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http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/3273755.
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M/M
Teen Wolf (TV)
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Scott McCall, Erica Reyes, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey
Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, derek is an author,
Happy Ending, No strings attached relationship, it gets pretty cracky
at points lmao, Scent Marking, Jealous Derek, brief stisaac, mentions
of past jackson/stiles
Part 1 of down in flames.
Published: 2015-02-02 Words: 29573
Stiles has been fucking obsessed with famous werewolf author Derek Hale since he was
fifteen years old and the first book came out. Like, embarrassingly obsessed. Like, had a
poster of the guy hanging up on the wall above his bed, obsessed. When Hale moved back
to Beacon Hills, Stiles just figured he'd hole himself up in his rebuilt mansion, writing his
fourth book, never to fulfill Stiles' endless daydreams about running into him and having
the alpha fall madly in love with him.
It's completely fucking improbable and nonsensical, would never happen in a million
years, so of course Stiles somehow winds up in a no-strings-attached agreement with his
literary idol, all while eating chicken McNuggets out of his pocket at random intervals and
plotting the demise of the McFlurry mixer.
Notes
Okay so I myself have never worked at a McDonald's so for anyone who has and
notices any discrepancies for the way things are run around there, I apologize for my
ignorance ahead of time lmao (the McFlurry machine for example)
Also I really really really REALLY hope no one gets the impression from this that I'm
shitting all over minimum wage jobs or that working at McDonald's is somehow
embarrassing everyone has to admit, it's a shitty job lmao, so I wrote it from the
perspective of it being a shitty job.
The little paragraphs of Derek's books you get are supposed to correlate SLIGHTLY to
what's happening in the plot, but really what they're there for is to get insights into Derek
that you wouldn't get otherwise
Standing there, on the edge of my property - what used to be my property, my family's territory,
the place where I grew up staring at the soot and ash and ruins, I knew something had to
change. We couldn't keep going along like that, in a world where people saw me, saw us as
threats to be eliminated. That's why I ever sat down to write a book in the first place; because I
wanted to show humanity that being a werewolf is not an episode of a shitty fantasy television
show. I am not a character in a romance novel. I'm real. (From the Ashes, Derek Hale pg. 178)
---Stiles works at fucking McDonald's, all right?
He stands behind a counter for six hours a day, sometimes eight, wearing an idiotic visor, grinning
fakely at exhausted people with crying babies on break from road trips, and makes oreo
McFlurry's. All. Day. Long. He comes home reeking of french fries, burger juice in his god damn
hair, salt underneath his fingernails, and sticky puddles of ice cream stains on his pants (because
the machine has been on the fritz for the past two weeks and sporadically decides to just spew
cream out at whatever unsuspecting worker happens to be standing there it's been Stiles thirteen
out of the fifteen times it's happened).
Once a week, he brings home an apple pie for his dad just to keep him quiet about employee
discounts and just one Big Mac isn't going to kill me, son the pie appeases him, and Stiles
doesn't have to worry about him complaining about why do you get to eat the food but I can't?
If Stiles hadn't put himself on a four day workout plan, he probably would've gained at least
fifteen pounds by now. Every day, when he rolls in at six for his shift, he goes straight to the pile
of ready-to-go McNuggets sitting underneath the heat lamps, fresh out of the fryer, and drops
about six of them in his pocket. He eats them sporadically throughout the night, whenever his
supervisor isn't looking or when he gets stuck on bathroom detail. He stands in the middle of a
McDonald's bathroom, shoving McNuggets into his face while listening to Ariana Grande scream
at him over the speakers. He's not proud, all right?
He's just trying to survive. After failing out of college because all he did was smoke weed and
watch marathons of America's Next Top Model, getting fired from Starbucks for allegedly spitting
in Jackson Whittemore's non-fat latte, quitting the pet store because he kept getting too attached to
all the puppies, he wound up at McDonald's. Flipping burgers and making Shamrock Shakes for
screaming children demanding he put six cherries on top instead of just one. It's hell. It really is
pure, undiluted hell.
Most fun of all, is that his supervisor, Mr. Finstock, has this adorable quality of screaming at the
top of his lungs at everyone through the headsets.
Bilinski!! Stiles winces and lifts the headset two inches away from his ear, while behind him
Erica jumps so hard in the middle of flipping a burger it winds up sticking to the ceiling above her
head. Are you making the burgers or shoving them down your pants!?
Stiles pauses for a second, confused Erica, who has been poking at the burger patty on the
ceiling with the handle of a mop, says I'm on grill, sir, into her microphone as the patty flops
down onto the ground with a smack.
Oh. A beat. He must be out back taking his cigarette break. Stiles pulls a nugget out of his
pocket and pops it into his mouth. What are you doing, Bilinski!?
It's Stilinski, sir, Stiles huffs, for only the ten thousandth time since he started working here five
months ago. I'm on drive-thru.
What are you doing there!?
Exactly what you told me to do. He eyes the empty restaurant and sighs, waiting for the woman
sitting in her car halfway between his window and the order menu to finish rifling around in her
purse for her money, while Finstock continues to grumble under his breath about no good kids and
should've hired the other ones into Stiles' ear.
Your mic is still on, sir, Erica's voice is accompanied by a sizzle from the grill.
Oh... there's a crackle, indicating that Finstock has wised up and turned himself completely off.
Every night is pretty much exactly the same. Stiles takes the early evening shift most times, but
sometimes signs on for the entire night shift six pm until two am, with a half hour dinner break at
around ten, during which he usually cruises across the truck stop to the gas station for a prepackaged salad to take the edge of all the nuggets he's already eaten. He and Erica's shift
schedules nearly always match up, so he gets the pleasure of listening to her swear like a sailor
over the headsets, watching her punch at the ice cream machine and flirt with all the boys who
come through the drive-thru. That's entirely the reason Finstock hardly ever puts her on anything
aside from grill and fryers lately, while Stiles gets stuck up front and on drive-thru every single
god damn night.
Tonight, at one o'clock in the morning, it's just he and Erica, Finstock either out back smoking or
locked away in his office, and Stiles has started organizing the straws and ketchup packets at the
drink station just for something to fucking do. He can hear Erica rustling around in the back as he
works, looking over his shoulder every now and again to make sure no one's come in.
The only people who ever come around at this time of night are truckers, and even then, the most
customers they ever get between one and two am is like...three. Why the owner insists on keeping
them open this late is beyond him, but if he wants to pay Stiles nine fucking fifty an hour to eat
nuggets and straw-fight with Erica, that's fine.
Stiles! Erica calls out. The oreos are clogging again!
Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, fantasizes about taking the ice cream machine out back and
beating the shit out of it with a baseball bat like the printer in Office Space, and slowly makes his
way over to where Erica is punching at the thing yet again. You're going to break your hand one
of these days, he sighs, gently shoving her hands away to fiddle with the thing himself.
I hate it so fucking much, she hisses, glancing over her shoulder as if to make sure some wideeyed five year old isn't standing at the counter listening to her swear (it's happened before). I
want to hurt it.
When we both quit, we'll kidnap this thing and have our way with it. This is a fantasy Erica and
Stiles share almost every single night the most repeated sentence between them, even more than
where's my order, is when we both quit.
When we both quit, we're gonna go into Finstock's office and take all the screws out of his chair.
When we both quit, we're gonna throw french fries in the air like confetti while dancing to
whatever shitty song is playing over the speakers. When we both quit, we're gonna rip all the
shitty minimalist art off the walls while yelling viva la Burger King! at terrified customers. It keeps
them sane. Or, at least, relatively sane.
After about five minutes of Stiles fighting with the clogged up oreos, Erica wanders off
somewhere to sext her boyfriend, and then it's just Stiles and the sultry sounds of Taylor Swift at
the front of the restaurant. He hums along quietly to himself, jabbing a plastic fork up the oreo
shaft again and again, feeling the blockage loosen bit by bit every time.
He holds a large cup underneath the spout, ready for when it all comes spilling out, muttering
come on, come on, come on underneath his breath until, finally, spill the oreos do.
A delighted noise comes out of the back of the throat as the oreo chunks come flying down into
his cup, and so begins his victory dance to Blank Space behind the counter of a truck stop
McDonald's at one o'clock in the morning while waving a cup full of oreo excrement around in
the air. He hardly has time to muse over the fact that his life has all boiled down to him being this
happy about unclogging an ice cream machine's oreo spout, when he hears the sound of the door
swinging open.
He freezes mid hip-thrust, absolutely locks down, because strolling into the McDonald's like it's
no big deal whatsoever is Derek. Fucking. Hale.
Derek Hale. The Derek Hale. Millionaire author, werewolf, DEREK HALE.
Stiles pulls a stop drop and roll, right there behind the ice cream machine. Just flops to the ground
like a fish out of water, sending oreo chunks flying all over the floor, hoping to God Derek didn't
see him. Derek can't fucking see him like this, in his dorky shirt and visor, reeking of oil and salt
and grease. In his mind, he's fantasized about meeting Derek Hale, all right? It was usually always
after Stiles got his shit together and became a world famous gamer or something (he doesn't have a
lot going for him right now aside from his progress in Destiny), usually after he bulked up a bit
more, and also got about fifty thousand times more hot that he would casually run into Derek
while buying a sports car or something. They'd laugh about how rich they are, bond over
paparazzi shenanigans, and then Stiles would say gee, sex in the backseat of your expensive car
sounds great!
He hears Derek's footsteps come closer to the counter, right as Erica comes back around the front,
glances down at Stiles with a puzzled expression on her face. She must be able to read the wide
eyes and the finger to Stiles' lips pretty well, must be able to remember the countless times Stiles
has talked to her about wanting to suck Derek Hale's organs out straight through his dick, because
she just flits her eyes away and steps up to the counter casually.
Welcome to McDonald's, can I take your order?
Derek Hale clears his throat, and says, a cup for water, please. There's a pause, a lengthy one,
where all Stiles can hear is his heart pounding out of his chest, got a long list of ex-lovers, and
Erica sliding a cup off the stack, before Derek says, ...and a McFlurry. What a time to be alive,
to hear the author of Stiles' favorite books utter the term McFlurry.
Ooookay, Erica agrees amiably, tapping buttons on the register. Then, like the moment of
friendship and solidarity and understanding from earlier completely leaves her mind, she says,
Stiles? This guy wants a McFlurry.
He sits on the ground for five seconds, jaw dropped, and Erica turns around and smirks at him
cruelly from her post, waggling her eyebrows.
He has no choice. The contract has been sealed. Derek knows there's a Stiles somewhere in this
restaurant matter of fact, he probably knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that Stiles is on the
ground ten feet away from him, because he's a werewolf. Superhearing, remember, Stiles?
Without thinking about it, he shoots up from the ground, and all the oreo crumbs that had been all
over his shirt go flicking out in all directions, and meets Derek Hale's eyes.
God. Holy fucking God. Lord Jesus Christ, in heaven above, thank you for creating this man he
looks like a magazine cutout. Skin perfectly tan even in the horrible lighting, eyes green and
amused, cheekbones so sharp Stiles wants Derek to slit his fucking throat with them so he can die
happy. Words cannot express the feeling of absolute Twilight Zone-ness Stiles gets at seeing
Derek Hale standing in Stiles' McDonald's in his trademark leather jacket, Lambo keys dangling
in his fingers, looking directly back at Stiles, expectantly all soundtracked by Taylor. This is
this is a movie. There's a camera crew right outside the windows, there fucking has to be.
Um, Stiles begins, wiping more oreo dust off his shirt. What what kind? Um M&M or
oreo?
Erica turns back to Derek and raises her eyebrows, while Stiles stays stuck to the spot. Surprise
me.
Stiles grabs for a medium McFlurry cup while Derek just stands there staring at him, sliding a five
dollar bill across the counter to Erica, waiting for his change. He decides oreo, because he worked
so hard at getting it unclogged so why the hell not, and pulls down the ice cream lever.
Derek is still just standing there, even after Erica has wandered off after giving him his change,
even though he still has an empty cup in his hands. He could be getting his water. But he's not.
Stiles can feel those green eyes practically sizzling into Stiles' fucking skin, and it takes everything
in him to not just go sprinting out of the restaurant.
He's met werewolves before. Everyone's met at least a handful of werewolves. The big reveal was
about twenty years ago, when Stiles was just a baby, so for pretty much his whole life he's known
about werewolves and it's all commonplace to most people, now. Werewolves have jobs, families,
cars, lives, just like humans do. But, not everyone sees it that way, and the wolves are fetishized
and treated like animals by some subsets of people. In general, though, it's not that huge of a deal.
Most of the time, no one can tell who's a werewolf and who's not in every day situations.
But, the thing is, Derek Hale is one of the most famous wolves in the United States. He writes
these fascinating books about growing up as a wolf, that woman Kate burning his entire family ten
years after the reveal, living with the trauma, and so on and so forth. He's fucking amazing, pretty
much, Stiles worships him and thinks he's a genius and also wants to suck his dick. Because he's
hot and not that much older than Stiles and rich and Christ. Stiles knew he had moved back to
Beacon Hills a year ago to start work on his next book, but he had yet to catch even a glimpse of
him. He figured the guy would just seclude himself up in the woods like a hermit since he was
notorious for not being particularly friendly or forthcoming.
Stiles would occasionally daydream about running into him, that's all.
He never thought it would actually happen.
Just as he's dropping the oreos into the cup, getting ready to start the mixing process, the ice cream
machine starts acting up. In a big way, the thing starts acting up.
First it's just a trickle of runny cream spouting out, and Stiles laughs nervously, glancing at Derek
like what can ya do!? Derek raises his eyebrows at the machine, like he knows exactly what's
It's not funny. It is not funny. It really is, though. It was humiliating, and, like, fifty different
types of nightmares came to life last night, Scott. Derek Hale saw me drenched in unfinished ice
cream and oreo bits, he thinks I'm a fucking idiot!
Maybe he thought it was sexy, Scott raises one eyebrow at his best friend.
Stiles purses her lips and glares as hard as he can. Don't.
You were covered in white cream, Stiles, I'm just thinking-
Don't!
Okay! He raises his hands in surrender and smiles guiltily. I'm just messing with you, I'm sorry.
You're right. It's not funny, I'm sorry. But he looks about ten steps away from bursting out
laughing again, so Stiles just grunts and flops down onto his bed.
Why me?
At least you met him, right? Scott's voice is encouraging and hopeful from above him. Like
hasn't that been a big fantasy of yours? To just meet him?
Yeah, but I didn't even tell him I was a fan or anything! He didn't even get a god damn book
signed, even though all three of Derek's published books are sitting on his bookshelf. In his mind,
he showed up at a book signing, and Derek flashed him that rare grin as he signed his name
without having to ask how to spell it, and then they went into the back room and had wild sex.
He didn't even know that I knew who he was!
After seeing you leap behind an ice cream machine to try and hide from him, I think he knew that
you knew who he was.
Stiles shoots back into a sitting position, wide-eyed. You think he saw that?
Scott rolls his eyes and nods. He's a werewolf, Stiles. They have, like, senses. A pause. Maybe
he sensed how totally turned on you were by him, and-
Ugh! Stiles throws a pillow at Scott's head.
But he was resigned to it. He was never going to see Derek again, he had his shot at making a
good impression, he blew it, the game was fucking over, and now he could just move on and put
the entire thing behind him wait for the next book to come out like a normal fan and person. The
guy has to be hassled by hundreds of people a day, right? No way was he going to remember
Stiles anyway, even if their encounter was particularly...interesting. He'd forget, eventually.
Then, he comes back in two nights later, at the exact same time.
Stiles is mopping the floor, Erica wiping down the counters, because Finstock is actually watching
over them for once, so they actually had to do work that didn't involve sneaking fries and having
spitball fights.
Get underneath the counter, Bilinski, Finstock says, grimacing at the dust and grease that's
collected since the last time Stiles mopped the night before. You always miss that spot.
Stiles never misses that spot, or any other spot in the entire restaurant, because believe it not, just
because he works a minimum wage job he's not a fucking slacker idiot but he just grits his teeth
and does as he's told, bending over to drag the mop all the way underneath, to the very back of the
underside of the counter. He hears the familiar swipe of the door opening, and sighs through his
nose.
Rising up to a stranding position once more, propping the mop up against the far wall, he doesn't
notice it's Derek until the guy is standing right in front of the counter, gazing up at the menu with
an air of distaste to him.
Stiles freezes for all of four seconds, mouth dropping. He glances over at Erica, who starts wiping
the counters harder, grinning from ear to ear, glancing between Stiles and Derek suggestively.
Finstock, oblivious to it all, gestures emphatically towards Derek with his eyes on Stiles, like what
the hell are you doing, Bilinski, there's a customer standing there!
All Stiles can think is that he's getting a second chance. A second first impression - he can change
the tides altogether! Everything can be different now, he can prove to Derek he's not a complete
fucking jackass (only half jackass, on a good day). Lurching forward, he presses his hips up
against the counter, meets Derek's eyes, and says, Welcome to McDonald's. What can I get for
you?
Derek raises his eyes back up to the menu, grimacing. An apple pie, please.
Because Erica had been just standing right there, she moves over to grab a pie from the back
instantly, and then it's just Derek and Stiles standing there at the counter. Um that'll be ninety
nine cents.
Derek slides a crisp one dollar bill across the counter. Stiles pops the register open methodically,
pulling a single penny out. He holds it out between two fingers to Derek, and he holds his tan
hand out, and Stiles drops it down, and it's all very commonplace and typical. He can almost
forget who's standing right in front of him, until he glances up again to find Derek staring directly
at him, with that same bemused smile on his face from the other night.
Stiles swallows, wondering what the fucking hell is taking Erica so long, and decides to open his
stupid idiot mouth. I I love your books.
The werewolf smiles at him wider. You know who I am?
Stiles outright laughs. Um, yeah? Everyone knows who you are. Typically book authors don't
get much face recognition, for the obvious reasons. He's not a movie star, or a rockstar. He just sits
at a computer alone in his dark house and types shit out into Microsoft Word. The reason Derek
Hale is so famous isn't just because he's a good writer, anyway. It's also because he's a werewolf,
and a fucking hot one at that. He's a heart-throb. For Christ's sake, his pictures get turned into
huge blowup posters for teenage girls to hang up on their bedroom walls (Stiles used to have one
right above his bed - whatever.)
Derek hmm's thoughtfully as Erica comes out with a tiny bag holding one apple pie. You're the
Stilinski kid. Right?
Stiles almost drops the pie as he's handing it over to Derek, eyes going huge, his throat closing up
at hearing his last name so casually dropped out of Derek's mouth.
The Sheriff's kid?
Of course. Right. Right. Derek would maybe remember him, a tiny bit, back from before he was
famous, but after his family all burned alive in his house. He'd remember Stiles because he sat in
the station while Stiles' father scratched his head and tried to figure out if sending him off to live
with his older sister was such a good idea, and Stiles was sitting at one of the deputys desks doing
his math homework. Stiles always kind of tried to shake the memory from his head even though
it was Derek Hale and he had been in the same room with Derek Hale, it's not exactly the greatest
memory to have. Derek covered in soot and reeking of fire and shaking. Stiles never tried to think
about it.
Yeah I'm...the Sheriff's my dad, and - I am his son.
Derek nods, glances down at Stiles' nametag, with the bright yellow M right next to his name.
Stiles.
Stiles could die. Right here, right now, he could absolutely just lay down on the ground and
fucking die and ascend either into heaven or hell it wouldn't matter either which way, because
all the happiness of the world was just bestowed upon him. Derek Hale knows who he is. His
name!
That's me.
He doesn't say anything else. He just takes the bag with the pie, saunters out of the restaurant
casually, and disappears like it's not a big fucking deal at all that he basically just gave Stiles
spank bank material for the rest of his life. The way Derek's voice sounded saying his name...
This is like fantasy turned into real life.
Well...in his fantasy he wasn't working at McDonald's. And Mr. Finstock wasn't yelling at the top
of his lungs about proper ketchup packet piles. But, still.
Derek Hale knows his name.
---When people find out a secret about you, they tend to look at you a little differently humans and
werewolves alike can sympathize with that feeling. Sometimes the difference is almost
imperceptible, like a smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes. Other times, it's much more obvious.
Like the way people sometimes clear my path as I walk down the aisles of a supermarket, as if
afraid of what I might do. I often times wonder, if I hadn't written that first book, if I hadn't gotten
famous would I be able to just walk among the rest of the population, blend in seamlessly with
humanity, without anyone ever having to find out what I am? Would I have been better off?
(Reborn, Derek Hale pg. 28)
---The third time Derek comes into McDonald's, it's almost closing time. He strolls up to the counter,
and this time Stiles had seen him coming all the way out in the parking lot so he's actually mildly
lucid and planning on what he's going to say. Why are you always coming in so late? Stiles
asks, trying to keep his voice all casual and cool and chill like this is a totally normal occurrence.
Like he hadn't been up all night re-reading From the Ashes like a fucking fanboy.
Derek shrugs, his eyes scanning the menu with that same grimace he always has on. I work late.
Sometimes I just drive around and think. What do you usually eat here?
Stiles thinks about the McNuggets sitting in his pocket, knows that Derek can probably smell
them, Derek Hale knows that Stiles keeps McNuggets in his fucking pockets holy shit, and then
thinks about Derek driving all around Beacon Hills late at night to get the creative juices flowing
and he kind of wants to go into the bathroom and jerk off like he had to do last time. Well...I
don't, typically.
Derek smiles at that, eyes crinkling a bit at the corners, and ducks his head into a nod. Me,
either.
Stiles is about to beg to differ, mention how Derek has come in three times in a one week period,
and Derek looks like he knows that Stiles is about to be contrary, because he raises his eyebrows
like he's just daring him to say something. Like he would honestly enjoy the conversation. He rolls
the words around his head for a minute, lips curved up into a smile, before he just shakes his head
and says, I like the chicken nuggets.
Okay. I'll have those.
They go through the motions, and everything's all very professional with money, and Stiles
handing the food over, and Derek vanishing out the door like he's done the two times before as
well.
Erica sidles up beside him with her arms crossed, smirking at him.
I would lick the floor underneath the fryers to get my hands on that guy's dick. Stiles doesn't
even consider whether or not Derek can hear him say it from all the way out there; he probably
could if he's listening. But he wouldn't be listening. Would he?
Erica shrugs. Why don't you just go ahead and ask him out?
Stiles gives her a look like Erica just told him she grew an extra head jutting out of her neck this
morning. Ask? Him? Out?
Yeah... Erica scrunches her nose up at him and rolls her eyes. Why the fuck not?
He flails for a second, almost shaking his headset and visor off in the process. It's Derek Hale,
Erica, he's not just some dude who comes into McDonald's for a Big Mac!
Just because he's Derek Hale, that doesn't mean he doesn't need to get laid like everyone else,
Erica sweeps her eyes up and down Stiles' body, and Stiles feels the bizarre need to cover himself
up more than he already is with her creeping eyes on him like this.
It's not uncommon knowledge that Derek is bisexual, and it's really not uncommon knowledge
that he broke up with his last girlfriend about a year and a half ago and hasn't dated anyone since,
hence moving back to Beacon Hills and becoming a hermit to not deal with the fallout press from
that shit show of a breakup. Jennifer Blake got an interview on MTV, twirled her fingers around
her curly brown hair daintily with a flash of perfect white teeth, and said, he's practically
demented. I guess you have to be to be a writer, but dark and moody is only fun for so long.
#DementedHale trended on twitter for a solid week after that, and Stiles grit his teeth through it,
knowing that Jennifer was the demented one. Seriously. She always had this fucking look about
her in all the candids of her and Derek together, like she had some secret plot or ulterior motive.
And that's not just Stiles being a Derek stan and blaming everything on her, or anything. Not at all
the issue here.
If he were to date someone again, Stiles began, adjusting his visor and pulling a nugget out of
his pocket to nibble on, it sure as fuck wouldn't be the twenty-one year old college dropout that
works at McDonald's and eats chicken nuggets out of his pocket, Erica.
Why not?
As if it's obvious, Stiles just widens his eyes and gestures to himself, the ketchup stains and the
grimy grease hair and the uniform, nugget held between his index finger and thumb.
Derek nods right back at him. Fireside, that's what it's called. I usually go in there around eleven,
stay until four. There's a pause, and Derek smiles; a small thing, just the tiniest uplift of the
corners of his mouth. Do you like coffee?
Stiles scratches at his cheek, mostly just for something to do with his hands. I love coffee I
really like coffee. Coffee is it's great. Fucking...yes.
Derek doesn't look at the menu. He doesn't ask for a cup of water. He doesn't even get his wallet
out. He just raises his eyebrows at Stiles, turns around, and leaves.
Stiles stands there at the counter, staring after Derek even when he's long out of sight, frozen in
shock directly on the spot, like Derek somehow sucked the life clean out of him. Because, and
correct him if he's fucking wrong but it sounded like...
It sounded like Derek Hale just asked him out.
---I don't care what people say about me. I care about what werewolves say about me, what my
pack would think of me, but as for people? I don't fucking care. (Back to the Flames, Derek Hale
pg. 324)
---Stiles spends about three hours the next morning pacing back and forth across his bedroom floor,
staring at Derek's books sitting on his bookshelf, or sitting down on his bed and jiggling his leg
incessantly, hands over his face as he tries to fucking think.
He didn't tell Erica, who had been out back in a crying, screaming fight with her boyfriend over
the phone at the time, or Scott that this has happened. Because he knows they'd both immediately
say oh my fucking god he asked you out Derek Hale asked you out and Stiles still isn't sure that
that's actually what happened. Maybe he was just making conversation, since he probably doesn't
get a lot of conversation outside of his editor and publicist, living all alone up in his rebuilt house
in the middle of the preserve, and Stiles is a pretty chatty guy. He's easy to talk to, so people have
said in the past.
And, so what if he came in and gave very specific details on where he would be today? So what if
he asked Stiles if he liked coffee? So what if he walked out of McDonald's without ordering
anything? None of it means anything! Everything is normal here, and Derek Hale is not interested
in him in the slightest, because he's...
A twenty-one year old McDonald's employee. He starts repeating the phrase again and again in
his head to remind himself of this depressing fact. He is not someone Derek Hale, millionaire,
would be interested in. He is a certifiable nobody in the grand scheme of things. His most notable
accomplishment is being able to make a perfect omelet in a frying pan. Would that impress or
even vaguely interest Derek Hale? Most likely not.
He has two choices here. Show up at Fireside at eleven am, all casual and like he does it all the
time, or...not. Not show up at Fireside.
One option is quite frankly terrifying and making Stiles' fucking fingers twitch, and the other is
safe. Easy. Simple. The problem with the safe option, however, is that he'll most likely spend the
rest of his damn life wondering what if I had...
And if there's one thing Stiles really doesn't fucking like, it's not knowing things. In a sense, the
decision had already been made for him. So, he puts on his shoes, gets in his shitty Jeep, and
drives to Fireside. Convincing himself it's not a big deal, because it's not. Maybe Derek had meant
to invite Stiles here, only not as a date or anything, just as friends because he wants to talk to Stiles
about his dad, or something. Or maybe he just thinks Stiles is interesting and wants to get to
know him.
A million different possibilities float around through Stiles' brain as he parks his car in the uneven
parking lot, drapes himself over the steering wheel and forces himself to breathe. In, out, in, out
until he's shoving open his Jeep door with a creak and slamming it closed, charging towards the
door before he can spin around and change his mind out of fear.
Inside, the place is just as dark as he remembers it, reeking of coffee beans with couches scattered
all around. He checks the time on his phone eleven thirty on the dot. Scans the room with his
eyes, and finds a teenage girl on her laptop with a pile of books next to her, a man with a guitar
leaned up against his table eating a bagel, and...that's it. Derek is nowhere in sight.
He can't tell if the feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach is relief or disappointment doesn't
have the time to consider it, honestly, because just as he's about to step up to the counter and order
himself a cheddar bagel with extra cream cheese, a consolation meal, he hears a soft, Stiles from
somewhere to his left.
Turning around, he sees a potted plant. Upon closer inspection, there's a pair of legs sticking out
from beside the potted plant, and then Derek is leaning over, smirking at Stiles.
Stiles' heart thuds in his chest, and he knows that Derek can hear it, and doesn't know what he
thinks of it because his face is just as much of a fucking blank mask as it is in the pictures, so he
just steps forward and tries to be cool. Chill. Hiding?
Derek shrugs his shoulders, slapping a MacBook closed on his lap and dropping it onto the coffee
table in front of him. Something like that. Come sit.
Stiles does as he's told, on only kind of shaky legs, and plops down onto the couch right in
between the plant and Derek not too close, and not too far away that it's awkward, either. Just
the perfect amount of space in between their shoulders.
I got you this. Derek holds a chocolate chip muffin out to Stiles, and Stiles accepts it.
How'd you know I would come?
I figured if you didn't I could just eat it myself.
Stiles tears off a chunk of muffin and chews at it, slowly. Derek watches him, eyes flitting all over
his face, watching as he licks a couple of crumbs off the tips of his fingers. So how's Beacon
Hills been to you so far?
Derek moves his eyes away from Stiles' fingers back up to his face. It's exactly how I remember
it. I haven't decided if that's terrible or amazing yet, so I'll keep you posted.
Swallowing, Stiles nods. Different from New York, I bet.
New York was shit, all things considered. My sister didn't grow up to be well adjusted, like me,
there's the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice, and Stiles recognizes that as Derek's selfdeprecating sense of humor, got way too into the New York club scene, and I spent most of my
time there flushing the toilet after she puked into it. He side-eyes Stiles for a few seconds. It's
not the kind of thing I would write about.
There are hardly any mentions of Laura Hale in his books, actually; probably out of respect for her
privacy. The only time she's ever mentioned is in his debut, and even then, probably only because
he didn't expect it to do so well. So, Stiles knows next to nothing about her this admission from
Derek is the most bizarrely intimate thing a stranger has ever told him, when Stiles thinks about
how secretive Derek tends to be.
She's better now.
She sounds cool, is what Stiles, fucking idiotically, decides to say. Before he can say one more
stupid thing, he shoves another huge bite of muffin into his mouth and chews very deliberately,
staring out the window at the parking lot, at his parked Jeep.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek shift in his seat, look Stiles up and down, and then run
his hand through his hair. I didn't ask you to come here so we could small talk, Stiles.
Stiles turns his head to look at him again, still chewing, and cocks his head to the side. You didn't
really ask me here at all.
Another small smile crosses Derek's face, and he says, in an almost quiet voice, I wanted to give
you every opportunity to not show up, honestly.
That is one statement that Stiles doesn't even know how to begin dissecting. He swallows his
muffin, very slowly, and stares at Derek's face, trying to read it. But it's like there's nothing there,
nothing at all, except this blank slate staring back at him, waiting for his response. Um...okay.
He puts what's left of the muffin down on the coffee table, right next to Derek's laptop. I'm
sensing you want me to ask you why, then?
Derek nods his head, once. Tersely.
Stiles licks his lips, breathes out through his nose, and asks, why did you ask me to come here?
The werewolf full on grins, now, and Stiles would be kidding himself and doing Derek a
disservice if he didn't refer to it as a wolfish grin, leaning close enough to Stiles that there are only
a few inches between the tips of their noses. I want to have sex with you.
Stiles is glad he put his muffin down and wasn't munching on it when Derek said that, because, no
doubt about it, he would've started choking on it, coughing muffin bits all over his favorite
author's face. His mind is taking a very long time to process what was just said to him, still, the
shock he feels somehow slowing down his brain, and for a few seconds he just sits there, staring
into Derek's face, waiting for a punchline.
No punchline comes. It's just Derek, staring intently at Stiles.
Um...
No strings attached.
Um? Stiles opens his mouth, closes it. Turns his head to stare out the window once more. Then
looks back at Derek again, squinting his eyes. Is this is this because I said I liked your books?
Derek laughs, full on laughs, his whole body shaking with it, and shakes his head. Trust me on
one thing, Stiles. There is no bigger turn off in the world than being told that a person has read my
books. People who've read my books, they like to act like they know me, or something. He leans
in close to Stiles again, giving him a tiny smirk. And nobody fucking knows me.
Stiles knows he's slackjawed, knows that he can't move a single muscle in his body right now.
Nothing is computing correctly in his brain, so he just keeps looking all around the room for a
hidden camera or for Laura Hale snickering somewhere behind another potted plant, listening in to
the entire thing, the entire joke. So, then why would you want to... he trails off, unable to
finish. For all the times he's talked lasciviously about Derek Hale, now for some reason his mouth
won't work.
Do you think you know me?
Stiles shakes his head, slowly back and forth. We don't know each other at all.
Do you want to have sex with me?
Stiles nods, up and down, with no hesitation. Don't, like, pretend you don't know everyone
does.
Derek laughs once more, but it sounds much more hollow than the first one. And yet you're the
one I'm talking to right now.
He knows he still smells like fries and burgers and that he's only kind of good looking and even
though he's working out, he's not buff he's fucking lanky and awkward and moley. He has no
money to his name, a shitty car, and an even shittier job. Why Derek Hale would ever for ten
seconds be interested in him is beyond him.
But Derek has yet to stop looking at him like that, has yet to burst out and say just kidding! So
basically, this is really fucking happening, and his brain is finally starting to catch up. All those
times you came into my work...
You think I kept going to McDonald's because I liked the food? Derek motions to himself,
eyebrows raised. Stiles runs his eyes up and down Derek's fucking six pack, his perfectly sculpted
body, and purses his lips. I threw the bag in the trash the second I got outside every time.
You kept coming in, because...?
Derek rolls his eyes, like this conversation is a tax on his health, and says, very emphatically, you
smell good, and I want to fuck you.
Stiles is present now. Mind and body, he is fully aware and fucking ready to damn go; enough
fucking talk, then. Okay. Like, when?
Right now.
On this couch?
Yes, Stiles. I want to have sex on this couch with you while a sixteen year old girl watches.
Stiles narrows his eyes, but quirks his lips up in amusement at the use of sarcasm. Where, then,
funny guy?
Derek juts his chin out towards the parking lot. Backseat of my car.
Holy. Fucking. God. The voodoo gods have answered his fucking prayers. All the times that he
sat in his bed caressing his copies of Derek's books, hugging them tight and fantasizing about
what it would be like to have sex with the dude, they all finally paid off. Someone upstairs was
listening to his prayers, and right now, all Stiles can do is raise his eyes upwards to the heavens,
nod appreciatively, and say, let's go, then.
Before he can stand up, Derek grabs onto his arm and raises his eyebrows. No strings attached.
Stiles starts to laugh, almost hysterically, and Derek makes a sound behind him that could be
construed as a question.
It's just I'm back here, getting fucked by Derek Hale, Derek comes, hard and long, and Stiles
keeps talking right over it, and a woman who's yelled at me on ten separate occasions about her
fries not being crispy enough just walks right by, with no idea whatsoever.
Derek grunts, pulling out of Stiles carefully, and then rubs a hand down Stiles' back. Just like that,
the sex is over. I hate people like that, who are rude to workers.
See, I thought you just hated people in general. He flips over and lands on his ass in his own
come, smirking up at Derek. The wolf settles down himself, probably relieved to not have to duck
his head against the top of the car anymore, right next to Stiles.
More or less, yeah.
After that, they're both just lying in the afterglow. Stiles thinks about how Derek's car still smells
brand new, mixed with the scent of sex, how Derek himself smells like nothing at all except
maybe leather and something that's just Derek, and he wonders what he smells like to Derek.
Tilting his head back, he sees that there's not much in the front of the car except the laptop, a pile
of receipts in the dashboard compartment, and a pair of sunglasses fitted onto the visor over the
driver's seat. Expensive sunglasses, at that but that's not surprising.
I want you to take this, Derek tells him, suddenly, producing a white stock card out of nowhere
and putting it on Stiles' stomach. Stiles picks it up and examines it it's just a phone number
written in sleek black ink, no name, no address. Just the number.
Yours? Stiles asks, reaching behind him for his jeans to shove the card into a pocket.
Derek nods, reaching into his own jeans for his own phone. Can I have yours?
Stiles smiles at him. I thought this was no strings attached.
It is, Derek promises very matter-of-factly. That means I can't call you for a round two?
Stiles shakes his head, and rattles off his phone number as Derek punches the numbers in as Stiles
says them. Put me in your phone as Big Booty Bitch. It'll be hilarious.
Derek makes a face like he doesn't exactly disagree, but he can tell even from this angle that
Derek just puts him under Stiles.
---Being a werewolf and bisexual has lead to some pretty interesting conversations on
intersectionality because people, for whatever reason, don't want to acknowledge that
werewolves are a minority, now. They always were, of course, but now that we have to check a
box marked either werewolf or human on job applications, when seventy-five percent of
werewolves can't find a job because of aforementioned checked box, maybe we need to recognize
that there are stigmas and injustices particular to being a werewolf that a human will not
experience. And how many LGBTQ alliances specifically for werewolves do you think there are?
There's a BDSM club called Howl owned by my publicist Lydia Martin two miles away from my
old house in Beacon Hills (a garish place I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, but whatever suits
your fancy), and a meeting once a month at the Civic Center downtown. That's it. There are
hardly ever conversations at all about the sexuality of werewolves, because humans think they
have it all fucking figured out, don't they? Alphas like to dominate and claim and take and own,
omegas like to submit and get pregnant and be knotted. It's fucking insulting. (Back to the Flames,
maybe he wouldn't.
I hope so, Stiles says, sighing.
He better, Scott has a threatening edge to his voice, the same edge he gets whenever it comes to
guys being around his best friend. As if Scott could ever dream of even bruising Derek Hale,
alpha werewolf. The man doesn't need a security guard because he is the security guard. Why
wouldn't he? You're great.
You don't know what I'm like in bed, Stiles reminds him, winking.
Scott snaps his neck back and scrunches his face up. And I don't ever plan on knowing, to be
honest!
Right. Saving yourself for, Scott bats his eyelashes, puts on his best dreamy voice,
Alllissonnn! Allison is a beta werewolf that works at the sporting goods store, selling sharp
knives and tennis rackets to anyone who wants the good stuff. Scott went in to buy a new lacrosse
stick and ever since that day, the only girl he's managed to have eyes for is her. Which is pathetic,
considering he's never said more than two fucking words to the girl.
Don't make fun! Scott warns, shoving lightly at Stiles' shoulders.
Later on at work, Erica nearly punches him in the face when Stiles tells her the good news. Holy
shit, Stiles, her eyes go wide when she finally manages to collect herself. Holy shit, Stiles. How
did that even how do you just...?
You were the one who was all confident that he just needed a good lay, no matter who it was,
Stiles wags his finger at her, popping a nugget into his mouth and shrugging.
She opens her mouth, a strangled noise coming out, and then closes it again, shaking her head. I
thought I don't know what I thought. I did not think for ten seconds you'd just hop into the back
of his car and go fuckin' nuts, but holy shit. With Derek Hale.
With Derek Hale.
That guy has money, Stiles. She widens her eyes again, nodding at him like this is the most
important thing she's ever said. Like, bank. If this really turns into something, whether it's just
booty calls or an actual something...you've gotta milk it.
Stiles purses her lips at her. Of course the first place Erica's mind goes to is the amount of money
he has although, to be honest, it's not like Stiles hasn't thought about it. The kind of places Derek
could take Stiles to if he felt like it, the kind of things he could give to Stiles, the kind of sheets he
has on his bed. Egyptian cotton or something like that, he's positive. I don't think I'm gonna milk
it...
Look, Stiles, she flips a burger on the grill and eyes him like a mom. When a guy comes
sweeping in with that I want to fuck you, but I don't want to date you shit, you capitalize on the
situation. Since you agreed to all this, he thinks you're easy and that he's completely in charge of
the situation. She winks at him. But is he?
If there's one thing Stiles thinks that he does know about Derek, it's that he's used to being the one
calling all the shots. No matter how much he writes about how werewolf stereotypes aren't true,
one thing he can't really negate is that alphas like to have control over shit. The entire way he
acted while they were together definitely spoke to how much he enjoys having power over other
people; not necessarily in a bad or creepy way, and it was really more subtle than anything else,
but...still. The guy definitely has an air of in charge about him.
Wow... Stiles leans back in his seat and shakes his head sadly, back and forth. I trusted you.
Derek snorts and turns the car all the way back on with a quiet purr, while Stiles shoves his visor
back on his head. What days do you get off?
Thursday through Saturday, Stiles tells him, smiling wide.
The wolf squints off into the parking lot, like he's thinking about it for a second he opens his
mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the very loud sound of Bilinski! Where the hell are
you! screaming at him through the headset.
Derek raises his eyebrows. Bilinski?
Don't even fucking don't start. He pops open the car door, with one last sweeping glance at
Derek, who watches him steadily.
Be careful, he says. Stiles crinkles his brow, thinking that made a lot of sense when he was
climbing awkwardly out the back of the car, but slipping out of the passenger seat isn't exactly the
most dangerous thing on the face of the planet.
All the same, he climbs out, slams the door, and heads back inside to go back to work.
Was that him? Erica asks when he's back behind the counter, and grabbing at a McNugget to
clear his mouth of Derek's spunk.
Stiles nods, chewing.
Did you get a Starbucks gift card out of him?
I didnt get anything out of him, honestly. Which works on every single level it could possibly
work. He didn't get any money or a gift, he didn't get off, he didn't get any emotion or feeling or
clue as to where this whole fucking thing is going out of him; the man is as hard to read as all the
magazine interviews he's ever read always said he was. That stoic facial expression and quiet
demeanor is really hard to translate into text, he's realizing. Stiles isn't sure how to explain it in
words himself.
---All the people and wolves I met after the fire, in New York and in Connecticut and Jersey and
Maine, they were nothing to me. As easily as I managed to get them, I managed to drop them. It
was like, after having that much of a heightened emotion, that intense of an experience to live
through, I was just numb to other people, other experiences, anything that wasn't blinding searing
agony. If you're wondering if I regret treating them that way, of course I do. Cold as I may seem
to some people, I value connections with others very highly, like all wolves do, and I ruined a lot
of connections (like possible packmates) in acting the way I did. But the thing is, I still haven't met
someone that's been more than a passing interest for me; I'm not upset I don't have much of a
pack outside of Kira and Boyd, because I know I just haven't met the right people. (Reborn, Derek
Hale pg. 346)
---Can I ask you a favor?
It's only seconds before Derek's responding text comes. Depends what it is.
Stiles bites his lip, taps his thumb against the side of his phone. It's stupid. Don't laugh at me or
What? Stiles demands, smiling just from seeing Derek smile like that.
Derek turns the book to face Stiles, and he gets to see where he had written Stiles <3's Derek
when he was a fucking Junior in high school. He had completely forgotten about that. Maybe if he
had remembered he would've handed him Back to the Flames instead the one that came out
while he was in college getting stoned all the time, and way more mature. His face is on fire in
embarrassment, as if he hasn't already sucked Derek off six times and been fucked by him as
many times. Sign it, and shut up.
Derek laughs, running his pen over the page easily he's done it so many times it's probably
second nature to him and hands the book back to Stiles. Stiles shoves the thing back into its
place on the shelf, thinks about how many teenage dreams are coming true in this exact moment,
and turns back around to face him.
He's just standing there, glancing around the room and...sniffing at it. Probably as subtly as he
thinks he can get away with, but all the same, Stiles can tell the guy is smelling his room right
about now. It's not necessarily surprising; Derek has told him a zillion times at this point that he
thinks Stiles smells good. He just didn't think he smelled that good. Obviously Derek has been
underplaying it quite a bit.
Smells like someone else in here, he says.
That would be my dad.
Not your father, Derek sighs and rolls his eyes like it's the stupidest thing anyone could have
ever said in their lives. Someone else.
Stiles blinks, cocking his head to the side. Then he says, Scott, maybe.
Derek gets the single most unreadable expression on his face that Stiles has ever seen on another
person. His entire face just goes slam shut down. He doesn't blink, his lips close almost too hard,
and his eyebrows stay firm in their place. It honestly makes Stiles uncomfortable to be looked at
that way by him; it reminds him a lot of the look he has on his face in paparazzi pictures and it
doesn't exactly make him happy to be stared at the same way Derek looks at the people he hates
the most in the entire world. Okay, is all he says. Just out there, in the air. Okay.
Okay... Stiles says slowly black, completely and totally confused at this turn of events. One
second they're having fun and joking around, and the next Derek is...mad? Upset? He can't
fucking tell.
Derek clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair like he's trying to shake something off, and
then softens his face. Forces it down into a less threatening expression, it looks like. I wanted to
ask you if you wanted to do something other than get into my car and have sex.
Stiles smiles. Like ice cream?
The werewolf scrunches his face up, lets out a short laugh. I don't know why that's the first place
you go, but if you want, sure.
Is there more on the table besides ice cream? He waggles his eyebrows.
There's anything you want on the table.
Stiles thinks for a second, remembering what Erica told him about capitalizing on the situation. If
Derek's allowed to pull him out of work so he can suck the guy's dick, then Stiles should be
allowed to put that Platinum card he knows is burning a hole in Derek's wallet to good use.
Alpha. Huh. Stiles files that away, a little mischievously, and leans back into his seat.
You look fine, Derek finally says in a bit of a strained voice after ten complete seconds of
silence and staring at Stiles' profile.
Stiles smirks to himself as Derek starts up the car and drives away from the Stilinski house. He just
sits there tapping his leg for a few seconds, chattering back and forth with Derek in their usual
banter, before glancing in the rearview mirror for half a second and seeing...eyes staring straight
back at him.
Stiles jumps so hard he's surprised his head doesn't smack into the ceiling of the car, and yelps like
he's been stabbed.
What is it? Derek asks, slamming down on the brakes and pulling over to the side of the road
before Stiles can get a word in edgewise.
There's - Stiles swallows, glancing back in the rearview to make sure...yup, eyes. ...there's a
man in your backseat.
Derek squints at him, looks in the back, eyeballs the man sitting there, and then turns back to Stiles
with a smile that's dangerously coming close to being a laugh at Stiles' expense playing on his lips.
That's Manny. He's my security guard.
Stiles glances back at Manny, who stares back at him with little to no interest whatsoever and
barely acknowledges his presence, and then looks back at Derek. Since when do you have a
security guard?
Not usually, you're right. Derek turns on his signal to merge back with traffic. But I'm not
usually walking around with a small human with me.
Small human?
You're a hundred and sixty pounds wet, Stiles. If that.
Stiles furrows his brow, really wants to slap Derek for his uncanny werewolf ability to guess
Stiles' weight to a pretty accurate approximation, and then really considers what he just said.
One really, really huge thing Stiles had never considered when he agreed to eat dinner out in
public with Derek people were going to see them. People who know exactly who he is, people
who would want to come up to him and talk to him, people. No wonder Derek brought the god
damn bodyguard, because it was a bit of a massive oversight on Stiles' part to not think about.
When he glances over to look at Derek as they're walking up to the restaurant and someone
literally gasps and screams is that DEREK HALE? Derek just sighs through his nose and rubs
his fingers down Stiles' neck. That weird thing he always does that Stiles doesn't understand, but
allows because it kind of feels nice and more tender than Derek usually is.
Inside the restaurant, things only escalate. There's a crowd of people standing around waiting for a
table in the lobby, because it's Saturday night, and when the whispers start and the wide-eyes and
the holy shit's under people's breaths, the crowd literally just clears. And then it's just Derek and
Stiles, with Manny trailing up the back, walking across the marble floors while dozens of pairs of
eyes follow their every single move, and a couple of cameras flash. It's probably the most self
conscious Stiles has ever felt about himself; now he wishes he had just splurged and bought nicer
clothes.
The hostess at the podium stutters and avoids eye contact with Derek as she guides them off to
their table and the whispers continue, the cameras flash, and Stiles realizes he kind of pulled a shit
move in asking to come to the most popular restaurant in Beacon Hills. Of course Derek was
going to say yes, because for whatever reason he has a real issue flat out saying no to Stiles, and
Stiles should've known better. He should've known it would be like this.
Sorry, Stiles says to him when they're alone at their table, Manny at the table right beside them
by himself. I didn't really think. I'm sorry.
Derek shakes his head, waving it off. I'm used to it. Do you want an appetizer?
The dinner goes on well enough. Manny eats an entire plate of clams all by himself, and then an
entire twenty ounce steak, Stiles gets the fettucine alfredo like he has every single time he's come
here his entire life, and Derek gets the lobster. They only really get interrupted once the entire
night, by an eleven year old beta werewolf girl, her golden eyes glowing, with her mother, who
tentatively asks Derek for a picture.
Derek doesn't hesitate to enthusiastically agree he wipes his mouth, stands from the table, and
squats down to pose with the girl as her mother clicks the picture with her digital camera. They
thank him, the girl disappears back into the restaurant with a smile so big it could probably light up
the entire room, and Stiles stares at Derek like he's seeing him for the first time.
They constantly write about how rude Derek can be to his fans, or how rude he can be in general;
that alpha werewolf I'm-better-than-you attitude they always write about in online articles and
gossip magazines. Honestly, Derek does have an attitude, but Stiles wouldn't necessarily
categorize it as an I'm better than you type of a thing. More of the aftereffects of a person who's
been through a lot, and doesn't have as much patience as others might.
A person who would be so kind to a little girl doesn't strike Stiles as rude, at all.
Dinner ends, Derek pays the outrageously expensive bill and leaves a huge tip for the perky
waitress, and then they're leaving again with exactly similar fanfare. Gasps, whispers, cameras,
Derek runs his fingers down Stiles' neck, back to the car.
Was it good? Derek asks him on the drive off towards the preserve. Stiles watches all the trees
as they blow past, thinking he's never been this far out on this main road before.
Super good, Stiles agrees amiably, giving Derek a grin. He almost says best date I ever had,
before remembering that it wasn't a fucking date. They're not dating. They're not together in any
way, shape, or form. Like Derek said no strings whatsoever. Dates are strings. Labels are
strings. The thought sours his mood a little, and he ends up just sitting and glaring out the window
without going back and forth with Derek like he'd normally be doing.
He quickly changes his tune and perks right up as soon as they come to a large roundabout circle,
lined with sleek black cars. Stiles assumes this must be where the security hangs out, if the huge
men (werewolves, probably) milling around the cars like they were waiting for Derek's return are
anything to go by. Derek slows to a stop, and Manny hops out of the backseat to go join his
security pals without a word.
Derek starts the car up again, and Stiles says, no one made an attempt on my life, so I guess we
didn't need him.
They follow the roundabout all the way around, to the opposite end where it breaks off into a
straight road and a giant black gate sits clenched shut. It stays clenched shut, with Derek sitting in
front of it, waiting, for a good fifteen seconds before it finally pops open with a screech. Looking
farther out, Stiles can tell that the gate spans out as a fence that looks electrified for as far as the
It really, really is. Derek's thumb keeps stroking the side of Stiles' neck, almost absentmindedly,
slowly, which is funny compared to what Derek's dick is doing inside of him, slamming into his
prostate again and again, and all Stiles really wants to do is come.
He reaches underneath himself with a shaking hand, looking to stroke himself off, but Derek's
hand comes out and stops him, holding it down on the bed.
Ngh, Stiles complains as coherently as he can in this state, his other hand twitching to reach out
and finish what the other started but he knows he'd be stopped by Derek's reflexes, Derek's
strength. Derek, please, I have to-
Shh, baby, he coos breathlessly into Stiles' hair. Derek only ever calls him baby when they're
like this when he's so fucking gone on the smell of him or the feel of him around his dick or
something and it's always so shockingly tender and gentle in the midst of the fucking that it
startles Stiles into a moan every time. Who did you say the alpha was?
Stiles swallows, adam's apple bobbing against Derek's hand. You are.
Derek growls, so fucking loud Stiles would be jumping if he had any leverage to go on, and
comes with a grunt, the earliest he's ever come in all the times he and Stiles have done this,
locking his body up for two entire seconds. His hand tightens on Stiles' neck, not hard enough to
cut off his breath, but hard enough that he really feels it, like he's going to feel it for days, like
Derek's scent is going to be trapped there for weeks.
When he pulls out, Stiles kind of expects him to just flop down onto the bed like a fish and pant
like he normally does; or to just lay himself flat over Stiles' back and murmur something sweet into
his ear. Instead, Derek flips Stiles over onto his back, and takes his dick completely down his
throat.
Stiles yells, hips jerking forwards involuntarily, throwing his head back into the pillows while his
hands try grappling at Derek's hair. Oh, my God...
Within ten seconds, he's spilling into Derek's mouth and starting in on a litany of apologies,
embarrassed at going so fucking soon.
It's fine, Derek says, rubbing a hand up and down Stiles' bare stomach and chest as he sits up
onto his knees. It's fine, it's fine.
Okay, Stiles breathes out, lying there completely fucking spent and fucked out, feeling
somewhat drunk off of everything he just went through. You you like being called alpha.
Derek snickers, before flopping down onto the bed right beside Stiles, sighing loudly. I like my
position being acknowledged.
Your wolf status.
Like it's the most taxing conversation of his life, Derek sighs again. Yes, Stiles. My wolf status.
I'm the alpha.
Not of me.
Derek slides his eyes over to Stiles, a smile playing on his lips almost there, but not quite. No.
You've proven on more than one occasion you won't be told what to do. But, he flips over onto
his side, facing away from Stiles, digging around on top of his bedside table, coming back around
with a piece of paper in his hand. I wanted to ask you to do something.
take it. So, he hops out, closes the door behind him, and faces his certain death.
Is that, Sheriff points at the silver SUV as it pulls out of the driveway and crunches back out
onto the main road. ...Derek Hale?
Stiles scratches at his cheek. Yes?
You just got out of Derek Hale's car. After staying out all night without telling me.
I'm an adult, so-
A note, Stiles. A text message. A voicemail message. That's all I ever ask from you, as an adult.
When Stiles was a little kid, after his mom died, he used to go wandering off into the woods in his
sleep all the time. He never went very far, and he never got terribly hurt aside from some
scratches, but...that would freak any father out pretty much for life.
Stiles sighs through his nose, scratches at the back of his neck, and say, "I'm sorry."
His father nods, flicks his eyes back to the road again, staring at the cloud of dust that Derek left in
his wake. I'm going to possibly also need some explanations.
---People ask me all the time now, especially in those boring fucking interviews with the kid freshly
graduated from fucking film school or something, what it's like to have a camera in my face all
the time. There's a camera in my face as they ask me the question, there's a camera in my face as
I walk off set, there's a camera in my face as I leave to eat lunch how do I fucking feel about the
incessant need humans have to be entertained by the lives of real people after getting bored with
the fictional ones? When I wrote that first book it wasn't so people would jack off to my pictures. I
wrote it because I wanted to change the way people look at werewolves; I thought I was doing
someone a fucking favor, like my children or my grandchildren, born wolves in a world of
humans. Honestly, nothing's fucking changed except for the cameras and the way people don't
respect my privacy. People want to know why I haven't taken anyone new in so long that's why.
Why do you think I don't date humans? (Beacons [unpublished manuscript], pg. 15)
---The second Stiles strolls into work, Erica leaps at him.
Have you fucking seen?
Stiles blinks at her; behind her, Rudy a kid with huge square glasses and a crooked nose that
works the early night shift with them smirks at him, knowingly. Like he knows something about
Stiles. Seen what?
Erica shakes her head from side to side, jaw slacked, like she honestly cannot fucking believe that
Stiles could be so idiotic. Oh, my God.
What?
You're all over the news, Stiles! She's on her phone in an instant, pulling up her web browser.
Stiles almost laughs out loud. I'm all over the news? What would I ever be in the fucking news-
he cuts off short, eyes going wide, his own jaw dropping down almost to his fucking knees. It it
absolutely couldn't be. No way, no how, no fucking chance. Nooo...way...
Erica holds her phone out in front of his face, and in giant black letters on hollywolf.com, there's a
fucking headline he never thought he'd read accompanied by a picture of himself.
Derek Hale out and about with mysterious new guy in hometown a HUMAN!
The picture, by the way, actually isn't half bad. Blurry, dark, and out of focus, but not bad as far as
the looks department go for Stiles. Derek is looking dead ahead, jaw clenched tight, fingers on
Stiles' neck, while Stiles has his eyes directly on the person who's taking the picture, looking
amused. Manny's there, too, hovering like a giant hawk in the background.
Stiles rips the phone out of her hands, glaring down at the article. It's everywhere, Stiles. How
have you not heard about his?
I've been- busy. Busy having sex with Derek, falling asleep in Derek's bed, then getting driven
home by Derek. Lectured by his father, napping in his own bed, getting ready for work...he never
even so much as glanced at Facebook in that entire twenty-two hour period. And apparently, it
takes less than a day to make a news story really fucking blow up.
Derek Hale, notorious for refusing to date humans, was seen early yesterday evening walking into
one of the most expensive restaurants in his hometown of little Beacon Hills, California, with a 21
year old human male who looks exactly like his type, from the eyes to the size. The wolf was seen
rubbing his fingers across the human's neck, scent-marking him to keep any other wolves from
trying to get close to him, and kept a watchful eye on him the entire time they were at the
restaurant. He's the Sheriff's son, a source who was at the scene tells Hollywolf, so they have
a little bit of a history. They definitely knew each other before Derek got famous on a pretty
personal level. Is Derek Hale finally breaking his no-humans-allowed dating code!? Tell us
what you think!
So, so many things to focus on that he can't even fucking choose where to begin.
The first thought that goes through his head is that at least no source who was at the scene
recognized him as the doofy kid who works at the McDonald's off exit 319. So, that's good.
But, beyond that, Derek is notorious for a lot of things. But never having dated a human isn't one
of them. Jennifer Blake was a wolf, but Kate Argent was painfully and ridiculously human. That
rumor, that Derek refuses to date a human, stems from that whole story. That he was so turned off
to the taste of humans after that shitshow that he just swore off them for life; Stiles, as a person
who actually reads Derek's fucking books, knows a lot better than that. Maybe he hasn't dated a
human since Kate, but he's definitely been with humans since Kate. That whole spiel about not
dating humans comes from his belief that humans are just way too fragile to handle his lifestyle.
Second of all, from the eyes to the size? What the literal fuck does that shit mean?
Third of all, scent-marking. That's what Derek has been doing to him with his hands all over his
neck. Scent-marking him. Stiles doesn't know how he didn't think of it before, or realize it earlier.
Of course Derek was covering him with his scent, to get all other wolves off his trail completely.
It wasn't, like, a sex thing or something. It wasn't a claiming thing, either. It was just, you know
protection. Like Derek always says, humans need extra protection. That's all it was.
You're a fucking celebrity. Stiles blinks up from the article and looks at Erica, who hands him a
chicken nugget. Stiles takes the nugget, but feels bizarre eating it after having dined on thirty
dollar pasta the night before, so he just holds it in his hand.
I'm not a celebrity, I'm I'm in a picture with Derek Hale.
people who don't even know him or his name are debating on whether or not he's too twink for
Derek, whether he's good looking enough for Derek, whether he's the human that's flipped
Derek's whole ideology on its head.
This fucking sucks, he decides.
No wonder Derek wanted no strings attached, backseat of his car sex. Anything else is too much
god damn stress and work.
Later that night, right after his shift, while he's sitting in his Jeep watching Erica peel out of the lot
in her toyota, he calls Derek. They've never actually spoken on the phone before, so Stiles is
somewhat amused to hear how tinny Derek sounds on the other end. I can guess what this is
about.
Stiles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. I thought you didn't read what people write about
you.
I don't. My publicist tells me when it's something important, Stiles.
Right. Derek's publicist, Lydia Martin. Stiles has read a little bit about her, and seen even more
pictures of her; in spite of the fact that she's just Derek's publicist, she kind of has her own little
fanbase. Mostly because she's incredibly well spoken and badass and hot as all literal hell, struts
around in six inch heels every single fucking day, wears all black, and runs that insane BDSM
club downtown in BH. Stiles has never set foot in there, but he's heard enough (like the sheer
number of times his dad has had to show up to break things up when they started getting out of
hand Stiles doesn't even want to begin to think how out of hand a BDSM club could get) to
know that he's probably too much of a lightweight to really handle it.
What are you thinking? Derek's voice sounds a little quiet on the other end, yet still demanding
and intent to know the answer.
Stiles watches a truck pull into the parking lot, chewing on his lip. I was wondering with all
this stuff...
Derek is quiet on the other end, waiting for Stiles to finish.
...would it even be a good idea for me to come to your party tomorrow?
There's a short laugh on the other end. Lydia thinks it's a great idea for you to come.
That surprises the hell out of Stiles mostly that Lydia Martin talked about him with Derek Hale
and sixteen year old him fanboys for several seconds inside his own head and then because he
doesn't really understand how it would be a good idea for him to fuel the rumors at all.
It's publicity. My book is set to come out in a few months, Stiles.
Something nasty blooms up in Stiles' chest. Something icky, and bitter, and disgusting starts
flooding every single part of him, and Stiles doesn't know what to call it, what that feeling would
be named, but he knows that he doesn't like the way that this conversation is going. Oh, he says,
in a small voice, rubbing his free hand across his forehead. Right. The publicity.
Like Stiles is a worm out on a hook for the press to gobble up. Not something that Derek actually
gives a half a shit about. It's funny for all Derek has definitely treated him as nothing more than
his latenight fuck for all intents and purposes, it's much worse hearing him say it out loud, like
that. Refer to him as publicity.
Just capitalizing on the situation. Derek's voice is measured, sure on the other end of the phone.
Controlled and even and emotionless. There are no emotions here. Everything is business and
money and books and bestseller lists. He wants to fucking laugh, thinking of how Erica flipped a
burger on the grill at McDonald's and winked at him, telling him to capitalize on the situation.
Derek went and turned all the tables right around on him, so Stiles is this powerless puppet that
Derek's dragging along to sell his books.
Fine, Stiles thinks. That's just fine. Stiles doesn't have any feelings, either. He's just he's just...
Yeah, no, Stiles agrees. Then I'll be there at your party. Stupid, stupid, to think that Derek
wanted him there because he wanted him there and wasn't just imagining the flash of cameras and
the cha-ching of his booksales going up. He's just happy he's not actually in the same room with
Stiles so he can't really tell that Stiles feels like fucking crying, right about now.
Good. Lydia will probably want to talk to you beforehand I'll give her your number. Is that
okay with you?
Stiles almost laughs. It's amazing how different every thing is turning out from how he always
imagined it would. It's fine.
There's a beat of silence on the other end of the phone, and Stiles can imagine Derek running his
hand through his hair. You sound upset.
I'm not upset.
Derek does laugh a quick bark of a thing. Are you gonna start playing games with me, Stiles?
Stiles grits his teeth and tightens his fingers around his phone; because that sounds like something
forty year old men say to the secretary they're fucking behind their wife's back. I'm not. I had a
long day at work. I'm tired. People are calling me a twink on the internet. All true, all shitty, but
not really the point of focus here. Derek doesn't know that, though.
I'm not making you come to this thing, you know.
Stiles shakes his head, as if Derek can see it, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. Well, you're the
alpha, right? Dead, deafening silence on the other line, and Stiles smirks even wider at having
bested him. I'll be there.
When he hangs up, and is just sitting there in his horrible car and his ugly McDonalds uniform,
he feels ridiculous. He feels so stupid for getting excited about any of this of treating this like it
was anything more than a purely shallow, carnal thing for Derek or for himself.
No strings attached. No fucking strings. Except for the one Derek is using to pull him along to
help him make his publishers happy, of course.
Well, if Derek gets to capitalize then Stiles is going to do exactly the fucking same.
---What's mine, is mine. Humans are no threat to me, of course, but if a wolf starts looking at my
mate with anything more than a glance, the only thing I want to do is submit directly to the
stereotype humans have of me of all alphas. That we're possessive, psychopathic, and
pathological; well, fuck it. Maybe that's one stereotype I live up to, and maybe I am. I just don't
like other wolves looking at my things. (Beacons [unpublished manuscript], Derek Hale pg. 187)
----
Isaac picks up on the first ring, like he always used to when they were dating in college, and the
first thing he says is, I was trying to think of reasons to call you myself that sounded legitimate
and casual.
Stiles grins at hearing the sound of his voice; it's been fucking forever, and Isaac was always so
good to him. Nice, soft-spoken, funny, always gentle with him; never growled at him or glowed
his eyes or even so much as showed him his beta-shift. It took him a while to figure out that it
wasn't because he respected Stiles too much to ever pull it on him, but it was because he was
ashamed of what he wound up being born as. That revelation lead Stiles to yet another, which was
that, for all he was nice and good looking, he was also boring.
In the way that all nice guys wind up being, in the end. Not to say that every dude who held the
door open for him has been a complete snoozefest but Isaac's particular brand of nice was the
kind where they could hardly even fucking argue. He'd just concede the point to Stiles like he
hardly even cared about what they were talking about. It infuriated Stiles all the more.
Case in point, Isaac was about fifty times more into Stiles than Stiles was ever into him, and he
broke it off six months in before things started getting too intense to turn back. It was for the best,
they both agreed, and now they're just friends who never speak aside from happy birthday and
merry christmas.
Until now.
When Stiles gets mad and hurt at the same exact time, he has a tendency to do things that he
wouldn't otherwise. Like call his ex-boyfriend at two in the morning to ask if he can come over.
Isaac agrees amiably, claiming he was going to be up all night anyway reading some dorky book,
and Stiles remembers how to get there like the back of his hand.
It freaks him out to see how identical Isaac's apartment is to how it used to be like, almost down
to the scuffmarks on the floor and the position of the towels in the bathroom because it feels like
being transported back to being nineteen and stupid and stoned all the time.
Nostalgia ultimate, he thinks as Isaac runs his hands through his curls after all the pleasantries of
so what have you been doing lately are over with, and fixes him with a searching look, a grin on
his face.
I thought you were dating Derek Hale, Stiles, cocking his head to the side, he sniffs, you smell
like him.
Stiles grins back falsely, shrugging his shoulders. We're not dating. It's an open relationship type
of thing not even a relationship, really, just sex. No strings, you know?
Oh, Isaac grins wider, taking a tentative step closer to Stiles in his living room. So, now you're
here. At my house.
I am here. At your house. At almost three in the morning.
And you're not dating anyone.
Nah.
Then, you won't mind if I kiss you? He reaches one hand out and hovers it directly over Stiles'
neck. Or if I take his scent off of you?
Is it still that fucking strong on Stiles, even after a shower, and an entire eight hours working with
food and scrubbing toilets, that Isaac has to remove it? Isaac was never big on the whole scent
thing when they were together; or, if he was, Stiles hardly noticed it at all, the way Derek always
says humans never notice anything.
Stiles shakes his head. I'd actually really like it if you did.
Isaac puts two fingers gently on Stiles' neck, rubs up and down in slow circles, and then leans
down to kiss him. Stiles accepts both without much complaint, trying to shake the sinking feeling
like he's cheating, or something. He can't possibly be cheating if he's not in any real relationship.
As far as Derek is concerned, Stiles is the means to an end, so why the fuck does it matter what he
does and who he does it with?
Derek's not going to give two shits. It's not cheating. And he's not using Isaac for anything, either.
He didn't burst down the door and demand that Isaac have sex with him here and now so he can
get back at Derek Hale for whatever it is Stiles thinks he's done to him.
Isaac initiated the touching and the kiss, and smiled his way through the entire thing, all the while
knowing that it was just touching and kissing. Everything is completely and totally fine, and Stiles
doesn't have a single thing to feel shitty or dirty about.
So, whatever. He has sex with Isaac and it's just as in-between as it always was (better than
Jackson, not as good as Derek), and in the morning, all tangled up in Isaac's blue sheets, his phone
vibrates him into consciousness.
Isaac stirs while Stiles stares blearily at the unfamiliar number through half opened eyes, mumbles
something along the lines of the leprechauns are coming (Isaac is a notorious sleep talker and
bizarre dreamer), and Stiles presses the phone to his ear and rasps out an early morning hello?
Stiles Stilinski. It's supposed to be a question, Stiles guesses, but it sounds more like a clipped,
direct statement.
Yeah.
Should I call back when you actually wake up, sweetheart?
It takes Stiles a couple seconds but hearing that word, sweetheart, in that tone of voice with that
level of annoyance...even though he's never met her in real life before, he's followed her career
long enough to be able to cuss out exactly who he's talking to. I'm awake, Stiles sits up more in
bed, while Isaac blinks his eyes open. I'm here.
Good, she says on the other line, and it sounds like there's club music playing somewhere
distantly behind her she's not...talking to him while standing in the VIP section of Howl is she?
Watching people have really fucking kinky sex? I wanted to talk to you about tonight, lay down
some ground rules.
Ground rules, all right. He can't stop thinking about there being a dude tied up to a wall ten feet
away from her while she talks to him in a cool, measured tone, and he has to put his fist over his
mouth to stop from laughing.
First off, try not to dress like you're a drifter who works at a fast food chain. No disrespect, but-
No, I get it. He does get it. Maybe he should show up in a leather body suit with a collar around
his neck to appease Ms. Martin okay. That's the last BDSM joke.
Good. Second off, don't drink too much. There's going to be a lot of alcohol, strong wolfsbane
alcohol, and the last thing you want is for someone to get a video of you making a drunken ass of
yourself. Correct?
Correct, yeah.
Third off, please do not arrive in that horrid Jeep.
He blinks. What do you know about my Jeep?
Do you think I haven't seen it around town? You're the Sheriff's son. Everyone knows what your
car looks like.
He doesn't know whether to be flattered that his car has such recognition, or insulted that it's
widely regarded as a piece of shit. To be fair, it sort of is, but he's the only one who's allowed to
say that. Okay. I'll get a ride from someone. But I don't get why you're trying to paint me up like
I'm something I'm not.
What Stiles is is a normal fucking person just trying to make ends meet; he hadn't considered the
fact that maybe Derek would be embarrassed by that. He certainly wasn't too embarrassed to cart
him around to the most expensive restaurant in town while dozens of people took his picture.
Lydia makes a hm noise on the other end of the phone, backed up by a strong bassline somewhere
off in the background. Can I ask you something, Stiles?
Um... Stiles glances at Isaac next to him on the bed, who looks like he's tuned into the
conversation and hanging onto every word like he knows exactly who's on the other end of the
phone. He probably does. Okay?
Do you think for even a fraction of a second the picture that's provided by the media of Derek
Hale is actually what Derek Hale is like, at all?
Stiles marinates on that for a second. Even though Derek more or less delivers exactly who he is
in his books, people misread it constantly. They like to make him out to be this hyper-aggressive,
hyper-cold, hyper-robotic dude who growls at humans and has insanely rough sex all the time
with whoever he feels like. Which, Stiles does honestly understand how you could be a complete
idiot and glean that from his writing, but it's not how it really is.
Derek is an alpha. When he's a wolf, perhaps on the full moon, he's more in tune with that side of
him. But when he's just human (although Derek would argue that he never is) he's just...a guy
with strong personality traits. He likes sex and doesn't care much for emotions because, as he puts
it, emotions have fucked me way more than sex ever has. See : Kate Argent.
I guess not.
He's a product, Lydia says distantly, like she's distracted by something else going on in the room
she's in and Stiles tries really hard not to imagine what it could be. A trademark, more or less. I'm
not treating you any differently than I do him. Who do you think buys his clothes and tells him
which cars to invest in?
Stiles never considered that, but, now that she mentions it...it makes a lot of sense. Like Derek
would ever dress that fucking well all by himself. Honestly.
I hope you're not taking it personally. I think I like you.
An I like you from Lydia Martin is equatable to being told you're the greatest human being on the
face of the planet, so Stiles beams for a few seconds and feels like he's floating off on a cloud into
the sky. Isaac notices and grins at him, perching his chin on his upturned knee, like he's excited for
Stiles.
Be there at seven, dressed well. Do you need me to send you samples?
Stiles has a no on the tip of his tongue, because he can dress himself, fuck you very much, but
something tells him if even one thing is off with his outfit, Lydia will rip his face off of his skull. I
I guess, maybe?
Good. Check your email.
The line goes dead.
He turns to Isaac, smiles, and says, you wanna go to a fancy party?
The party, it turns out, is more or less exactly how Stiles imagined it would be.
Isaac parks his semi-decent car, the one his alpha bought him for his last birthday, among all the
Lamborghinis and Jaguars and Beamers, and they walk up together joking about how fucking
huge the party hall is from the outside. It reminds him vaguely of The Plaza in New York City, the
place where Derek used to hold all his ridiculous parties like this back when he actually lived in
the city.
Stiles used to click through those pictures on his favorite Derek Hale fansite, imagine himself
being there, being that rich and that important and drinking that weird wolfsbane shit and eating
caviar. Stupid fantasy, he decides.
A man, probably a werewolf actually, stops him at the double doors, waving a clipboard in his
face. Name?
Oh Stiles Stilinski.
He scans down his list with a pen, crosses something off, points at Isaac. He your plus one?
Yeah. Plus one.
He jerks his thumb behind him, like go on in and in Stiles goes.
Balloons and chandeliers and marble floors and giant blow up pictures of the covers of Derek's
books perched up in a corner right near the snack table which is truly the most beautiful part of
this entire affair. He sees salmon puffs, makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and starts
dragging Isaac off along with him towards the food.
After six salmon puffs, a handful of pigs in a blanket, and a bright purple drink someone actually
recognizes Stiles.
A dark haired girl squints at him for several seconds while they both reach for a spring roll, before
saying, you're that kid.
Stiles blinks at her, and Isaac laughs. I am a kid.
Yeah, but you're that kid. A pause. The Sheriff's son.
Stiles wonders if that's going to be his identifier until the day he's dead, now he went the first
eighteen years of his life being called exactly that, so it's not much of an annoyance anymore.
The girl looks over her shoulder, like she's scanning the crowd looking for someone, and then
The girl looks over her shoulder, like she's scanning the crowd looking for someone, and then
turns back to him, flicking her eyes over to Isaac with a frown. Shouldn't you be with Mr. Hale?
Honestly, Stiles hasn't even laid eye on Derek since walking in. He more or less assumed he
would be swept up in a PR tornado, and would only see a couple of glimpses of him to begin
with. All the same, he looks over her shoulder, to where she was just looking, and there Derek is.
He's wearing an Armani suit, looking like he just crawled up out of the most fashionable pit of
Hell with the fucking glare he's shooting at Stiles, sipping heavily at his own purple drink while
beside him his packmate Boyd is trying to say something to him, or get his attention.
But Derek just keeps fucking staring at him. Staring, glaring, burning his eyes straight through
Stiles' own eyes all the way to the back of his skull.
He finishes his drink, and another is dropped into his hand by Boyd Derek starts drinking it
again immediately.
He looks - Isaac stars, and Stiles turns his attention back to him, and finds him looking
moderately uncomfortable and nervous. ...he is really pissed off.
Stiles knits his eyebrows together; why would Derek be pissed off at his own party? It seems to be
going well enough to Stiles, who's really only seen the food portion of the affair, but a party's only
as good as its food, right?
He's jealous. Isaac says matter-of-factly, adjusting his tie and swallowing. I thought you said
you guys weren't -
We're not, Stiles emphasizes. We are so fucking far being anything. The only reason he
asked me here in the first place is for the publicity, so...
Isaac gives him a look, like he's a fucking idiot. That guy is looking at me like he's going to rip
my head off of my body. Maybe you two oughta have a chat.
Isaac, Stiles grabs his arm, looks directly into his eyes. I never would've brought you here if
there was anything going on.
Trust me, Stiles, Isaac smiles, genuinely, eyes crinkling at the corners. I know you're just
oblivious you always have been.
Stiles doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know what to do about any of this, doesn't believe
Isaac, cannot believe Derek is looking at him like that, and suddenly the huge room and all the
people and lights and the everything is a bit too much for him.
He puts his drink down on the food table, mumbles something about needing to get some air,
ignores Isaac calling his name, and starts trying to shove bodies out of his way to get to the exit.
Seeing as how a good half of the people at this thing are fucking werewolves, he doesn't have
very much luck; he feels like he's shoving at brick walls most of the time. Eventually, though, he
makes it to the double doors and spills out into the hallway.
Out here, there are a few people milling around and drinking, leaning out the windows to smoke
cigarettes, but other than that, it's just him. He takes a deep breath, tries to think for a second he
doesn't like what Isaac was saying in there, not one tiny little bit, because it goes against every
thing he thought.
Derek was always supposed to be finite. He was supposed to be this person that Stiles used to
hook up with, some kind of weird party story to tell when he's finally got his fucking life together
and has wine and cheese parties with all his super adult friends. Maybe Stiles didn't particularly
like thinking of him like that, but for the past three weeks, almost an entire month, that's what he
forced himself to think of everything as.
Anything else, he thought, was setting him up for failure and disappointment.
Now, he doesn't know what to think.
He's about to collect himself and go back into the party, about to pull his shoulder up off from the
wall when a huge, warm hand grabs his shoulder and uses it to push his back up against the
wall.
Stiles yelps, blinks furiously, and winds up staring up into the face of Derek Hale.
A very, very drunk, pissed off Derek Hale. The smell of alcohol and wolfsbane is all over him, his
eyes are glowing red and glossed over, and Stiles isn't afraid of him, like this but he's not entirely
sure of what's about to happen.
But he sure as fuck knows they're probably about to get into an argument.
Is this your little revenge? Huh? Derek takes a step closer to him, so Stiles has no choice but to
crane his neck to look up into his face. You thought you could waltz in here- Stiles tries to
dodge away from him, but Derek throws his arm out, caging him in, with that fucking beta and-
Derek, calm down.
You reek of him. other than the one-hand push up against the wall, Derek hasn't touched Stiles.
At all. Which Stiles finds is a little bit weird, considering that Derek is one of the most tactile
people he's ever met. Have you been fucking him?
Stiles flinches back at the harshness of the word, at how his breath smells like alcohol, how this
isn't Derek, at all. Derek would never do this. Act like this. Now Stiles is scared.
Get away from me, he says, low, shifting his eyes around and wondering if anyone is fucking
seeing this shit.
Derek's hand drops down, away from Stiles' side, and he takes one step back; but he has this look
in his eyes, like if Stiles tried to walk away he'd just grab him again and push him back against the
wall.
It's fucking feral.
Derek takes another long sip of his drink, and then drops it down to hang limp out of his fingers.
He takes a second, just scraping his eyes up and down Stiles' body, before he laughs. Or, more,
spits something cruel and nasty sounding out of his throat and shakes his head. I don't fucking
like that.
Stiles glares back at him, defiantly. Trying to exude as much power as he physically can in this
situation, with an alpha werewolf looking at him like that. You don't like what.
You with anyone but me.
Stiles pushes up from the wall a bit, feels the muscles in his jaw flexing. You were the one who
said no strings attached, Derek. No strings attached means that you don't get to tell me who-
I know what the fuck I said, Derek spits back into Stiles' face. But I don't want you smelling
like anyone but me.
You're not my fucking alpha, and you're not my fucking boyfriend so who I smell like is none
of your business.
Derek growls, under his breath, and in his hand the crystal glass creaks like he's about to squeeze
it into pieces with his fingers. Stiles raises his eyebrows, daring him to make an even bigger scene
than he already is when, thankfully, a cool, calm voice from the end of the hallway calls his
name.
Both of them turn to look, and Stiles gets his first real-live glimpse at Lydia Martin. In her high
heels, dark black dress, hair pulled back into a tight bun on top of her head, she looks like she
wants to fucking murder one of them. Which one, it isn't entirely clear, because she keeps her eyes
on Stiles while she addresses Derek in a cold, detached tone. Go into the bathroom, sober up,
and stop scaring the shit out of your tiny human.
The alpha rubs one hand over his eyes, and the red finally fades away into a bloodshot green. He
looks Stiles over, once, before he growls something Stiles can't catch under his breath and zips off
in the opposite direction.
Stiles watches him go mostly because he can hear Lydia clicking over to him, and something
about Lydia scares him about seventy thousand times more than Derek ever fucking could. Mostly
because Stiles is pretty sure Derek would never lay a hand on Stiles to physically harm him, but
Lydia doesn't appear to be above it, at all.
When he turns his eyes back to her, she's standing three feet away from him, with her arms
crossed. Her lips puffed out in annoyance, one manicured finger tapping against the length of the
opposite arm. She looks beyond ethereal; skin so smooth and perfect he has this bizarre desire to
reach out and touch it, hair sleek, make-up perfect.
Stiles gulps, terrified.
I would've thought don't bring the beta werewolf you fucked last night along with you was a rule
we didn't need to discuss, she blinks her green eyes, once. I guess I greatly overestimated your
intelligence.
I -
Don't say anything. The more I hear your voice the more I want to slap you across the face.
She would do it, too. Holy shit, Stiles is so fucking sure she would slap his face with everything
she's got and not just a slap either. She would drag those perfectly sculpted nails across his face
and leave four scratches across his cheek to drip blood all over his brand new clothes.
I told him more times than I usually repeat anything that you were a bad idea, she purses her red
lips together, gives him another once over. Humans are a bad idea.
Stiles wants to say something, really really bad he's not sure what. Maybe an explanation as for
why he chose to do what he did, tonight, because he thinks he could explain his way out of this
one but he's been instructed by the scariest woman on the face of the planet to keep his fucking
mouth shut, so he does.
Knowing what you know about Derek Hale, after having read his books and followed his career,
I'm really interested to know how you thought for even a second that Derek didn't give a shit
about you. You think he just goes around picking humans up out of truck stops to fuck around
with?
They've been playing the video clip on an endless loop, again and again, while some commentator
with an obnoxious voice talks over it. It's a dodgy clip, but you can pretty much tell as clear as day
exactly what's going on.
Stiles and Derek, a good twenty feet or so away from whoever was filming on their iphone,
arguing in the hallway. It's weirder to see it from another angle, when he lived through it weird
to see himself backed up against the wall while Derek keeps getting drunk and snarling at him. It
gives him a weird feeling to know that thousands (millions, most likely) of people are going to be
able to watch this moment between he and Derek. A private fucking moment, that no one else was
ever supposed to be privy to. Christ, if Derek were anyone else...
The clip ends the same way it always does, with a blurry hand coming over to slap the phone out
of whoever's hand, and Stiles has been assuming it was either Lydia or Kira Yukimura, Derek's
second beta, from the painted nails he can make out in the blur.
Correction, Stiles says to his best friend, frowning. He fucked with me.
Scott nods his head in agreement, like a good friend. Yeah. Fuck that guy. He's he's an asshole,
right? Stiles doesn't say anything; he just watches with glazed eyes as the clip plays over and
over again. You're totally over him. Right?
Stiles rubs at his eyes for a second, and then he presses the palms of his hands against his eyelids,
leans forward so his elbows are resting on his knees, and breathes shallowly through his mouth.
Slowly, he shakes his head back and forth. He fucked with me, Scott.
Scott runs a big, warm hand down Stiles' back, patting him gently a couple of times. And...he
hasn't called?
He hasn't called. He hasn't texted. He hasn't come into McDonald's. It's like he's vanished off of
Stiles' radar for all Stiles knows, he's already left Beacon Hills to go hide out from the backlash
of this shitshow on some island somewhere.
Not like Stiles has tried to contact him, either. But Stiles feels fairly certain it's not his problem. It's
not his problem, he's the victim here; if anyone should be calling anyone, Derek should be calling
Stiles, right?
Right?
Stiles doesn't know who to fucking blame anymore, honestly. Everything got so convoluted and
fucked up; and as wrong as it was for Derek to pretend like he cared about Stiles a lot less than he
did, it was wrong for Stiles to do the exact same right back at him.
The whole situation was wrong.
Stiles threw his Derek Hale books into a box and shoved them underneath his bed, forcing himself
to not open up Reborn to run his fingers over Derek's signature in black in the front cover,
underneath Stiles <3's Derek.
He kinda tries to forget, the way he does with every thing painful. When he and Jackson broke up
in high school, he got so drunk so often that eventually his father's deputies stopped turning a
blind eye to it, dragged him into the station. He sat there in handcuffs, in his father's office,
ashamed.
This is so much fucking worse. So much fucking worse because the shame doesn't just extend to
his father and all the deputies he grew up with. It extends to, like, everyone with a television. He
has yet to have raw eggs thrown at him in the supermarket, but sometimes people glare at him
dirtily in public; since now, his full name is out there circulating, alongside the word heartbreak in
every single headline.
The worst thing that happens is at work. He's going through the motions, bagging food, sliding it
across trays to people on the counter, getting squirted at by the fucking ice cream machine like
every other god damn night of his life, pretty much.
Until a seventeen year old girl walks right up to the counter, glares at him so evilly Stiles thinks
she must be something supernatural, holding a Big Mac in two pieces in either hand. Um, excuse
me?
Stiles blinks at her.
Can I talk to your manager please?
He presses the talk button on the side of his headset, and says, cautiously, because this girl has a
vengeful fucking look in her eyes and is wearing a Hale Pack 4ever!!! bracelet around her wrist,
Finstock there's a girl up here who wants to talk to a manager.
There's an annoyed swear on the other line, followed by what did you do this time, Bilinski!?! and
the distinct sound of his office door swinging open so hard it bangs against the opposite wall.
He strolls right up to the counter, and puts on his customer service face. What appears to be the
issue, miss?
She holds the halves of the burger out farther, and says, with a sneer, I think he spit in my food.
Bilinski... Finstock's voice is shocked, awed disgusted. It would be funny if it werent so
fucking horrible.
Stiles' jaw drops, and he flails for a second - I did not fucking do that.
I saw you.
What you saw, he leans over the counter, points a long finger right in the girl's face. Is me in a
gifset on tumblr arguing with your precious Derek Hale!
She raises her nose in the air, flicking her hair. I don't know what you're talking about.
Oh, you don't!? Hale girl forever!?
Stiles, Finstock grabs onto his shoulder, shoves him back away from the girl, and gives him a
very careful look, shaking his head. You say you didn't do this?
Stiles glances at the girl, who's since dropped the burger on the counter and put her hands on her
hips. I didn't spit in anyone's food, all right?
He rubs at his jawline for a second, and lets loose an awkward laugh. I want to believe you, kid,
but, and he leans in close, whispers, you've got a record.
The girl smirks so wide so fucking wide, like she knows exactly what his boss is talking about.
Jackson Whittemore's non-fat latte. An entire year ago at Starbucks. His dirty fucking secret and
somehow this girl clearly knew about it. How would she find out about that?
Unless...
Oh, Jackson is completely the type of gross fucking snake who would slither right off to
Oh, Jackson is completely the type of gross fucking snake who would slither right off to
Hollywolf headquarters in downtown LA, feeding them all kinds of fucked up private details
about Stiles' life for a couple hundred dollars (even though he's already rich.) There's not a doubt
in his mind that if he were to google Stiles Stilinski spit latte, fifteen different articles would come
up about it.
But- he begins, feeling a firing coming on in seconds, an unfair, un-fucking-just firing all
because he got yelled at by Derek Hale in a twenty-five second viral video.
No. No fucking way. Stiles is not going down this way. No fucking way.
You know what! He holds his arms out and slowly raises them in the air, as if in victory. I
fucking quit!
He starts ripping his McDonald's shirt off over his head, and the collar gets all tangled up in the
wire of his headset, so for a few seconds he's just in the complete dark, staggering around behind
the counter.
You're quitting? Erica's voice, right as Stiles manages to get his shirt off. He starts swinging the
thing around in the air, his headset dropping to the ground with a clatter. I fucking quit too!
Now Erica is pulling her shirt off but she's not wearing an undershirt like Stiles is. It's just her in
her lacy pink bra, with Finstock yelling at them hysterically to put their clothes back on and the
girl at the counter is standing there, wide-eyed, in complete and utter disbelief, and a mother with
her ten year old daughter slaps her hand over the kid's eyes.
The fucking ice cream machine! Stiles shouts, pointing at the guilty party in the corner of the
back, gurgling at him like it's getting ready to spurt at him for a fucking fight. Without even
pausing, he's grabbing the mop, wielding it like a bat, and running full speed ahead at his longtime
arch-nemesis.
While he's beating at it, not doing much aside from maybe denting the metal on the top, Erica
starts kicking at the thing with everything she's fucking got which, as it turns out, is quite a lot.
Because she manages to break the stirring mechanism clean off the thing; picks it up from the
ground, throws it in Finstock's general direction, and screams, you're not that good at lacrosse!
Finstock stutters for a few seconds, baffled out of his mind, and Stiles starts trying to pick the halfdestroyed machine up, with the intent to Office Space the literal fuck out of it, more than he
already has. Erica joins in, and together they manage to lift it up off the ground, toss it over the
counter with a smashing noise eliciting a few screams from the last straggling patrons who
havent already run out in terror.
Erica and Stiles high-five, before simultaneously leaping over the counter with a series of hoots
and hollers. Erica grabs the chord for the ice cream mixer, starts dragging it with a scrrapppeee
towards the exit, leaving a path of cream in its wake, cackling maniacally as she does so.
Stiles holds the door open for her, sticks his middle finger out into the restaurant for all to see as
she passes by him, and shouts, viva la Burger King, you fucks!
His father squats down beside the back door of the cop car, where both Erica and Stiles are sitting
with their hands cuffed behind their backs Erica still not wearing a shirt and sighs. Did you
have fun, son?
Stiles glares at him, still in that indignant phase of angry, so he can't really feel sorry for what he's
done yet. The ice cream machine is sitting in the middle of the parking lot, sectioned off by yellow
police tape as evidence for a crime, while driver's cautiously cruise around it, peering out their
windows with expressions like is that...is that the fucking McFlurry machine from McDonald's?
It's in about three pieces, now, barely recognizable.
I'm being personally victimized dad, he swivels his body to face the window, glaring at his
father. You don't understand. I'm being targeted. The teenage girls are coming for me, and they
are merciless.
The Sheriff scratches at his eyebrow. Okay. But how does the ice cream maker fit into that?
It fits in, Erica leans over Stiles' lap, breasts bumping up against his arm, because it was
fucking evil, and had to go.
We did the entire world a service.
Right. He scratches at his face again, sighing. Are you is this about... he leans closer to
Stiles, as if Erica isn't going to listen in anyways. ...Derek Hale?
Stiles clenches his jaw because he knows it looks a lot similar to his other two breakups.
Actually, it looks much, much worse than his other breakups.
And, yes. Derek Hale was a factor. But he has no regrets. He quit that terrible job and now he's
free.
Did he have to absolutely freak out and cause the most shocking scene ever seen at a
McDonald's? Probably not.
His father takes the silence as affirmation, and huffs once more. Finstock isn't pressing charges.
Which you're god damn lucky about, by the way. But you're definitely...fired.
Not fired, he affirms, we quit before he got the fucking chance.
While his father goes off to talk about getting the two out of the back of the car and the handcuffs
off, Erica turns to him, coplights flashing across her face, and says, we should totally work
together again.
I was, literally, just thinking that, holy shit.
---People have told me, on more than one occasion, that I seem to like the crazy ones. And I guess,
in a way, that's true. Kate was crazy because she killed my family, and Jennifer was crazy
because she used to wave a knife around at me during arguments (were I human, I suppose this
would be a much more horrifying story to tell, but now, frankly, it makes me laugh.) The thing is,
I get bored, fast, and I don't like waiting for something to start getting interesting. I like people
who don't bullshit me, and I like people who argue with me. (Beacons [unpublished manuscript],
Derek Hale pg. 350)
---When Derek shows up, Stiles can't really say that he's surprised. Eventually the guy would have
to come and talk to him, because...there was just way too much left unsaid between them.
Also, he knows that Derek heard about him smashing the ice cream machine because everyone in
Beacon Hills heard about it. Not everyone knows who did it, of course but if Derek heard that
some crazy kids dragged a McFlurry machine out into the parking and Office Spaced it he would
instantaneously know exactly what kids they were referring to.
So when he peeks out his window after hearing a car pull up, even though both he and his father
are already home, and sees Derek's Range Rover slowing to stop right in front of his garage, he
just sighs deeply through his nose and purses his lips.
The inevitable has finally come to pass. He glances at his father at the kitchen table, and says,
Derek Hale is outside.
His father looks up from his case file, sighs his own sigh, probably because he knows that even if
he wanted to say do not walk out that door and talk to that motherfucker he wouldn't be able to
really stop Stiles, and nods. Okay.
Stiles takes a deep breath, holding his hand on the doorknob for a few seconds they've already
had their fight. Derek was already drunk and yelling at him once, and it was terrible, and it's over
now. This is a conversation. A conversation about how they both fucked every thing up and need
to either apologize to each other and move on with their separate lives, or...
Or. Just...or.
He opens up the door, and steps out onto the front porch.
Derek climbs out of his car, crunches across the driveway until his feet are up against the green
grass of the lawn, and then he just stands there. I guess I'm lucky we're not having this
conversation through a piece of plexi-glass with two fake telephones.
Stiles smirks, crossing his arms over his chest casually. Har har har. Very funny.
They stare at each other for a few moments, tracing each other's faces very carefully with their
eyes and Derek looks just the same. Of course he would it's only been a week and a half since
the party.
But it just felt like longer. It felt like Derek should show up with a fully grown beard and a few
extra inches of hair on his head; should show up with a wedding ring around his finger and
waggle it at Stiles like you waited too long. That's how it fucking felt.
Stiles wonders if Derek has been feeling the same.
Derek takes a single step forwards, putting his shoes into the grass, and says, I need to explain
something to you.'
He blinks back at him. You need to explain a lot of things to me.
The werewolf is stock still on the grass, his car keys dangling from his index finger, while he
breathes in and out through his nose psyching himself up for something, it looks like. I knew
the second I met you that you weren't just some kid, Stiles.
Stiles releases a breath he didn't know he was holding in, and nods. He suspected as much. He
had done his research on scenting and scent-marking and learned a fucking thing or two about all
the things Derek chose not to share with him.
Pretty much from the moment I walked into the McDonald's that night and smelled you for the
first time, I just knew. That yours was the scent I had been looking for, the one that I...needed to
find. I might've recognized it, in the Sheriff's station that night, that night being the night of the
fire, but I was too shaken. And you were a little kid.
away from him, because he was fragile and weak and a liability and manipulative (like all
humans allegedly are). But, poor Lydia she's never found the scent. Not like me. She wouldn't
know what the pull is like, what the fucking ache is like, when you need someone that horribly that
you'd let go of all your most primitive instincts just to"Hey." Stiles jabs Derek in the back of his neck with his big toe from the bed and when he turns
around, he's half on the bed and half off of it, leg sticking out as far as it can go to reach where
Derek is perched at his desk, on his laptop.
He smiles languidly at Derek, raising his eyebrows, and says, are you writing about me in that
thing?
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