Derek’s flawless pitching, and that’s not even Stiles being overly generous.

Scott rolls his eyes. “He’s not that good.”

Isaac raises his eyebrows at him. “Scott.”

“What?” Scott says lowly. “Do you think he’s good looking?”

Isaac squirms. “Oh, come on.”

“What, it’s just a question,” Scott shrugs, biting back a smile.

Isaac flicks his shoulder. “It’s an unfair question.”

“Oh, it’s unfair, huh? Why’s that?”

“Stop!” Isaac whines, leaning away when Scott tries to nip at his neck. “There are people everywhere!” He hisses in protest. Scott just tightens his grip around Isaac’s shoulders.

“Is he more attractive than me?” Scott asks lowly, right against Isaac’s ear. Isaac flushes. He’s already sweating and pink-cheeked from the heat, and Scott isn’t making it any easier.

“No,” Isaac’s voice wavers.

“Are you sure?” Scott pushes, his lips hot against Isaac’s jaw.

“Okay, can you guys stop your weird mating ritual please?” Lydia orders. “You’re in public.”

“Sorry,” Scott says, with big apologetic eyes. As soon as she turns away, he presses one last quick kiss to Isaac’s cheek, who pinches him in return.

“Wait, so like, what’s your game plan dude?” Scott calls over to Stiles.

Stiles eyes are as big as saucers. “I don’t know! I have no idea what I’m doing! I guess I’ll just -- call out his name? Pretend I’m a fan?”

“Pretty sure you don’t have to pretend to be a fan,” Lydia says wryly.

“I want to be more than a fan, though! I want to be a groupie. I have high aspirations, Lydia, I’m a very ambitious man.”

As soon as the game ends, Stiles starts gnawing on his nails, which are already chewed to the bone. “Shit. How do I look? Like a sweaty 14-year old squirrel right? Shit, what do I think I’m doing, why am I here, why do I ever leave the comforts of my bed--”

Lydia shakes him by the shoulders. “Snap out of it, Stilinski.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, nodding furiously. “I can do this.”

“That’s my boy.”

Lydia widens her eyes at Scott and Isaac as soon as Stiles’s back is turned. They return the expression.

“Hey, uh...Derek?” Stiles calls out. His voice almost cracks. He wants to set himself on fire. “Derek Hale!” He screams. Might as well commit.

Derek turns away from his teammates, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks out across the stands. Stiles swears he sees a hint of a smile cross his face when he meets his eyes, though it could just be a trick of the sun, or an angry twitch, or something.

“Uh...should I like...come down?” Stiles yells. He’s grateful that the rest of the crowd has left for the most part, because he sounds like a complete idiot.

“No, just hang on.” Derek doesn’t have to yell loudly to be heard.

“We’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” Lydia claps her hand on his shoulder. “Good luck babe.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks.”

Stiles starts chewing nervously on his bottom lip. He runs his fingers through his sweaty hair. It’s grown out pretty long now, since he followed Lydia’s advice. He’s also wearing tighter pants, once again at Lydia’s discretion. His nutsack hates him, and it’s impossible to hide a boner, but altogether he has to admit it’s an improvement. He ditched the plaid for a plain black v-neck, and he swapped his converse for some white sneakers. He actually feels mildly confident.

Until Derek starts walking towards him, as cool and serious and collected as ever, and then all of Stiles’s insecurities start swimming around his overactive brain.

Then Derek’s right in front of him, and he has to pretend like he’s okay. “Um,” he stutters. “Okay. So...this is. This is really awkward,” Stiles starts. He takes a deep breath. “But I wanted to thank you for--”

Derek cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. Stiles gulps. He musters every ounce of courage to look up at Derek’s face. It feels a little bit like staring into the sun.

“Don’t mention it,” Derek says, staring down into Stiles’s eyes. His eyes are blue, Stiles thinks. Or maybe they’re green. They’re pale and beautiful and staring into Stiles’s soul, not unkindly. “Matt Daehler’s a punk. I would’ve done it for anyone.”

Stiles’s heart falls, just a little. Of course it’s nice that Derek is just that heroic of a guy, who would help anyone who needed saving. But a small part of him can’t help but wish that Derek would especially do it for Stiles.

“Just let me thank you, okay, big guy?” Stiles says. “Most people wouldn’t jump to my rescue like that, especially for someone they don’t even know.”

Derek frowns. “But I do know you. You’re Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles’s eyes are huge in his face. “You remembered my name?”

Derek seems to remember himself, and he stiffens. “Yeah, it’s kind of a hard name to forget,” he says tonelessly. “You’re in my class. You helped me with that paper. And you have that radio show, the one with the bad 2pac pun.”

“Oh my god, do you listen to that?”

Derek almost cracks a smile. “Not really. I don’t really know anything about music.”

“Oh. Well you should listen then! To uh...learn. Except, maybe don’t. I say some really embarrassing things on there.”

“You might be in the wrong line of work if you don’t want people to hear the embarrassing things you have to say,” Derek suggests wryly, lifting an eyebrow.

“Ah. Touche, my friend. Touche.” Stiles laughs nervously. Derek studies his face for a moment, in a way that strikes Stiles as very subversive to normal social cues. It’s almost creepy how intently this guy stares at people.

There’s a long, awkward silence before Stiles says, “Well I uh...I guess I’ll be going then. You’ve probably got...ah, fuck. I’m not going to pretend like I know what baseball players do after games.”

“They drink,” Derek says.

“Ah. Right. Okay. Well, bye then. Uh, thank you again for uh...yeah. And congrats on the win!” Stiles turns and starts walking back up the stands. He hears a throat clear behind him.

“Hey, Stiles?”

Stiles freezes. He tries not to squeak when he responds, “Yeah?”

“You’re welcome to join us. Drink, I mean. I live on Benton, in the big house at the end. You can bring your friends if you want,” Derek offers.

Stiles turns to look at him. Derek looks cold but not unkind. Stiles know he’s probably fucking himself over, but before he knows it he’s saying “yes” and “awesome” and “see you then, buddy” and Derek’s smiling at Stiles like he’s something amusing. When Stiles turns away, he can still feel the smile on his back, even warmer than the sun.

--

Stiles leans against the wall, nursing his beer. He doesn’t want to get fucked up tonight. In fact, he can’t get fucked up tonight. He’s not afraid of another Matt situation necessarily: or, he is, but Lydia and Scott and Isaac are watching him like hawks. It’s a little embarrassing, but Stiles is extremely grateful.

There’s also the matter of Derek. Derek is here, and he cannot, cannot, cannot embarrass himself. Derek looks good as usual: leather jacket, clean-shaven face, a smile, for once. Stiles just tries not to openly gape, but Derek catches him a few times, and Stiles turns away quickly and starts to babble at the person standing nearest to him, cursing himself inwardly.

Two hours later, he’s stumbling and slurring and threatening to dance on tables. Old habits die hard, apparently. Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Allison, and Danny have all joined him: Danny is flirting with the gay baseball player, Scott and Isaac are challenging two other baseball players in pong, and Allison and Lydia are almost as drunk as Stiles. Stiles was playing DJ, until he got too wasted to take it seriously. Now he’s following Derek around like a puppy, gleefully discovering that Derek is almost as drunk as him. It’s almost disconcerting how happy Derek looks when he’s drunk: Stiles is used to seeing him as cold and stony and beautiful as a statue. Now, he’s flushed and laughing and indulging Stiles’s little-kid crush on him.

“This place is ridiculous. College students shouldn’t be allowed to live in houses this nice,” Stile says, following Derek to the kitchen. Derek grabs two more beers, opening them like a gentleman before handing one to Stiles. “Who even lives here?”

“Me,” Derek says simply, taking a long drink from his bottle.

“What?” Stiles splutters. “You can’t be rich and smart and baseball and this!” He dramatically sweeps his hands over Derek’s front. “That’s not fair!” He moans.

Derek smiles. It’s almost shy.

“You should smile more,” Stiles sighs dreamily, leaning across the counter. He plants his chin in his hand and stares up at Derek. “You’re normally so...growly.”

“Growly?” Derek raises an eyebrow. He looks terribly amused.

“Yeah. Like. Frowny. Broody. Growly.”

Derek’s eyebrows go up even higher.

“Oh shut up eyebrows!” Stiles groans. “You know what I mean.” Then, as an afterthought, “It is hot though.”

“What?” Derek chuckles. “My eyebrows?”

“Well...yeah. But...the growly thing. I like it. I like you smiley too. I like all of you.”

Derek stares at him so long and hard that Stiles starts to feel shy, even with all the alcohol swimming through his blood.

He could never stand a silence, so Stiles clears his throat and says, stupidly: “Do you throw a lot of parties like this?”

Derek’s trance seems to break. “Uh. No, actually. I don’t go to a lot of parties, to be honest.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Stiles can’t help but give Derek a long, lingering once-over. “Bit of a lone wolf, then? Yeah, you would be, you beautiful brooding bastard--”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything,” Stiles smiles innocently. “Can I see your room?” He asks, rocking back and forth on his heels. Derek is staring at him like Stiles is prey, and Stiles wants to seize the opportunity before Derek decides that Stiles is too annoying or scrawny or otherwise unworthy to be prey. “Please? I like seeing people’s rooms. It gives me a sense of character, you know?”

Derek looks him over, as if considering. Stiles tries to look as innocent and adorable as possible. Derek’s throat works, and eventually he huffs out a rough, “Yeah,” and Stiles tries not to cheer out loud.

He follows Derek up the stairs to his room. It registers dimly that he should maybe be afraid, but then he remembers: Derek is the one who saved you. He’s not going to take advantage of you, plus he’s just as drunk. Derek probably isn’t even attracted to you. You have nothing to worry about.

If anything, Derek is the one who should be worried about Stiles: as soon as the door closes, Stiles musters every ounce of liquid courage he has and pushes Derek’s 200 pounds of muscle against the wall, trying to kiss him. Derek lets Stiles press their mouths together for a total of three seconds before he shoves him away, wiping his mouth. Stiles stumbles back with a gulp. His lips are still tingling. Derek looks at him sternly.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Stiles starts babbling. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’d...I’d leave, but you’re sort of blocking the door--”

“Stiles, shut up.”

Stiles’s eyes go wide as saucers.

“I don’t...” Derek blinks and stops, like his head is spinning. “I don’t want you to leave. I just don’t want to--”

“Don’t want to what? Kiss me? Look at me? Be around me? Look, I get it, it’s okay, but if you don’t mind I’d rather you not explain why you’re not into me because I’m already pretty deep in a self-esteem deficit and I’d rather just, I don’t know, drink until I pass out so I can forget that I was ever stupid enough to come on to a guy like you, okay?”

“Stiles,” Derek barks. Stiles’s mouth snaps shut. He finally looks up, and Derek’s eyes are much softer than he expected.

“I wasn’t going to say any of that,” Derek continues. He’s staring at Stiles in that way that makes him feel shy. He feels like hiding. “I was going to say that I don’t want to be like Matt.”

Stiles snorts. “Really?”

“Yes,” Derek says seriously, and Stiles tries not to laugh in his face.

“This could never be like Matt. I don’t like Matt. I like you. If you randomly hit on me, it would be cool because I would be returning the attraction.”

“Yeah, but...you’re drunk.”

“Derek, I’m always drunk,” Stiles says loudly. “Okay? So please don’t be noble right now, because as hot as it is, this is like a once in a lifetime opportunity for me right now and I can’t really deal with your heroic bullshit. It’s getting in the way of your dick being in my mouth.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and his eyes flick up and down Stiles’s body in a way that makes him feel hot and squirmy and nervous in the best way.

“Please let me suck your dick,” Stiles begs. “Please? People tell me I’m really good at it.”

Derek laughs. His eyes are soft. Stiles tentatively comes closer, taking Derek’s face in his hands. He sweeps his thumbs over his cheekbones, over the scruff of his jaw, and presses their lips together.

“We shouldn’t,” Derek mumbles against him, but Stiles can feel how hard he is. He brushes his lips over his mouth.

“Please let me,” Stiles says. He glances up at Derek beneath his eyelashes. Derek’s eyes look dark and hungry, and he takes Stiles by the waist, pulling them flush together. Then, he’s kissing him. It isn’t sweet and soft like Stiles’s kisses; it’s hard and rough and his hands feel huge around Stiles’s waist, gripping him tightly. He bites Stiles’s bottom lip, and Stiles almost whimpers. His knees start to feel weak, and his hands fall to Derek’s shoulders, squeezing on for dear life. Derek’s mouth ghosts down Stiles’s jaw to nuzzle his neck, and it’s hot and animalistic and fuck if this isn’t everything Stiles dreamed of.

Stiles twists his hand between their bodies to grab Derek’s dick through his jeans. Derek makes this low, punched-out noise, and Stiles can’t help but give him a filthy grin. Derek’s teeth scrape against his neck, and Stiles squirms his hand into Derek’s jeans, panting roughly.

Then Derek’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him to his knees. Stiles looks up at him, smiling innocently. Derek takes Stiles’s jaw in one of his huge, gorgeous hands, tilting his chin up. His eyes trace every inch of Stiles’s face before pushing him into his crotch. Stiles yanks Derek’s pants down to his ankles, mouthing over his underwear until Derek growls that he’s a tease.

Stiles smirks, folding his underwear down until he’s staring at the head of Derek’s dick. He gulps. It’s huge. Pornstar huge. Stiles wants to choke on it; with a dick this big, he’ll probably choke on it whether he wants to or not.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Stiles breathes. He glances up. Derek runs his fingers through Stiles’s hair, smirking. He looks fucking gorgeous. His cheeks are still flushed with alcohol, and Derek moves his fingers through his hair like Stiles is something precious that he owns.

Until Stiles finally puts his mouth on him, and then he’s rough. Stiles starts with a kiss to the head, which is a little embarrassingly worshipful, maybe, but Stiles is so far past shame at this point that he can’t bring himself to care. He sucks Derek down like the professional cocksucker that he is, and Derek’s fingers wind through his hair, tugging and guiding and setting the pace. Stiles can feel his throat spasm a few times, and his gag reflex acts up a little, but that only seems to encourage Derek more, the kinky fuck. Stiles chokes a little, but he fits one hand around the base of Derek’s cock and the other around his own, frantically working himself over as Derek completely takes over, fucking Stiles’s face with abandon. Stiles can feel tears springing to his eyes but he doesn’t even mind. He runs his tongue over a certain spot under the head and looks up at Derek, all wet-eyed and red-mouthed, spit slick on his chin, and Derek’s staring down at him like Stiles is a gift from god. Stiles keeps staring up at him, twisting a firm grip on the base of Derek’s dick while pushing the head against the flat of his tongue. Derek presses his thumb into Stiles’s cheek, watching his dick fit into the hollow. Stiles kisses the head of his cock, licking with slow, worshipful swipes until it becomes too much for Derek to bear. He takes Stiles by the back of the head and shoves him all the way down. Stiles still doesn’t take his eyes off of him, even when tears well up, and Derek runs his fingers sweetly through his hair, combing the sweaty strands off his forehead. He whispers that he’s good, and Stiles closes his eyes.

“I’m gonna come, Stiles,” he warns him, voice dark and gravelly. Stiles just nods frantically, and Derek comes down his throat. Stiles swallows as fast as he can to accommodate him, but some of it slips out of the corners, sliding down his chin. Derek collapses against the door when he’s done, pulling Stiles up with him under his arms like he’s a child.

He stares at him. Stiles is still panting and hard, dick pressing urgently against Derek’s thigh. The intensity of Derek’s gaze makes him nervous. He can only imagine how debauched he must look: with tears and come and spit and who knows what other fluids streaking down his cheeks. Derek smiles. He kisses Stiles, and he smiles, wiping the mess off his chin with his thumb, which Stiles can’t help but suck into his mouth. He grins around his thumb, grateful that Derek looks fond instead of regretful.

“You’re amazing,” Derek says. Stiles’s heart jumps up to his throat. He feels dizzy, drunk under the intensity of Derek’s stare, and he can’t help but whine a little, rubbing himself against Derek’s thigh.

“Can I finish you off?” Derek whispers.

“No, no you can’t,” Stiles says sarcastically. Derek bites at Stiles’s jaw before pushing him over the bed. He lays him down, bearing over him on all fours, and Stiles can’t help but feel like the luckiest prey alive.

Derek slips Stiles pants down, lifting his hips off the bed. He takes off both their shirts. He moves his mouth over every inch of Stiles he can get to: the pale skin stretched over his lean abdomen, the moles on his shoulders, the long sharp bow of his collarbone. He drags his teeth over Stiles’s hip bone then back up to his neck, sucking bruising into the thin skin over this throat while his hand works at Stiles’s cock. Stiles keeps his hands fisted in Derek’s hair, which is surprisingly soft for such a big, scary dude. His hands are callused from baseball, and they feel so rough and huge and incredible on him that Stiles is afraid Derek’s going to ruin other men for him forever.

“Ah, fuck,” Stiles groans when Derek’s thumb moves over the head. “Shit, shit, shit, okay, dude, ah, please, I’m about to--”

Derek swallows the rest of Stiles’s noises with his mouth, kissing the breath out of him as Stiles spills into his hand, hips squirming against Derek’s. He falls limp when he’s finished, exhausted and sated and the most content he’s felt in weeks. He closes his eyes, listening to the bed springs shift as Derek climbs off of him to wash his hands. It occurs to him that Derek’s bed is incredibly comfortable, and his sheets are very soft, and he would very much like to fall asleep here.

He can feel himself drifting off, and he digs his nails into his wrist to prevent himself from falling asleep. A shadow looms over him, and Stiles looks up. Derek is holding a wet rag in his hand, and Stiles closes his eyes, letting Derek clean him up. He’s gentle, lifting Stiles’s wrists carefully like he’s something fragile, brushing his fingers against the corner of his mouth. Stiles opens his eyes, completely thrown by the treatment, and Derek kisses him.

“Can I stay here?” Stiles blurts out. He squeezes his eyes shut as soon as he says it. He feels Derek’s hand cradle his cheek, and he opens his eyes carefully. Derek’s eyes are incredibly fond, and Stiles’s eyes go big and quiet and hopeful. He knows how vulnerable he’s making himself, but he doesn’t care. He’s always been this way. He doesn’t know how else to be.

“Yeah,” Derek says softly. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.” Stiles presses his wrist to his mouth to stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. Derek presses one last kiss to the top of Stiles’s head before climbing into bed behind him.

Stiles feels safe. He feels warm and happy and before he knows it, he’s completely drifted to sleep.

--

Stiles wakes up with his face squashed against a warm, solid wall of muscle. He blinks himself into consciousness, and finds himself staring straight at the beautiful sleeping face of none other than Derek Hale.

He falls off the bed.

Fortunately, Stiles barely weighs more than 150 pounds, so he barely makes any noise, even if he is one clumsy motherfuck. He looks at the clock. It’s 6:30 AM. He sends a brief prayer of thanks to his dependable hangover body clock, because now he gets to avoid the awkward morning-after bit where Derek realizes who he drunkenly slept with before promptly and politely kicking him out.

Stiles shimmies into his pants and shrugs on his t-shirt before examining himself in the mirror. His eyes are puffy from crying and he’s got a smudge of dried come on his chin, plus lots of finger-shaped bruises scattered over his hips and wrists and neck, courtesy of Derek. Stiles presses his thumb into a mess of purple on his neck, and it aches in the best way.

He pauses at the door to get one last, long look at Derek. He looks soft and sweet in his sleep, sheets tangled around his waist, huge arms hugging his pillow. Stiles sighs and begins his trek down the stairs. The living area is trashed. There’s a kid passed out on the couch, and another in front of the TV. Couch Kid has permanent marker scribbles all over his face. Stiles walks into the kitchen, which isn’t as bad. He cleans up some of the beer cans and trash. When he’s finished, it almost looks livable again. He hopes Derek doesn’t have to deal with the mess by himself, but Stiles is pretty sure some of the other baseball players are his roommates. Before he leaves, Stiles finds a notepad and pen in one of the drawers, and he scribbles his name and phone number on it, plus a little note that says For Derek: Sorry for passing out on you last night!!!! I tried cleaning up the kitchen and living room as best I could. Call me some time if you want to hang out!

He goes back to his place before heading to the studio. He creeps in as quietly as he can: Scott is spooned behind Isaac in Scott’s bed, and both of them are still wearing their clothes from the night before, though Isaac apparently lost his shirt at some point. Stiles changes into new clothes, brushes his teeth and borrows one of Isaac’s scarfs to cover up the marks on his neck.

The first thing Lydia does when he arrives at the studio is pull off the scarf to look at his neck. She lets out a low whistle.

“Honestly, do you think I’m an idiot?” She smirks. “Stiles, you never wear scarves. You might as well just cover it up with makeup.” She leans in close, examining him. “Jesus Christ, did you hook up with an animal? This looks vaguely bestial.” She pokes the bruise with her fingernail, and Stiles yelps.

“Yup, I’m into dogs now, actually, did I forget to mention that?”

Lydia flicks his ear, shoving a cup of coffee into his hand. “Whatever, Stilinski. Get in the booth, your show’s about to start.”

Stiles flops down into his chair, slipping on his headset.

“You’re listening to All Earz on Me. This is for the hangover crowd, who I’m assuming are the only people awake at this ungodly hour. Drink some water, get some coffee, and listen to Kanye West sing to you about not being able to handle your booze. Here’s ‘Hold My Liquor.’ You’re welcome.”

He turns off his mic, and Lydia appears in the doorway.

“Spill,” she says, taking a bite out of her breakfast sandwich.

Stiles stares at it mournfully. He gives her his best puppy-eyes. “Did you get me one?”

She rolls her eyes and hands him her extra. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually Satan. Now spill.”

“I uh...blew Derek Hale,” Stiles says through a mouthful of sandwich. Lydia’s eyes go impossibly wide.

“What?” She slaps his shoulder. “Seriously?”

Stiles nods.

She looks impressed. “Damn. Stilinski’s got game. How the fuck did you manage that?”

Stiles looks vaguely affronted. “What do you mean manage? I’m very desirable for your information.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow.

Stiles’s expression falls, and he sighs with defeat. “I begged him to let me suck his dick, basically.”

She snorts. “How drunk were you?”

“Eh, very. He was too. And then I sort of...passed out in his bed. I did ask permission though! He actually seemed...like. I dunno. Really cool. He wasn’t a dick. At all, actually. Though a lot of that was probably because he was intoxicated.”

“So you slept together?”

“Yeah, in the...non-euphemistic sense.”

“Did you leave your number or anything?”

Stiles nods, lifting up a finger because the song is about to end.

“Alright guys, that was from Kanye’s latest, Yeezus. You’re probably in the mood for something low-key so as not to overwhelm your pounding, Skrillex-abused headaches. I’ve got a very mellow playlist for you all this morning. Here’s ‘Thanksgiving Moon’ by DM Stith. You’re welcome.”

“He’s not gonna call me,” Stiles says, slipping his headset around his neck. “But hey, might as well give it a shot, right?”

Lydia rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so pessimistic.”

“It’s called being realistic. Something people like you never have to think about. Speaking of, how much ass did you get last night?”

Lydia shrugs. “Not much. You kind of snagged the hottest baseball player,” she winks.

She ruffles his hair, leaning over to kiss his head before leaving Stiles alone to smile to himself.

“That was DM Stith. Here’s Deerhunter with ‘Nothing Ever Happened.’”

Nothing Ever Happened, Stiles thinks. He prays it isn’t a prediction.

--

By noon, Stiles is ready to rock back and forth in the fetal position while blasting ‘Somebody to Love.’ He keeps his phone clutched tightly in his hand. It doesn’t vibrate, beep, ring, nothing. He feels like throwing it.

“Dude, chill out, he might not even be awake yet--” Scott suggests, but Stiles cuts him off with a Look.

“Have you seen Derek Hale? He looks like the kind of dude who gets up every morning at the crack of dawn and runs a 10K. He’s awake.”

Scott and Isaac look at him sadly, which Stiles cannot stand. “I even cleaned his kitchen this morning. What kind of pathetic self-pitying douche-wipe even does that? Me. The answer is me. I do that. God, I feel like an asshole,” Stiles lies back in the grass. They’re studying on the lawn again, a decision Stiles regretted as soon as he stepped outside, because if they’re out in public that means he could run into Derek, and he just isn’t ready to face his cold, stony indifference quite yet.

“Stiles, seriously, you gotta calm down. It hasn’t even been a full 12 hours since you saw him.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Stiles sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Ugh. Someone hide my phone so I’m forced to stop checking it, please.”

Scott takes it and slips it into his backpack.

Stiles flops onto his stomach and starts reading Dubliners, another decision he regrets because it’s so goddamn depressing. “Joyce, why you gotta play me like that, man,” Stiles pouts, tossing the book away from him. He lays facedown and listens to Beyonce’s “Diva,” as directed by Lydia. Surprisingly, it somewhat works, until he sits up and sees Derek Hale walking across the quad.

“Shit. Shit shit shit,” Stiles hisses, scrambling to his knees. He looks around frantically before diving into Scott’s lap, hiding his face under his backpack.

“Dude, this isn’t cool,” Scott says, but Stiles shushes him.

“Is he gone?”

“Who?”

“Derek!”

“Uh, yeah...I think so...”

Stiles sits up. He’s pretty sure Derek is staring right at him.

“Fuck. Scott, what do I do?” Stiles whimpers. “I look like a crazy person.”

His voice fades off, because Derek just walks away, ignoring him completely.

Stiles frowns. “Okay, did he just...not actually see me, or did he ignore me?”

“I dunno,” Scott says. He doesn’t look up from his laptop.

“Scott, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you don’t care about this at all.”

“I’d say you’re right.”

Stiles punches his arm. “This is very serious! This is the potential love of my life!”

Scott raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, that might be a little overdramatic,” Stiles concedes, deflating. He idly flips through his book, hands moving restlessly.

By the evening, Derek still hasn’t texted him. During this time, Stiles has listened to I Am Sasha Fierce all the way through a total of three times, drunk four cups of coffee, read Dubliners, eaten three plates of nachos, and masturbated to memories of last night twice.

“Scott, I am sad.”

Scott pets Stiles’s hair. “Maybe you should take a shower,” he suggests gently, scratching at Stiles’s scalp.

“Why? Will that cheer me up?”

“I dunno. But it will make you smell less bad.”

Stiles stands up, slapping Scott’s hands away.

“You’re the worst person I know. Besides Lydia. And Matt. And Derek Hale. And everybody else who contributes to the daily desecration of my precious dignity.”

Scott sighs, flopping back on his pillows.

--

The next day is Monday, which means Scott and Stiles’s 11:00 AM History class, which means Derek Hale.

Stiles changes his outfit three times before settling on slightly tighter-than-average jeans and a plain white t-shirt because it distracts from his blinding paleness. His palms start sweating on the walk to class, and he can’t stop looking over his shoulder.

“Scott, I can’t go inside,” he hisses. They’re a foot away from the door.

“Dude, come on.” Scott takes Stiles by the shoulder and practically manhandles him inside. Stiles nearly wets himself when he sees Derek sitting in his usual seat, twirling his pen between his fingers. He’s wearing his usual leather jacket, which Stiles apparently has some sort of Pavlovian response to because he immediately has to wipe the drool off his chin.

Scott ushers Stiles to their normal seats. As soon as his ass hits the chair, Stiles sinks down as low as possible.

“Did he look at me?” He whispers. His heart slams against his ribs.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Scott pats Stiles shoulder, and Stiles’s face falls miserably.

Then, Derek turns his head. His eyes are only on Stiles for a second before sliding back to the front, but Stiles can’t make out his expression. He bites his lip, and stupidly feels a little bit like crying.

Derek ignores him for the rest of class. Scott puts his hand on top of Stiles’s, runs his thumb over his knuckles, and blessedly doesn’t say a word.

Neither of them talk much for the rest of the day. If Isaac and Allison notice Stiles’s uncharacteristic silence during lunch, they are tactful enough not mention it.

“I’m being stupid,” Stiles says on their walk back to their dorm. “I need to just get over this. God, you’d think I’d be fucking used to this by now...”

“I told you, Derek’s a butthole. Men are buttholes.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at Scott. “Dude.”

“What? I know I’m a butthole. You’re definitely a butthole. All men are buttholes,” Scott says gravely. “We’re just born that way.”

Stiles looks down at his phone. No new messages. Scott is right. Derek Hale is just another butthole. He’s the most attractive butthole Stiles has ever seen, but still a butthole nonetheless.

It’s about 8 o’clock when Isaac shows up, and Stiles bites his tongue. He and Scott pretty much keep their hands off each other until about 10, when they’re getting ready to shower.

“Hey, Stiles,” Scott asks, standing at the foot of Stiles’s bed wearing his most effective puppy eyes. “Is it cool if--”

“Oh, come on, man!” Stiles protests. He sees Isaac duck his head in shame in the corner. “Can’t you go to his place for one night?” He addresses Isaac. “Look, Lahey, I’m sorry. You know I love you, kid, but seriously? One night. Just one. Please?”

Scott looks at Isaac, who nods quickly. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” Isaac says, eyes huge and apologetic. “I wasn’t even thinking--”

“It’s okay, it makes sense, I know I’m making this a way bigger deal than I need to but for some reason, I think if I see you guys sleeping together all adorable as usual I might just burst into tears, and trust me, for your benefit, you don’t want that to happen. It’s not a pretty sight. There’s usually lots of snot involved.”

Scott sits next to him on the bed. “I could sleep in your bed, tonight.”

“Please tell me I haven’t descended to that level of patheticness yet,” Stiles begs. “That’s an adorable and ridiculous offer that I absolutely cannot accept.” He shoves Scott off his bed. “Go on, be with your boyfriend.”

They both stare at him worriedly. “Are you sure, man?” Scott asks. “If you don’t want to be alone, I could--”

“Nope, nope, please stop, I’m okay. Seriously, I’ve already turned this into a way bigger deal than it should be. A hot dude doesn’t want to be my boyfriend, it’s not the end of the world. I’m a big boy. You know what, a little bit of alone time could do me some good, actually,” Stiles lies.

After a little more persuading, they finally leave. Stiles stares at the ceiling. His room is far too quiet. He almost walks down the street to get ice cream, but that strikes him as too pathetic, even for him.

He settles for stuffing his face with Cheetos and stalking Derek’s Facebook profile, which strikes him as just pathetic enough.

--

“Good morning, everyone! You’re listening to All Earz on Me. Guess what today is? It’s Throwback Thursday! Woo hoo! First, some annoucements: Jackson Whittemore will be on the show this Sunday talking about his favorite hair products. Just kidding, he’s gonna tell us about all the ways he’s gonna fix up Student Council. Until then, here’s Ghostface Killah with ‘Daytona 500.’ You’re welcome.”

Scott breathes a sigh of relief. There was a part of him that was genuinely terrified that Stiles might mention Derek Hale. Isaac stirs a little, burying his face into the crook of Scott’s neck. Scott runs his fingers up and down Isaac’s spine, and Isaac makes a happy, purring sort of noise. His eyelashes drag against Scott’s skin as he blinks himself awake. Scott kisses Isaac’s nose, which wrinkles adorably.

“Is that Stiles’s radio show?” He asks sleepily, propping his chin on Scott’s chest.

“Yup,” Scott says, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Isaac’s neck. “No mention of Derek yet, thank god.”

“Please don’t let him do that,” Isaac moans. “I’d die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“You and me both, dude.”

Isaac sighs, laying back so he can look at Scott. “We should go find Derek and beat him up.”

Scott laughs. “You always want to beat people up.”

Isaac smirks. “True.” He sits up. “You made coffee yet?”

Scott shakes his head.

“Tsk, tsk,” Isaac says. He climbs off the bed to stretch, and Scott doesn’t attempt to hide his appreciation of his body. Isaac laughs, pushing Scott’s face away. “You always leave the housewifey shit for me.”

“But you’re so good at it!” Scott says earnestly.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Scott sits back, listening to the drip and gurgle and hiss of the coffee machine, the sounds of Isaac brushing his teeth, and Biggie playing from his laptop. He’s happy. He’s really fucking happy. He just wishes Stiles could be happy like this too.

Isaac brings him a cup of coffee, snuggling up next to him in bed. “We should go out this weekend. Not just to a party but to like...a bar or something. We could play wingmen for Stiles,” Isaac says, kissing the corner of Scott’s mouth. His breath smells minty fresh, and it makes him smile.

Scott blows lightly on his coffee. “Yeah, that might work.”

“If not, at least he’ll be out having fun, you know? Instead of cooped up inside feeling sorry for himself.” Isaac rests his cheek against Scott’s chest, and Scott puts an arm around his shoulders, shifting his laptop on his thighs.

“For everyone getting stressed about midterms, here’s my advice: Don’t. Just don’t. Just sit back and relax, kids. Because guess what? Nothing matters. Your midterms don’t matter, nothing here in college matters, and everything is stupid and everyone’s a butthole. Your professors are buttholes, your significant other’s a butthole, your mom’s a butthole, I’m a butthole, everyone. No one is excused. ‘When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of buttholes.’ That’s a direct quote from our late, great William Shakespeare, ladies and gentlemen. Here’s A Tribe Called Quest with ‘Electric Relaxation.’ You’re welcome.”

Isaac grimaces. Scott groans. It was going to be a long, long weekend.

--

“Where are you taking me?” Stiles demands.

“Stiles, we told you a hundred times. We’re going to a bar,” Scott says patiently.

“Why?” Stiles whines. “I had the perfect plan! Buy a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. Smoke a bowl or two. Watch It’s Always Sunny until we pass out in a food coma. Perfect. Plan.”

“Stiles, that’s the saddest plan I’ve heard in my life. It’s a Saturday night. You’re wasting your youth.”

“My youth?” Stiles spits. “Pah! Fuck my youth. I’m a wizened, cynical old man now--”

“You’re nineteen.”

Stiles glares at him, maintaining it as long as possible until he and Isaac practically have to manhandle him into the bar.

“Is this a gay bar?” Stiles demands. He looks around and sees plenty of attractive men.

“Of course, dude,” Scott says. “You hang here with Isaac, I’ll get our drinks.”

Stiles’s mouth tightens, and he directs his glare at Isaac. “You can puppy-eyes at me all you want, pretty boy. I still hate you, and your man.”

“We just want you to be happy,” Isaac starts innocently. Stiles rolls his eyes. “C’mon,” Isaac takes Stiles arm. “Let’s scope out hot guys.”

Stiles growls under his breath, but allows himself to be escorted over to a booth. He’s momentarily grateful that Isaac is so beautiful; it seems like everyone’s eyes are on them as they find a seat.

“This cool?” Isaac asks. Stiles grumbles something under his breath, which is good enough for Isaac. Scott joins them with their drinks. Stiles downs his quickly, staring sullenly around the room.

“Everyone’s too attractive,” Stiles scowls. “Look at these people! I hate them. I hate hot people. Hot people are the worst buttholes of them all.”

Scott rolls his eyes, taking a long sip of his drink. “C’mon, we’re dancing,” he announces, grabbing Stiles by the bicep and dragging him to the floor. He offers Isaac his elbow.

By the time Stiles is on his third drink, he actually begins to participate. Prior to that, he stood at the sidelines, making faces at Scott and Isaac as they grinded together, all happy and sexy and carefree.

Stiles ends up flirting with the DJ. Since he’s an amateur DJ himself, it only makes sense, he argues. The DJ is a tall kid with floppy blonde hair and cute glasses. He’s got nice arms, a pretty smile, and he winks at Stiles when he plays “Instant Crush,” the song Stiles requested. He gets one of the bartenders to sub in for him so he can dance with Stiles; it’s a little weird, since Stiles is pretty gone at this point and the DJ is completely sober, but he’s respectful. He’s not aggressive, but he’s handsy enough that Stiles feels sexy and wanted. Stiles kisses him on the cheek at the end of the song, and the DJ returns it with a kiss on the mouth, cupping Stiles’s jaw in one hand and holding him by the waist with the other.

When he pulls away, Stiles’s eyes land on none other than Derek Hale, who is watching them from the bar.

Stiles’s heart drops to his stomach. He blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t hallucinating, but no: Derek is still sitting there, staring coolly at Stiles as he sips his drink. Stiles must look terrified out of his wits, because the DJ whips around, confused.

“What is it?” He has to lean in close for Stiles to hear him over the music. The bass line pulses heavily under their feet. Stiles tears his eyes away, shaken; he can’t make out Derek’s expression. It doesn’t look like he has much of an expression at all. He just takes another calm sip from his drink and stares at Stiles over the rim of his glass.

Stiles apologizes. “I thought I saw something, that’s all. What’s your name then?”

“Oh. I’m Luke. And you?”

“Stiles,” he says, leaning in closer than necessary to reach Luke’s ear. Luke’s hands tighten around Stiles’s waist, and Stiles teasingly plays with his hair as they dance through the next song. Luke turns him around, spreading his huge hands over Stiles’s hips as he grinds into his back. Stiles reaches back to tilt Luke’s face towards him so he can kiss him while they dance, and he opens his eyes to meet Derek’s when Luke’s mouth moves down Stiles’s neck.

Derek stands up to leave. Stiles can hear his chair screech, even over the loud music.

Stiles’s heartbeat races, and he can feel a lump bobbing in his throat. Even with the hot DJ’s mouth sucking bruises into his neck, Stiles can’t help but feel utterly worthless.

It’s not like he’s a stranger to rejection. If anything, he and rejection have an intimate knowledge of one another, but this was something else. Usually, he knows when he’s going to be rejected. With Derek, that wasn’t the case at all. Obviously Stiles knew he was way more interested in him than Derek was in Stiles, but still. Was he just that awful in bed? At the time, it actually seemed like Derek was really into it. He told Stiles he was good, that he was amazing, even, plus he let him stay the night. Maybe he just didn’t want to hurt his feelings or embarrass him. Maybe he simply regretted Stiles the next morning when his sobriety caught up to him.

It’s just that Derek was so nice to him that night. He couldn’t keep his hands off and he couldn’t stop kissing him and he didn’t kick Stiles out after he’d gotten his orgasm. Not only that, but he was everything Stiles hoped he would be in bed: just the right side of rough, with his perfect body and his huge hands, putting Stiles wherever he wanted him. It was perfect. He was perfect. And somehow, Stiles still managed to fuck it up. He just wished he knew how. Whatever he did, apparently it was bad enough for Derek to openly and unapologetically diss him in public, multiple times.

Luke pauses his assault on Stiles’s neck, noticing that his hips have sort of stuttered to a halt. “Dude, are you okay?”

Stiles pretends like he’s feeling nauseous. It’s not completely false, though the nausea isn’t due to alcohol.

“I think I uh-- I think I might’ve had a little too much drink. Do you mind if I --?”

“Yeah, yeah, no, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says sincerely. Luke’s so hot. Why does he have to have an emotional crisis now of all times, jesus fuck.

He finds Scott and Isaac about a degree away from having sex in one of the booths. Isaac is in Scott’s lap, and Scott’s hands are nowhere to be seen.

“Boys, you’re in public!” Stiles yells.

“Oh fuck,” Isaac mumbles, scrambling to his feet. He puts his hands in front of his crotch, though he honestly shouldn’t even bother. His disheveled hair says enough.

Scott at least has the grace to blush. He adjusts himself as discreetly as possible before climbing out of the booth.

“You, uh, have fun?” Scott coughs, still pink-cheeked.

“You could call it that, yeah. Come on though, dude, let’s get out of here.”

They take a cab back to their dorm building. As soon as they’re inside, Stiles explains.

“I saw Derek.”

“Oh, shit.”

“He, um...he clearly saw me too. He was staring right at me. It was sort of creepy actually. I was dancing with this guy and then Derek left, really dramatically. And now I kind of just want to curl up in the fetal position and listen to ‘Everybody Hurts,’ if you don’t mind. Michael Stipe can express my feelings better than I ever could--”

Scott bites his lip. “Stiles...”

Stiles meets his eyes. Scott is looking at Stiles the way he has a hundred times, that looks that says I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you. I wish things were better for you, I wish people were better to you, and I’m sorry they’re not. Stiles can feel the energy slipping out him, like sand through a closed fist. He’s too exhausted to be angry or to feel sorry for himself. He wants to scream at Scott for pitying him. He wants to scream at himself for making a big deal out of nothing. He’s sad. He’s tired of being sad. He wants to sleep and dream of nothing until every memory of every boy Stiles has ever liked who didn’t like him back is swallowed up in nothingness until it doesn’t exist any more. He never realized how big of a toll rejection has taken on him until right now, staring at his best friend’s face, at the expression he’s seen a hundred times.

“I’m gonna go to sleep,” he announces. He smiles, as if that would fool Scott. Scott’s not the brightest kid in the world, but if there’s anything he knows, it’s Stiles.

“I’m gonna sleep in your bed with you,” Scott announces. Stiles’s smile crumples.

“Dude, no, c’mon--”

“It’s not up for argument!” Scott says. Isaac watches them quietly from the corner. He knows it’s not his place to step in.

“Yes, it is!” Stiles says loudly. He cringes at the way his voice rings across the room, but he’s mad now. In fact, he’s pissed. All he wants is to be left alone.

“Why do you always have to do everything by yourself? Why can’t you ever let someone help you?” Scott demands, and for one whole second, Stiles hates him. He hates him the way he hates his father’s dry, sad eyes and photo albums of his mother and stumbling upon a mirror when he’s not in the mood to look at himself. He feels naked and vulnerable and furious, until he remembers that Scott is one of two people in the world who loves Stiles unconditionally. The anger disappears, leaving only the deep ache of exhaustion and a heaviness behind his eyes.

Stiles sits down at the foot of his bed, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes. He’s still not as sober as he’d like to be, and he’s so tired that he feels like crying.

“Please?” He whispers. “Please, I just want to be alone. I’m just going to fall asleep.” He takes off his shoes and pants and crawls under his covers. “Going to sleep. See? Please go with Isaac. I’ll be okay. See? I’m totally cool.” Stiles looks imploringly at Scott.

Scott stares at him, eyes dark, mouth twisted in a knot. Finally, he looks away. “Okay,” he says quietly. He turns to Isaac and nods. Isaac turns the doorknob, and they both leave without another word. Stiles takes a breath of relief.

He’s alone in his silent room again. His head pounds with exhaustion. It takes him hours to fall asleep.

--

Stiles wakes up the next morning with a message on his phone from Lydia that just says “7:00. Italian restaurant next to Pinkberry. Don’t wear black: it makes you look like you’ve never seen sunlight.”

He scrubs a hand over his face and rolls over onto his side, curling into the fetal position. Fuck.

He shows up five minutes early. The restaurant is called Ivy, and it’s way too fancy for Stiles’s budget, and he really, really needs to stop letting Lydia bully him into following through with her schemes.

Stiles waits for his date. He has no idea who it is, or if he’ll even show up, or what on God’s green earth Lydia told him for him to agree to come on this date with Stiles. He rocks back and forth on his heels and examines the paintings in the lobby, paying particular attention to a nude portrait of a jacked-looking Renaissance dude.

The hostess raises an eyebrow at him.

Stiles blinks at her. “What? Am I not allowed to look? He has a penis, it’s staring right at me.”

She shakes her head mildly. “No, I was just...wondering if you wanted to be seated or if you just wanted to look at penis paintings.”

“Oh is this a restaurant?” Stiles asks, looking around. “I thought it was an art gallery. I came for the Penis Exhibit. I’m not in the wrong place, am I?”

She fights back a smile. Stiles steals a mint from the tray on the hostess stand, winking at her.

“I’m being set up, actually,” he admits. “Should I admit that? Is that an embarrassing thing?”

“Why would it be embarrassing?” says a voice behind him, and Stiles jumps about a foot into the air. The hostess snorts delicately into her hand when Stiles spins around wildly, grabbing at his heart.

“Jesus Christ, man, warn a guy,” Stiles starts, before looking up into the stranger’s face. He sees sculpted cheekbones and dark skin and gleaming white teeth and a huge hand extending towards him, which Stiles eventually has enough sense to shake.

He realizes he’s smiling dopily because this guy is 100% more attractive than Stiles expected. Where the hell does Lydia find these people?

“You alright there, man? Sorry I scared you. You have to admit, you pretty much handed me the opportunity, though. I’m Michael.”

Stiles swallows. His mouth is still hanging open like an idiot. “I’m Stiles. Sorry for the...you know. The spasticness you were just assaulted with.”

“It’s okay. Do you want to sit down?”

“Uh, yes. Sitting. Food. Date stuff. Right.” Stiles curses his proverbial foot in mouth syndrome, and his cheeks go pink. The hostess tries not to smile as she guides them both to their table, and she surreptitiously gives Stiles the thumbs up when they’re seated. Stiles goes even redder.

“So uh...” Stiles coughs into his hand and examines his menu. He’s afraid if he looks at Michael too much he might embarrass himself even more. “How do you know Lydia?”

“I knew her in high school, actually. We were on Student Council together.”

“Oh! That’s cool. Yeah, Lydia’s very...involved. It’s pretty intimidating to be honest.”

Michael laughs. “Yeah trust me, she’s always been like that. How’d you meet her?”

“I have this um...this radio show?” Stiles says. His face is scrunching up like it always does when he’s nervous. “She’s in charge of all the shows. And then she got me this job at the Writing Center, and we always end up in a lot of the same classes, and basically she’s just completely invaded my life. She’s the Viking, I’m the helpless monk.” Stiles wonders if it would be appropriate for him to slap himself in the face. “I’m so sorry, that was one of the nerdiest references I could possibly make--”

Michael smiles. “It’s okay. Do you know what you want to eat? I’m pretty much starving, so please don’t judge me if I order a ton of food.”

“No, no, please, by all means, this is a no-judgment zone. I was hoping you couldn’t hear my stomach grumbling from across the table.”

The waiter arrives with water and takes Michael and Stiles’s orders.

“So what’s your radio show about?” Michael asks politely.

Stiles blinks. “Oh, just like...music.” He laughs dumbly. “I mean, yeah. Duh. It’s really disorganized. I do this thing called Throwback Thursdays and that’s pretty much the only organized thing about it. Sometimes I have callers, or guests come on for interviews, but pretty much I just play music I like and cross my fingers that more than two people tune in.”

Michael nods, but he’s looking at something at another table, and Stiles can feel his stomach begin to twist itself up in knots. Michael is losing interest. Stiles chews on his bottom lip.

“So what are you uh...majoring in?” He asks quickly.

“Business Management,” Michael says.

“Ah.” Fuck. Stiles doesn’t know anything about Business Management. His conversation skills are failing him miserably. “That’s cool.”

Michael shrugs. “It’s boring, I know. But...it’s practical?”

“Yeah! Yeah, no, totally!” Stiles nods rapidly. “I mean, I’m a Film History student. Shit’s going nowhere.”

“So you watch movies all day?” Michael raises an eyebrow.

Stiles smiles nervously. “Ha ha...I mean...no? Sometimes? I always feel like a douchebag when I try to explain that it’s more serious than it sounds.”

Michael smiles politely. Stiles gulps.

“I uh...minor in Chemistry! Or...I’m going to. I’m...I’m actually a Freshman, so technically I don’t have any major.” He smiles feebly.

“You’re a freshman?” Michael stares at him, frowning. Stiles’s heartbeat speeds up.

“Um...yes? What are you?”

“A senior,” Michael says, crossing his arms across his very well-defined and delicious-looking chest.

“Ah. That’s cool! You uh...nervous about graduating?” Stiles doesn’t think it’s possible for him to sound like even more of an idiot than he does.

“A little, I guess. I’ve been interning at this company for about a year now, so I’m hoping they’ll hire me full time once I graduate. I wanna get out from under my parents’ thumb, you know?”

Stiles nods quickly in agreement. “Yeah, no, of course,” he babbles.

He heaves a sigh of relief when he spots the waiter arriving with their food.

“Food!” He says, out loud. His hands wring together to prevent him from hitting himself in the face.

Michael nods graciously at the waiter when he sets down their food. Stiles digs into his pasta, which he immediately regrets ordering because he’s not exactly the neatest of eaters. He wishes it was attractive to wear your napkin like a bib, because he knows his food will inevitably end up all over him.

He can feel Michael’s quiet, studious gaze on him as he eats, and it only makes the pit in his stomach writhe even more anxiously. Stiles maintains the small-talk as well as he can, but Michael becomes steadily less willing to make conversation. It’s becoming abundantly clear to Stiles that the date is a massive failure, and he can’t help but feel like the blame falls entirely on his shoulders.

Stiles chews nervously on his lip when the check arrives. Michael takes it smoothly, and Stiles tries to snatch it from his fingers in a playful, flirtatious gesture, but Michael doesn’t indulge him. He slips his credit card in and hands it back to the waiter. Stiles twists his napkin in his lap, staring down at his hands while they wait in silence for the card to come back. His nails are chewed down to the bone.

Michael is polite when they leave the restaurant. He escorts Stiles back to his dorm, and says how nice it was to meet him, and what a great time he had. He gives Stiles his number, in full knowledge that they will never speak to each other again.

Stiles sighs as he soon as he leaves, letting himself fall slack against the wall outside his door. He doesn’t want to go into his dorm. He doesn’t want to see Scott and Isaac’s sweet, earnest faces. He doesn’t want to see Scott’s expression: the familiar, sympathetic one that he hates. He doesn’t want to explain to Lydia that Michael was really attractive, and very nice to him, and a perfect gentleman, but Stiles just wasn’t quite what he was looking for.

After what feels like ages of mustering his courage, Stiles finally takes a deep breath and opens the door.

His room is perfectly empty.

Stiles looks around, breathing shallowly. The window is open, just a little. Scott’s computer is on his desk, but his backpack is missing. Isaac’s scarf is hanging from the bed post, but his shoes are nowhere to be found. Scott tidied up the bathroom, and there are new groceries stocked on top of the mini fridge.

Stiles sits on the foot of Scott’s bed. His eyes burn for a total of three seconds before he digs his nails into his palms, whispering to himself that he’s an idiot. He’s going to eat peanut butter from the jar and watch re-runs of Parks and Recreation. He’s going to do his homework and check up on his dad and listen to Wu-Tang. He’s going to be okay. He forces himself to smile, but then he stops, feeling creepy and weird and stupid.

He lays back on Scott’s bed, staring up at his ceiling. He’s being stupid. Scott will come back soon. This is nothing new. He isn’t actually alone. Everything is okay.

He closes his eyes with exhaustion. He lets his body become heavy, and his mind sing with emptiness.

--

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, waiting for Lydia to give him the cue to start. He takes a long, lingering sip from his coffee, hoping it will help wake him up. He didn’t get much sleep the night before. Scott and Isaac came home around 1 AM, right after Stiles finally fell asleep. He woke up, and naturally they wanted to ask him about the date, but Stiles pretended like he was too tired for conversation. It took him hours to fall back asleep, listening to Scott and Isaac’s quiet, even breathing, no more than two twin adorable lumps curled up together under Scott’s blanket.

Lydia watches him carefully. Stiles hasn’t said anything to her yet today, but as he soon as he walked into the studio, he shook his head, mouth screwed up in a knot, and she knew. She scratched his scalp and bought him pop tarts from the vending machine. When she left, she squeezed his arm with a look that said we’re gonna talk about this later. Stiles sighs, adjusting his headset.

“Good morning, everybody. This is All Earz on Me. Hope you all had stellar weekends.” He knows he doesn’t sound as high energy as usual, but he just can’t bring himself to do the spastic, peppy act when he feels this tired and shitty. “Mine uh...wasn’t super great. I don’t...really like to talk about myself too much on this show, mostly because I’m bad at talking about myself and my feelings, like I never really learned how to do that. Anyways, basically I just have had some decidedly shitty experiences in the um...romantic forum, lately. Kind of starting to feel like I’m crazy? Like, for trying? I dunno.” He can feel Lydia’s eyes on him. He looks down at the monitor, clenching his jaw. “Sorry I’m being so emo this morning. I’m sure all be bright and sunny tomorrow. Anyways, here’s Skizzy Mars with ‘Delusional.’ You’re welcome.”

Lydia doesn’t say anything to him, to which Stiles is eternally grateful. Stiles flips his mic back on as soon as the song ends.

“Now, I’m sure all of you listeners have had experiences with bad dates. I feel like bad dates are like rites of passage. Everyone has to have one eventually. Sometimes it’s people you meet. Sometimes it’s people you’re set up with.” He avoids Lydia’s eyes. “Sometimes it’s not really even a bad date, there’s just no chemistry, no spark. Sometimes the other person is actually really cool and hot and generally awesome, and it’s you who suck, which is where I’m coming from. I just like...wish there was some sort of way to get genuine feedback? You know what I’m saying? Like a ratemyprofessor, or like, Yelp or something, but for dates. But less public. But still honest. You know? Like when it doesn’t work out, I just wish I could know what exactly I did wrong. Like which of my bad qualities outweighed my good ones. Because I think I have a lot of attractive qualities. I feel pretty confident in saying that. First of all, I am a culinary master, okay, everyone tells me my cooking is off the chain, because it is. I am also, I think, a good person, most of the time. I am nice. Kindness is still attractive, right? Quite frankly, I’m also hilarious. So let’s see...good cook, nice, funny...reasonably good-looking? I think? My face is really soft. Scott told me that once when he was drunk. I have a really high metabolism! Though sometimes that makes people angry. Mostly Lydia. I’m also surprisingly flexible. Which. Do what you will with that piece of information. Apparently my eyelashes are really long. Scott also told me that when he was drunk. He then proceeded to try to make out with me. Scotty boy, I’m sorry I’m really incriminating you a lot right now. What else, what else...I’m pretty clean! And I have a weird tendency to bake when I’m nervous. Basically what I’m saying is I would make a great housewife. But I’m smart too, like...book-smart. I can write a 10-page paper in like...three hours, if I’ve consumed enough Red Bull. I’m uh...very high-energy, also. That could be a good or bad thing, I dunno. Mostly that’s attributed to ADHD. I also...am pretty low maintenance? That’s good, I guess. It doesn’t really take much to make me happy. Just like, a handjob now and then. Maybe a pat on the head. A cuddle here and there. The occasional reach-around. Not much. I have other talents too, talents of the uh...you know. The flesh. But if I get any more explicit on air, Lydia will probably spank me, and as hot as that might sound in theory, she will make it completely unpleasurable for me. All pain, no gain. Speaking of Lydia, she’s waving at me because I’m talking too much, so here’s ‘Pure Imagination’ by Richie Cunning. You’re welcome.”

Lydia texts him: “Ease off the angst, dude. Consider it a producer’s warning.”

Scott texts him: “Baby????? Who hurt you????? Who do I kill?????”

Isaac texts him: “:(“

Stiles ignores all of them.

“That was Richie Cunning. Awesome song. But back to me. I just have to say this: men are buttholes. I mean, we know this. We’ve always known this, this is not new information in any way. But we shouldn’t be? Buttholes, I mean? Like it’s not that hard to text or call someone just to be like ‘yo it didn’t work out.’ There’s someone very specific I have in mind right now.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Someone who...did something really nice for me. Fought off a bad dude. And, like an idiot, I took that to mean he was interested in me, but of course that was...stupid of me. The point I guess I’m trying to make is...there are a lot of nice guys out there. I think. I try to be one myself. That doesn’t mean I deserve anything, because I don’t. Just because you are nice to someone you like, it doesn’t mean they owe you anything. That shit’s fucked up, I know that. But...it doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be bummed about it? I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

Stiles looks down at the monitor. The light is blinking red. Stiles frowns at this in surprise. He has a caller. He never has callers.

“Um...it looks like we have a caller?”

Stiles answers it. “Hey, Scott,” he greets immediately. “Sorry I told everyone about you kissing me--” He starts babbling.

“Uh...this...isn’t Scott?”

Stiles’s heart jumps to his throat. The voice on the other line is most definitely not Scott. It does, however, sound incredibly familiar.

“Oh, shit. My bad, man! You’ll have to excuse me, this is a very rare occurrence, and by rare I mean this has never happened before at all. What’s your name, mystery listener?”

The man coughs. “Its um...it’s Derek.” Stiles’s face goes white. “Derek Hale.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. His throat dries up, and his palms sweat, and he feels a little faint. Lydia appears in the doorway, staring through the window with wide eyes. Stiles makes a violent hand gesture.

“Uh...Stiles?” Derek asks. “Are you still there?”

Stiles clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, yeah I am, sorry uh...so. Wow. Okay. Derek Hale, huh?”

“Stiles, I am interested in you” is what Derek chooses to say in response, and Stiles’s hands tremble. He tries to swallow, but it appears that his mouth has lost the ability to generate saliva.

“Sorry can you repeat that?” He finally manages to croak.

“I’m interested in you.” There is a long, painful silence. Stiles doesn’t breathe. He can hear Derek take a shaky breath. “It was...it was me you were talking about right?”

Stiles nods, like an idiot, before realizing that Derek can’t actually see him. “Yes, yes--” He manages to stutter faintly into his mic.

Derek coughs. “I...I had a really nice time with you. I think you’re funny and sweet and smart and cute as hell, and I...well, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. After the night with Matt. And you came to me at the baseball game and I thought this could be my chance. And what happened in my room...Stiles, I don’t do that. Ever. I’m sure you don’t believe me but I really don’t. You’re um...a special kid, I guess. I...” He makes a sort of huff on the line, and Stiles’s mind works desperately to decipher its meaning. “I thought it was you who wasn’t interested in me. I mean, you weren’t there the next morning. There wasn’t any way I could contact you, no number, nothing--”

“What?” Stiles splutters. “I left you the cutest note ever! With a phone number!”

“I didn’t see a note.”

“I left it in your kitchen! Which I fucking cleaned--”

“My roommate must have thrown it away.”

“Okay, I’m sorry but--” Stiles cuts him off. “C’mon, dude....Facebook? Twitter? It’s the 21st century, bro, there are like...a million ways to contact me.”

“I know,” Derek says seriously. “I know, but...why would I do that when you clearly weren’t interested? Plus, I saw you at that club -- you --”

“Hold on. Lemme stop you right there, buddy. Number one: how could you possibly say I wasn’t interested in you? I don’t think I’ve ever been that explicitly thirsty for someone’s dick in my life. Sorry to get a little NC-17 there, all four of my listeners. Second: I was at that club because you totally brushed me off! Like, a bunch of times! I thought you totally hated my guts!”

“Clearly we...aren’t exactly the greatest communicators...” Derek says lightly. Stiles bursts out laughing. His heart bobs in chest. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“So uh...we should probably have this conversation off the air. Right?” Stiles says.

“Yes. Come to my house at 7,” Derek says, and it very much sounds like an order. Stiles swallows, looking over at Lydia. Her face is plastered against the window, eyes wider than saucers, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says.

“Okay,” Derek says, and he sounds shy. Stiles digs his nails into his thigh. “I’m gonna um...hang up now.”

“Wait,” Stiles says frantically, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What? What is it?”

“Just...thanks,” Stiles breathes. He hides his face in his hands, even though he knows Derek can’t see him.

He can practically hear Derek’s smile through the phone, can picture his cute little teeth and the folding of his cheekbones and his sparkling eyes.

“For what?”

“I...I don’t know,” Stiles says helplessly. He bites his lip. “Sorry. I’ll...I’ll be there. At 7. At your house.”

“Okay. And Stiles?”

Stiles hands cover his face. “Yeah?” His voice is muffled by his fingers.

“I like you a lot.”

Stiles hangs up quickly. He turns off his mic and buries his face in his knees. Lydia screams outside the door, cheering obnoxiously, and Stiles is glad that his face is hidden. He doesn’t think he’s ever smiled so embarrassingly wide in his life.

--

Stiles shows up ten minutes early. Lydia dressed him in a long-sleeved, clingy black shirt made of some soft, thin material that Stiles can’t stop petting. He’s wearing fancy dark-wash jeans that she made him buy, and his new white sneakers. He gnaws on his bottom lip as he waits outside the door, shoving his hands in his pockets as he rocks back and forth on his heels.

Derek opens the door. He smiles sort of shyly, ducking his head a little, scratching the scruff at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing an outfit that looks a lot like Stiles’s, and he shaved his beard. He looks younger and sweeter and more approachable than his usual scary, intimidating self. Stiles think it’s the best he’s ever looked.

“You’re early,” Derek says, in lieu of a normal greeting.

“Yeah, I um...my anxiety doesn’t really allow me to show up any later than ten minutes early, so -- sorry, is this bad? I could like...loiter out here until it’s actually 7. Examine your flower arrangements, creepily stare through your window, whatever, I’m sure I could find plenty of ways to occupy myself for ten minutes--”

“Stiles?” Derek interrupts. He’s not smiling, but his eyebrows are raised in a fond, appraising way that makes Stiles’s stomach squirm.

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing that thing. That talking-too-much thing,” Derek says. Stiles looks down at his shoes, grinning to himself. ‘That thing’ as if Derek knew him so well, as if was some cute inside joke.

“Sorry,” Stiles smiles. He’s not sorry at all. “So uh...we just gonna chat out here or are you gonna invite me inside?”

Derek steps back so Stiles can fit through the door. Stiles gets a strong whiff of Derek’s cologne when he slips past, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to pounce on him.

Derek leads them up to his bedroom. It looks different in the evening. The sun is still setting, and the light is low and intimate. His room is perfectly clean and strangely mature for a college student. Stiles ambles around the room, examining Derek’s meager collection of possessions.

“I’ve been um...listening to your radio show,” Derek says.

“And my miserable rambling over the airwaves didn’t give you any indication that I was suffering serious post-traumatic Derek Hale disorder?” Stiles asks, twirling one of Derek’s pens between his fingers.

“Post-Traumatic Derek Hale Disorder?” Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Stiles, come on.”

“Oh shut up eyebrows. You were really hot okay! I had capital-F feelings for you!”

“Were really hot?” Derek quirks his other eyebrow. Stiles is privately impressed, and outwardly exasperated.

“Are really hot! Fine! Argh!” Stiles yells. Derek stares at him, and Stiles’s shoulders slump. He sighs, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “It’s just...you saved me from Matt? And then gave me an awesome orgasm? Which means...I became attached to you? And -- and -- I just thought -- with how like, I dunno, creepy and predatory you are--” Stiles ignores the way both of Derek’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “I thought you liked me!”

“I do like you,” Derek intones. “I always liked you.”

“Then why--”

“It was a communication error!” Derek interrupts. “My roommate probably threw away your note. He’s a jackass. You seemed...non-responsive when I saw you on campus. I read that as a ‘no.’ And I saw you at the club. Look, I never meant to intentionally hurt you.”

Stiles stares at him blankly.

Derek licks his bottom lip. He scratches his neck again, confidence faltering. “I -- I’m sorry. I’m not really good at this--”

Stiles crushes their lips together. He runs his thumb over Derek’s cheekbone and he kisses him, investing as much as feeling and meaning into the kiss as he can. Derek takes a moment to respond, and Stiles can feel his pulse speed up under his hand. He moves carefully, like he’s afraid if he does something too drastic Stiles might freak out. Stiles feels his hands on his waist, too gentle, so Stiles folds his hands on top of Derek’s, pressing them down harder. Derek makes a low sound in his throat, almost a whine, before pushing Stiles into the wall, nearly knocking the breath out of him. Stiles’s mouth makes the shape of an ‘o’ and Derek takes advantage, kissing him with all the passion and ferocity and feeling he can muster. Stiles tangles his hands in Derek’s hair and gives it back as good as Derek.

He breaks away suddenly, chest heaving. “If you’re um...” Stiles looks down, tongue darting out nervously. “If you’re fucking with me, I’ll have you know that my best friend and his boyfriend will ruin you with baseball bats. They have like, a whole intricate plot they laid out for me. It’s not pretty. For your sake, please don’t fuck with me. I wouldn’t wish their plot on my worst enemy--”

Derek knots his fingers in the back of Stiles’s hair and pulls him up roughly for another kiss. Stiles makes a ‘mrrrph” noise, but gladly allows Derek to plunder his mouth, curling his arms around Derek’s neck for better leverage. Derek’s hands move down to his ass, and Stiles squirms against him, panting hotly.

“Jesus Christ--” he manages, words muffled by Derek’s mouth. Derek holds him close, teeth sinking into Stiles’s lip, and all the blood rushes down to Stiles’s dick.

“Oh fuck. Were you -- a pornstar, like in a past life, perhaps--”

Derek’s tongue flicks upward, and his hands sweep up his back, under his shirt. Stiles mewls pitifully, rolling his hips down, and the friction from their jeans is actually painful at this point.

“So I um...I know a lady’s supposed to wait ‘til like...at least the third date,” Stiles pants, cheeks flushed red. “But I really, really, really need you to fuck me--”

Derek makes a low, growling sound deep in his throat that is way hotter than it should be. He hoists Stiles up the wall, gripping his thighs tightly. Stiles squeaks and hooks his ankles around Derek’s back, staring down at Derek’s dark, predatory expression until he gets that delicious, squirming feeling in his stomach again.

“This isn’t real,” he says faintly. “This only happens in porn, like what the fuck, who are you--”

Derek shuts him up by latching his mouth to Stiles’s neck, and Stiles fists in his hands in Derek’s hair, head tilting back to bare his throat. Derek sucks a mark into the vulnerable skin under Stiles’s jaw, offering just the slightest hint of teeth. Stiles struggles to remove Derek’s shirt, and Derek does the same for him.

“Is this too fast?” Derek asks suddenly, eyes dark with concern.

“Dude, don’t make me beg for it,” Stiles says.

Derek bears over him again, eyes lingering over the gulp traveling down the pale column of Stiles’s throat. He leans close to his ear, whispering roughly, “Maybe I want you to beg for it.”

If Stiles was at half-mast before, he’s now got a full-blown erection.

“Condoms,” Stiles manages, flushed and panting. “Go get some fucking condoms.”

Derek puts him down to fetch the necessary supplies from the bathroom, and it takes Stiles a minute to regain his basic motor functions, limbs weak with arousal.

When Derek re-enters the room, Stiles has completely stripped himself. He’s laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like he’s trying to memorize where he is. He can see Derek approach the bed out of the corner of his eye, his hand reaching out to cup Stiles’s cheek. Stiles’s closes his eyes as Derek presses their lips together, gentle this time. Stiles can’t help but lean into Derek’s hand, sighing.

Stiles opens his eyes to see the fondest expression he’s ever seen, or at least the fondest expression that’s ever been directed at him. Derek brushes his thumb against Stiles’s bottom lip, and says, “You’re really something, you know that?”

Stiles squirms a little, because feelings unprotected by sarcasm are unfamiliar territory, and after spending weeks believing Derek wanted nothing to do with him, he doesn’t feel completely comfortable making himself that vulnerable yet. He chooses to express himself wordlessly, this time, pulling Derek closer by the back of his neck, kissing him deeply.

Derek tears away briefly to remove the rest of his clothes before climbing back on top of him. His fingers are delicate at the cliff of Stiles’s jaw, tilting his head to the side so Derek can press slow kiss along the length of Stiles’s neck, sucking against his pulse point. Stiles spreads his thighs to make room, hitching his knees up around Derek’s waist.

Derek leans back a little, grabbing the lube from the nightstand and squirting it onto his fingers. He swallows up Stiles’s noises with his mouth when the first finger slides in, crooking the knuckle until he feels Stiles gasp beneath him, fingers tightening in the back of Derek’s hair. He smirks down at him, and Stiles pats his cheek, slightly reprimanding.

“Don’t get cocky,” Stiles warns him.

“You sure you don’t want me to get cocky?” Derek quirks an eyebrow, and Stiles’s mouth falls open.

“Derek, was that...dare I say it? -- a joke?”

“Shut the fuck up, Stilinski,” Derek growls, nipping at his bottom lip as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

Stiles mewls under him, long skinny fingers digging into Derek’s scalp. He bares his neck without meaning to, and Derek’s teeth drag along the milky-pale skin he finds there, not biting exactly, but there’s a sort of dangerous promise to the violent way he holds his body, the way the blades of his shoulders shift every time he moves, almost cat-like in his stance, and the way the muscles of his arms flex as he continues to bear over Stiles.

He slides in the third finger, and Stiles unwittingly utters an embarrassingly needy whine, knees tightening around Derek’s waist.

“I’ve got you,” Derek whispers, lips soft against his throat, a shockingly hot contrast to the threatening press of his teeth. Stiles gulps.

He pulls Derek up to his mouth by his hair, kissing him desperately. “Please,” he manages, after tearing his mouth away. “Hurry up and fuck me, I’m--”

Derek kisses him quiet again, lips hard and insistent, and he pulls out his fingers before settling back on his heels. He deftly rolls on a condom, slicking himself with lube before resuming his previous position. He manhandles Stiles so his legs are spread open, thumbs curling in the vulnerable spot under Stiles’s knees. He kisses his ankle, briefly, before beginning to push in.

Stiles feels like his eyes might roll back into his head. Derek is so fucking huge. He’s had the thing in his mouth before, but this is completely different. He looks up at Derek, wild-eyed, and Derek leans over him so their mouths are inches apart, nearly bending Stiles in half in the process.

“Breathe,” he says, looking straight into Stiles’s eyes. His breath hitches, but he obeys as best he can, and Derek continues to push himself inside until he’s all the way down to the hilt.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks quietly, and Stiles yanks him down for another kiss, cupping Derek’s face in both hands. Derek’s thumb brushes gently against his cheekbone, and he pulls back. He presses one last, light kiss to Stiles’s red, kiss-swollen mouth before brushing the hair off his forehead, sweet and gentle.

He begins to pull his cock out, and the slow drag of it burns in the best way. Once he manages a steady rhythm, he begins to find Stiles’s prostate with ease, and Stiles’s shivers with the delicious ache of it, blood roaring in his ears. Derek’s hips roll with every thrust, and he looks so damn good, eyebrows furrowed a little in concentration, lip white between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Stiles pants. “Fuck, fuck, fuck--” He babbles, and Derek smiles.

“Knew you’d be a talker,” Derek smirks, and Stiles pinches his arm.

In retaliation, Derek gives a particularly hard thrust, so hard that the headboard slams against the wall, and it’s so good that Stiles’s almost sees stars.

“You know,” he says, as conversationally as he can manage while he’s literally in the process of being fucked, “I’m not gonna break. I’m a pretty resilient motherfucker, if I say so myself. You’re being pretty gentle right now, dude. Feel free to like, ravage me, if you’re so inclined. Seriously, you have my full permission to basically go H.A.M--”

Before Stiles even shuts his mouth, Derek’s flipping him onto his front, pulling him up by the hips so he’s situated on his hands and knees. Derek pushes pack into Stiles’s body, feeling the breath whoosh out of him with a stunned, punched-out moan. Stiles collapses onto his forearms when Derek begins thrusting. His pace becomes almost furious, rough and powerful and pounding into Stiles like this is something he practices every day, watching Stiles take his cock like he was born for the undertaking. Stiles’s pushes his face into the folded cradle of him arms, biting into his own knuckles to stop himself from screaming or begging or howling or something equally embarrassing.

Then Derek’s hands move from their bruising grip on Stiles’s hips, roaming up the long, sinewy length of Stiles’s back, and bracing themselves on either side of Stiles’s head. He bends down so that his front is plastered to Stiles’s back, slick with sweat, and his teeth make a home in the back of Stiles’s neck.

Stiles cock is so hard that it’s leaking precome onto his stomach. He tries to roll his hips down into the bed to get some kind of friction, but Derek holds him up, mercilessly, forcing Stiles’s back to bend in an obscene arch. His mouth moves up Stiles’s neck until he can feel Derek’s breath against his ear.

“I wanna hear you,” Derek rasps, voice low and rumbling. His hand wraps around the front of Stiles’s throat, pulling his head back. His lips drag against the shell of Stiles’s ear, body heavy against the steep bow of Stiles’s spine.

“Please,” Stiles gasps. His throat works against Derek’s hands. “Please, please, please touch me, I can’t--”

“Yes, you can.”

Stiles cries out, eyes screwed shut. Suddenly, his center of gravity flips on his axis: Derek is flipping Stiles so he’s straddling his lap, holding him there with a tight grip on Stiles’s hips.

When Stiles tries to touch himself, Derek grabs his wrists, and Stiles collapses forward onto Derek’s chest with an ‘oof.’ He’s so dizzy and desperate with arousal right now that Derek could probably do just about anything he wanted with him, so long as Stiles eventually got to come.

“Please,” Stiles begs, body jerking suddenly when Derek resumes his furious pace. “Oh my god, oh my fucking god, Derek I hate you so goddamn much, I know what you’re doing, fuck fuck fuck, shit--”

Derek sits up so Stiles is still in his lap, but cradled close against his chest, wrists still locked in Derek’s grip. He drags his nose against Stiles’s, and there’s wetness against his cheeks. Stiles is so hard he’s crying.

“You can do it,” Derek says. Stiles’s mouth falls wet and open against his, his body slack and limp. “Come on my cock, Stiles.”

“You kinky motherfucking bastard piece of shit--” Stiles grumbles, breath coming up sharp and stuttering as Derek increases his onslaught against Stiles’s prostate, the pressure so intense that it’s nearly unbearable. His thighs tremble with the force of it, pleas tangling in his throat as the need to come becomes stronger and stronger.

“I can’t,” he whispers finally. His head falls forward, hair plastered to his temples. His voice has been reduced to a hoarse thread, fucked-out and desperate. “Please let me come, please just--”

Derek lets go of Stiles’s wrists, and instead of reaching down to touch himself, Stiles throws his arms around Derek’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. Derek grabs Stiles hips and rolls them against him, so deep inside of him that Stiles will feel the ache for days.

Then he drags himself out, then pushes in again, rough, hard, quick thrusts and all of a sudden there’s a splash of something warm against their stomachs, and Stiles’s entire abdomen clenches up, and he’s actually screaming, limbs weak and trembling with the force of his orgasm.

Derek kisses him, slow and deep and reverent, twisting his fingers through Stiles’s soft, sweaty hair, stroking his thumb against his neck. Derek’s orgasm follows a second later, hips pumping weakly into Stiles, who is so drained and over sensitized at this point that his head just falls weakly against Derek’s shoulder, gulping slow, shaky breaths, heart pounding against Derek’s.

Derek cups Stiles’s face in two hands, and Stiles opens his eyes, lashes spiked with wetness. Derek kisses his forehead, runs his fingers through his hair, and whispers that Stiles is good, so, so good, you’re so fucking perfect until Stiles closes his eyes, as if this moment is something sacred that he wants to preserve forever in his memory, lest he wake up the next morning and realize it was nothing more than a dream.

--

Scott wakes up the next morning frantic and wild-eyed, rubbing manically at his eyes until he blinks his sight into focus. He zeroes in on Stiles’s bed, which is blessedly empty.

Two weeks ago, he woke up in the middle of the night to what he’s pretty sure were the sounds of Derek giving Stiles a 3 AM handjob; empirically speaking, it was pretty obvious from Stiles’s very poorly-disguised whimpers, and the tell-tale movements, and also the creepy way Derek was bearing over him. Scott had quietly cried himself back to sleep, hiding his face in the back of Isaac’s neck.

Scott thinks he might have PTSD. He runs his hand through his hair, relieved to find that it’s just him and Isaac. Stiles and Derek can have weird marathon sex in Derek’s room, thanks.

Not that Scott isn’t thrilled out of his mind about Stiles and Derek, because he is. Like probably almost as happy as Stiles himself. It’s been over a month since Stiles and Derek finally got their shit together, and Stiles is pretty much unrecognizable in his happiness. Scott is pretty sure he caught him bouncing the other day. Like, as he was walking. Scott didn’t think people actually did that besides like, cheerleaders and Care Bears. There’s also the scary perma-hickey on Stiles’s neck, which he wears proudly, and Derek’s possessive perma-grip on Stiles’s shoulder, which he wears even more proudly, and Derek’s baseball sweatshirt, which he wears the proudest of all.

If it was any other couple, it’d be gross, but Scott is so happy for them that he forgives their obnoxiousness. Except for the handjob. That he will never forgive.

Isaac stirs next to him, eyelashes fluttering against Scott’s bare shoulder as he blinks himself awake. He sighs sleepily, burrowing his nose into the hollow of Scott’s collarbone.

“...time is it?” Isaac mumbles. Scott kisses his head fondly, glancing at the clock.

“It’s a little after eight....oh wait, shit, Stiles’s radio show!”

Isaac rubs his eyes adorably, slowly pushing himself onto his feet. “I’ll make the coffee...”

“Thanks, babe.” Scott turns on his laptop. The show already started, but it hasn’t been on too long.

“...and then my dad was like, Stiles, you can’t just kick your teacher, and I was like, why not, he gave me a bad grade, and he was like, ARGH! And I was like, sorry. But I wasn’t really sorry. I was eight. Eight-year olds are never sorry. I wasn’t even punished for it...probably because he was scared. I also threw my test, like, in his face. Crumpled into a ball. In my mind, I really thought that would show him. And that’s when I knew I’d be the greatest growing up. Speaking of which, here’s ‘Grown Up’ by Danny Brown. You’re welcome.”

Isaac pushes a mug of coffee into Scott’s hands, leaning his head on his shoulder. “Is that a real story or did he make it up?”

“Real, unfortunately. I was there. I gave Mr. Gunderson the Fritos from my lunch box and told him in exchange, he wasn’t allowed to punish Stiles. It worked. I don’t think it was actually the Fritos, though.”

“But Fritos are awesome.”

“Very true.”

Isaac pushes his nose against the cliff of Scott’s jaw, humming happily. “Can we have a lazy day today, please?” He perches his chin on Scott’s shoulder. “I finished my paper last night. If fucking is the most movement I make today, that would be perfectly fine by me.”

Scott smiles filthily, the way he always does when Isaac says anything remotely explicit. It just seems so much dirtier coming from such an innocent-looking mouth, and it delights Scott every time.

“That sounds awesome, dude. Except we got ourselves a double date tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot.”

“We still have lots of time though. It’s still early.”

“Hopefully Stiles and Derek have the same idea...maybe they’ll get it out of their systems so they’re not all over each other like they usually are.”

“Hmmm,” Scott says, raising his eyebrows mischievously. “We could make it a competition? Make them feel awkward before they make us feel awkward?”

Isaac kisses his cheek. “Brilliant.”

“So this next song for is my man-candy-boy-thing-person. His name is Derek. He isn’t very cool, and he only has like four songs on his iPod, one of which is by Soulja Boy and another of which is from the High School Musical soundtrack. He claims his sister put it on there to embarrass him, but I don’t believe him. We’re all in this together, after all. Anyways, here’s “Thinkin Bout You” by Frank Ocean, which I forced him to listen to for like, three hours straight until he finally admitted he liked it. See, Derek? There is other music out there besides like, scary screamo music, or like, sad bearded men crying in the woods over a symphony of melancholic acoustic guitars, or the Insane Clown Posse. We’ll get you on the rest of our levels, buddy. All in good time. Oooh, look, wait one second guys, it looks like I have a caller.”

Isaac looks at Scott. “Five bucks says it’s Derek.”

“Aaaaaaaand who’d a thunk it, it’s Derek--”

“Hey babe. I wanted to make a song request.” Derek sounds suspiciously pleasant, which could only mean something bad.

“Really?”

“Really. But first, I have a question for you.”

“Fire away, man-candy-boy-thing. Babe.”

“Stiles, do you know what makes you beautiful?”

There’s a pause. “Excuse me?”

“I was just scrolling through your iPod and there were a few songs in particular I was hoping you could play over the airwaves, for everyone to enjoy. You can start with ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’ Actually, Stiles, pick any One Direction song of your choosing, seeing as how you have every album. Deluxe editions, even. Feel free to go as obscure as you want--”

“You know what, I’ve got a pretty good playlist, actually, so I don’t think your requests will be necessary--”

“No? What about some Taylor Swift, then? I see you have a lot to choose from--”

“Derek, stop--”

“Justin Bieber, then?”

They hear a long beep as Stiles disconnects the call. “Looks like we’re all out of time!” Stiles says quickly. “Since ‘Thinkin Bout You’ has clearly just been rendered inappropriate as our final song, I’ll send you guys off with ‘Fuck You’ by Dr. Dre. This one’s for you, Derek Hale.”

Isaac sighs. “Think we can fit in a blowjob before they storm in here to have hate sex?”

Scott rubs his hands together. “Challenge accepted.”

--

Stiles is very drunk.

He accidentally kicked some random boy in the face when Derek tried to pull him down from a table he was dancing on top of. Derek apologized to the boy profusely on Stiles’s behalf, ushering him upstairs to Lydia’s bedroom to sober him up a little before taking him home.

“Get goldfish,” Stiles slurs, head lolling against the wall Derek propped him up against. “Scott always gets me goldfish. It’s medicine.”

“Let’s just focus on keeping our eyes open, okay,” Derek says, patting Stiles’s face. “Look at me.”

Stiles blinks, frowning at him. “You’re not real.”

“Stiles,” Derek warns. “Come on, sit up. Drink this.” He pushes a glass of water into Stiles’s hand, guiding it towards his mouth. “Come on, babe, just like this--”

The water dribbles down Stiles’s chin, and he smiles goofily. “You called me ‘babe.’” Stiles says, pointing.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I did.” He can’t help but sound fond. “Now come on, drink up. You’ll feel better.”

Stiles obediently brings the cup to his lips, staring at Derek over the rim. Derek clenches his fists, trying not to become aroused by the way Stiles’s throat works, or the look in his eyes. Even drunk, Stiles always knows how to push Derek’s buttons.

“Better?” Derek asks, when Stiles finishes. Stiles nods, still looking at him with that same expression, and Derek has the impression that Stiles might be more sober than he’s letting on.

Derek swallows, leaning forward to brush his thumb against Stiles’s bottom lip, still wet. “Good,” he says quietly. “Can’t have my boyfriend kicking people in the face.”

Stiles’s heart does a funny thing in his chest, breath rising fast. He bites his lip, suddenly feeling naked under Derek’s stare. “You...” He smiles, a little. “You called me your boyfriend.”

Derek nods shyly, taking Stiles hands and lacing their fingers together. “Is that...is that good?”

Stiles comes up onto his knees and presses his lips to Derek’s cheek. “Yeah, Derek. Yeah, it’s really good.”

All of a sudden, the door is swinging open, slamming against the wall. Lydia stumbles into the room, tottering on her heels, pointing at them accusingly.

“Derek, please get your boyfriend out of my house before he takes down his next victim. Kyle’s nose is bleeding all over my carpet. My white carpet.”

Stiles salutes her drunkenly. “I’ll get the stain out tomorrow, Lyds. Promise.”

She stands there for a moment, eyes flickering between the two of them, taking note of their happy flushes and linked hands. “Ugh, you two are grossly adorable,” she admits. “Or adorably gross. Now get out of my room.”

Derek pulls Stiles up, slinging Stiles’s arm over his shoulder so he doesn’t fall down on his face. “You’re the boss.”

The cold wind feels good on their hot, alcohol-flushed cheeks. Stiles slumps against Derek’s side, and Derek holds him up by his waist, lacing their fingers together. He glances at Stiles sideways, and Stiles is already glancing back at him, smiling dopily. Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles looks up at the sky, and Derek allows himself to smile, drinking in Stile’s profile. He listens to the fall of their footsteps, the sounds of the party becoming gradually more distant until it’s almost silent.

Stiles’s cheek presses against his shoulder. “She called us boyfriends,” he whispers giddily.

Derek rolls his eyes. “You really can’t stand a silence, can you?”

“That’s why I’m on the radio!”

Stiles loudly sings the chorus of ‘The Sound of Silence’ for the remainder of the walk home. Derek bites down a smile, glancing sideways at Stiles, at his happy, flushed cheeks and his loud, bouncing energy. Derek is used to keeping his life as quiet as possible. For once, he welcomes the noise.