Stiles Stilinski tapped his foot on the floor, waiting nervously to be called in.
He could hardly believe he was actually here.
Part of it was that the idea of Stiles being a model – any kind of model, really; but especially a model for an erotic magazine – seemed absurd.
After all, he was Stiles Stilinski; scrawny, awkward, and spastic; geeky, gangly, walking-talking-human-disaster-Stiles.
The thought that anyone could find him attractive was just... It seemed ridiculous. In all honesty, he still half-expected to find out that this whole thing had been one big joke. If he went in and it turned out Erica had been pranking him... well, he wouldn't really be surprised.
The other part of why this whole felt surreal was the entire erotic magazine model aspect of it. He couldn't really believe he was actually doing this.
(His dad was going to kill him. That is, if he ever found out. Stiles could only hope.)
Sorry, Daddio, he thought. If this turns out to be legit I'm gonna have to disappoint you. But I really, really don't want to be a twenty year old virgin. And if modeling for a soft-core porn magazine doesn't get me laid, there is no hope for anything in this world.
It wasn't that Stiles had never had an opportunity to have sex – not exactly.
It was just that Stiles had a certain... type.
He like them mean; he liked them brilliant, beautiful, and scary. Strong, and dominant, and angry.
Specifically, Stiles had a danger-kink.
Nothing got him going faster than a little taste of Oh-shit-I'm-about-to-die! with a side of But-what-a-way-to-go!
Exhibit A: his long-standing crush on Lydia Martin.
Once upon a time, Stiles thought that what attracted him to her was that incredible brain of hers. Which – don't get him wrong – was definitely part of it. Her sharp tongue, her flawless acting, her beautiful face and gorgeous body – they all played a role in his fantasies.
Those things had always made him want to be her friend, and he used to follow her around and try to talk to her.
But he was never actually physically attracted to her until the day in grade school where he accidently pissed her off so much she seized him by the collar and slammed him into the lockers, looming in his face and hissing that if he didn't shut up already she was going to kill him with her pinky.
It was then, stared dazedly after her as she stalked away, that Stiles realised he was in love.
His innocent little pre-teen mind knew nothing of the concepts of Dominatrixes or Subs or BDSM; all he knew was that he wanted to fall to his knees and promise to be good, so good for her.
The following years eventually taught Stiles one thing – he was attracted exclusively to people who seemed like they could and maybe would snap him in half like a toothpick.
With Lydia, he was young enough when it started that his default reaction was to attempt to show her how good he could be.
Maybe it was the clear ineffectiveness of that strategy that prompted his teenaged brain to switch tactics, or maybe it was just that his hormones decided it was a better way to get what he wanted; but every crush he developed after that – no matter how fleeting – his default reaction was to try to piss them off.
Before he could even consciously register that he found them attractive, he suddenly turned into a sarcastic, mouthy brat; desperately hoping for them to put him in his place.
Of course, if they did; Stiles wasn't going to just take that lying down.
No; if they wanted him to submit, they had to earn it.
Sadly, none of his potential Doms ever really got the message.
In entirely unrelated news, Stiles had gotten his ass kicked way too many times for your average nineteen year old.
While his emissary training had gotten him out of many sticky situations, his over-eager libido and utter lack of filter got him into many more.
And while Stiles probably still could have salvaged several of the situations if he'd just explained himself, he didn't want a Dom whose reaction to his smart-ass behaviour was to lose their shit. The threat of violence was much better than actual violence. He didn't want a Dom who couldn't control themselves, after all – that was just asking for trouble. He wanted someone who could promise him pain, but not deliver unless or until he gave the green light.
Admittedly, his strategy for seeking out a prospective partner could use a little work.
So.
Nineteen year old, going-on-twenty year old virgin.
When Erica told him up front that he was actually extremely visually appealing to werewolves, he'd been sceptical. Long experience had taught him that Stiles Stilinski was not anyone's type. But Erica had been... persuasive.
You've got the whole, awkward-Bambi-thing going for you; with your big, wide, amber eyes, your obscenely pretty neck, and your full, pouty lips; the entire awkward, gangly look actually works for you. You look like prey; but you're not afraid. It makes us want to eat you right up.
The worst part?
She hit him where he was weakest.
Because the exec he was waiting to see?
Was Derek Hale.
Sexy, growly, body-like-a-Greek-god, smouldering hot Derek I-Could-Rip-Your-Throat-Out-With-My-Teeth Hale.
The one teenage crush who hadn't managed to fizzle out his place in Stiles' fantasies by being an asshole. Oh, he was an asshole, alright – but the right kind of asshole.
No matter how hard Stiles had pushed him, he never broke.
Granted, he slammed Stiles up against more than a few walls, whacked him on the back of the head, seized him around the back of the neck, manhandled him; but he was always, always careful. He had to be – as a werewolf, it would be so easy for him to seriously hurt Stiles if he ever lost control. But he didn't.
Nothing Stiles had ever said or done, no matter how badly he'd pissed the Alpha off, had ever made him lose control. And Stiles had said and done a lot of stupid things over the years. Sometimes even on purpose.
Of course, as far as Stiles knew, Derek hated him.
But Erica didn't think so; and Stiles was willing to trust her nose.
Unless she'd been lying about his sex appeal to werewolves, either way this went, it would end in a win for him.
If Derek really was into him, and had only pushed him away so adamantly and cut him off so completely before because he was underage like Erica believed; then the thought of Stiles posing as an erotic model in a werewolf porn mag should activate all of those possessive wolfy instincts and incite him to stake his claim.
And if Derek wasn't, well; then actually posing as an erotic model for werewolves would hopefully help him get laid eventually as well.
Hence why he was sitting in the waiting room of the office for Neckz 'N' Throatz, a popular erotic magazine targeting werewolves.
Derek didn't actually own the magazine – that was his uncle, Peter Hale. But Derek owed him a favour, and as a result he was sitting in for the man for the next three days.
As a member of Derek's pack, he figured Erica's intel on the whole thing was probably legit.
So here he was; waiting to audition for a werewolf skin mag, in front of his long-standing, probably-unrequited-but-maybe-there-is-a-god crush, who he hadn't seen for over two years.
Personally, he thought that Derek's deliberate avoidance of him – because there was no way it wasn't deliberate – was a pretty definitive sign that Erica didn't know what she was talking about when it came to Derek's feelings about one Stiles Stilinski; Disaster Demisexual.
"Stiles Stilinski?" called the secretary.
Grinning, Stiles jumped to his feet – or started to, before remembering he was wearing heels today and catching himself before he could lose his balance. He scratched the back of his neck, offering the surprised secretary a sheepish smile.
"That's me!" He chirped.
"I see," she hummed, giving him a quick once over.
Glancing down at himself, Stiles rather thought he'd done a pretty fantastic job dressing up for this, thank-you-very-much.
Legs clad in tight black leggings; his top consisted solely of a bright red, brocade vamp corset, cinched tight around his waist and chest; leaving his neck and shoulders bare. Paired with thigh-high, black leather stiletto boots, it gave him a somewhat androgynous appearance. Eyes outlined in black kohl, accentuated by red eyeshadow and lip gloss completed the look.
Erica had assured him he looked hot; and Stiles had to admit – he felt sexy.
The secretary met his eyes and smiled, flashing just a hint of fang.
"Nice."
He blushed.
Her smile widened, and Stiles wondered if there really was something to Erica's claims of the "innocent, wide-eyed Bambi" thing she swore he had.
Regardless, he followed her back into the office.
Derek's head jerked up as he entered the room, and his eyes narrowed.
"Stiles," he growled, and Stiles shivered.
"Hey, Derek! Fancy meeting you here! Wow, this is a small world! It's kind of awkward, though, isn't it? Yeah, this is really awkward," Stiles babbled. "So, are you my new boss? If I get the job, I mean; I hope I get the job; I really, really want to have sex someday soon and Erica swore that if I did this I'd finally have a chance to get laid."
He clamped his lips shut, mortified.
Derek just stared at him, utterly unimpressed.
Looking everywhere but at the unhappy Alpha, Stiles fidgeted, wondering why he'd ever listened to Erica.
Closing his eyes and letting out a pained sigh, Derek gestured to the couch across from him.
"Sit," he ordered.
Stiles sat.