just wanted to say thanks for all the love & support, guys! i'm digging this story, and i hope y'all are, too. c:
The first lesson Stiles learns about party etiquette is that, when speaking, one must raise one's voice to astronomical levels. This is not guaranteed to work, however. When he shouts across the room, a few people near him give him sidelong looks, but the pair in question doesn't seem to notice. If anything, Jackson is working his way closer to Derek (is that even possible at this point?) and his hands have definitely slipped up Derek's shirt. Stiles gets a peek at hard abs and a dark happy trail.
Maybe that's what motivates him to move forward and grab Jackson's shoulder, tugging slightly.
Their mouths are working hungrily against each other, but at Stiles' touch, Jackson pulls away and glares over his shoulder. When his blue eyes register that it's Stiles, it's like his glare levels up from pissed to venomous.
Dude has anger issues.
"What the fuck do you want?" he growls, but while some logical part of Stiles' brain is considering whether this is worth his life (because, seriously, the kitchen knives can't be too far away and Jackson looks like some 'roid-rage serial killer), the majority of his brain is just focused on Derek.
Derek, with reddened lips that are parted slightly and definitely arousing.
"Leave him alone," Stiles shouts back in classic hero style.
"The fuck I will. He's mine." Jackson shoves him, hard, and Stiles stumbles. His hand catches on the back of a chair though, and he manages not to fall on his ass.
Jackson keeps coming, momentarily forgetting his prey. Or is Stiles his prey now? How quickly the tables turn. "Go back to your cave, loser. You don't belong here – no one wants you here anyway."
"Shut up, Asson – Jackson. People aren't property, you, you dickbag."
His second lesson about parties and/or drinking is that, once he gets drunk, it's like his loud mouth suddenly becomes a megaphone and, wow, he seriously has no self-control.
And his third lesson – well, it's not even really a lesson, because Stiles learned it in the third grade, the year he started getting bullied by the cool kids, but all the same: Don't piss off someone who already hates you.
Jackson's arm recoils and Stiles' reflexes aren't fast enough; he flinches, but the blow still clobbers in his ear.
People lurch into action then, pushing Jackson back, shouting – Stiles can't tell if they're yelling at him or Jackson or both. Really, he's just focused on the pain throbbing through his head and that fact that, five seconds later, someone is grabbing his wrist and yanking him away from the commotion.
It's not 'til they're outside, the cool air raising gooseflesh all over his body, that Stiles squints up to find Derek at his side.
The RA is flushed and breathing a little heavy, and he says, "Fuck, Stiles, you're an idiot. Sit down. Is your head okay?"
It's a lot of words for someone so drunk, but Stiles can at least follow basic commands. He looks at his feet, steps down one of the porch step, then sits/falls onto his ass. "Not an idiot," he mutters for clarification.
"What were you thinking?"
That's when Stiles realizes the guy's angry, and yea, seriously? Stiles looks up at him and scowls and says, "I was – I was thinking that you looked like you didn't want to be there, so SAH-RY if I tried to help you. I even… I even got – Jackson punched me in the ear!"
Derek glowers at him, then scowls and hisses up at the sky, his breath steaming slightly. His fingers lift and pull through his hair, tousling it, and he's still for a full ten seconds before he finally drops down next to Stiles. "Sorry. I didn't think to stop Jackson from hitting you."
"That's nice."
"And you're right, I didn't want to be there, but…" Derek shrugs, bites down on his lip, and Stiles mumbles, "So why didn't you just shove him off?"
"I don't know." Another shrug, and even through the haze of alcohol, Stiles can tell he's not being told the whole truth.
It makes him sigh, and he leans over so his head is pressed against the railing. "Whatever, Derek. Sorry if I, uhm, like, ruined your night. Pretty sure Jackson'll take you back, though… Maybe, like, tell him he's pretty and smart and you really want to suck his cock."
Whatever overcame him in that kitchen – the rush of confidence and the bold certainty that he could save Derek – is gone, crushed by Derek's reaction, and maybe the fact that he totally forgot that getting punched in the head and/or face hurts. Now, he's just defeated.
Derek doesn't say anything for a while, and Stiles lifts his head up to look over, half-convinced he left.
Which he hasn't. Actually, the RA is looking down his feet, smiling to himself. "I usually don't like drunk people, but you might be an exception."
"I'm – like, I'm honored. Privileged."
Derek snorts and looks over at him, brows raised. "Dude, you're so wasted. How many fingers am I holding up?" He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers like Stiles is five and, somehow, it insults him. Stiles lurches to his feet and smacks Derek's hand away.
"Butthead."
This just makes Derek laugh, and the RA stands up as well. One of his hands hooks itself around Stiles' elbow, steadying him as they climb down the steps. "Did you just call me a butthead? Seriously?"
"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?"
He considers, then shrugs. "It's better than being called Asson I guess." And then he smiles his award-winning smile and laughs, repeating the name under his breath.
Stiles flushes. He finds himself leaning against Derek some, because he's never noticed it before, but the earth is like – curved, which makes it really hard to walk. Also: Derek is warm. "I didn't mean to call him Asson! I wanted to – I wanted to call him an asshole but then my tongue said Jackson and…" He sighs miserably, then drops his voice, "Do you think he took it personally?"
Derek is still smiling, leading them down the sidewalk and back toward campus. "He may have, but I bet he's going to get pretty drunk tonight, so he probably won't remember."
They lapse into silence, and Stiles listens to the dimming music and the sound his feet make as they shuffle him forward. Derek is much steadier, which makes him wonder if the RA was drinking at all. It's still confusing him why Derek was kissing Jackson, but he doesn't ask, mostly for his own sake.
Derek kissing Jackson means Derek won't be kissing Stiles. He's not a big fan of math, but he can add something as simple as that. That sort of math hurts though – no, actually, all math hurts, but this Derek-kissing math hurts his heart and lowers his mood.
He already feels a little shitty, anyway.
"Hey, Derek?"
"What's up?"
"What… like, what happens, if you like someone, but they don't like you back and instead they like the evilest person in the world?"
He considers, humming thoughtfully, before he answers. There's a smile in his voice that warms Stiles' blood. "Maybe they're evil themselves, you just don't know it yet."
"You think so?" Stiles asks. He's surprised, and his head jerks to the side so he can look at Derek.
When they went for their walk, they'd been close enough, but now they're even closer. One of Stiles' arms if pressed against Derek's torso, and he can feel each breath the other takes. Their faces are closer too, and even though it's dark, the moon and the occasional lamp illuminate the world enough that Stiles can really appreciate the hard line of his jaw and, like, the artistic way his stubble decorates it.
Derek catches him staring and just grins. His hand drops from Stiles' arm, and the teen begins to protest, but then Derek drapes his arm over his shoulders and pulls him closer. It's almost natural for Stiles to simply wrap his arm around Derek's waist, but his heart is thumping unevenly and it's suddenly not so easy to breathe.
"But – but what would you do? If that kind of thing happened?" Stiles asks, picking up their conversation again. It's mostly for the sake of survival, because Stiles' breathing is little louder, a little heavier, and it's embarrassing. While he's practically swooning, Derek is unchanged.
"Maybe I'd try to steal them away," he offered. "But probably, I'd do nothing. I'm like that."
"Are you?"
"I am."
Stiles swallows and nods and wonders if Derek knows that they're totally talking about what just happened with Jackson. He wonders if Derek is taking him back to the dorm out of pity, and if he intends to run back to the party so Jackson and him can find a room. He wonders if Derek's head is reeling from their kiss, the same way Stiles' head is reeling from Derek's arm around his shoulder and his own arm around Derek's waist.
He wants to argue something, or point out something Derek is missing in his answer, or maybe he just wants to keep talking, but Stiles can't find the words nor the will. They're already at the dorm anyway, and Derek is carefully hauling him up the steps, Stiles lurching and stumbling. Twice, Derek has to dig his fingers into Stiles' shirt and haul him up, and each time, he can feel the fabric of his t-shirt hitch and reveal the expanse of flat, creamy skin that stretches between his hipbones.
He's very conscious that he is not ripped and that Derek probably doesn't even notice. Or care.
They eventually make it up the steps and Stiles is huffing. He slips away from Derek's grip and presses his hands against the wall, blinking fluidly as the world spins.
"You okay?" he hears the RA ask, and he swallows tightly and nods.
"Peachy," he eventually responds, and then he turns and smiles across at Derek and – wow, okay, Derek was three feet away from him, but now he's crowding Stiles against the wall and Stiles has no fucking problem with that.
His breath grows short and his hands are folded behind the small of his back as Derek leans closer, his own hands pressed against the wall on either side of Stiles.
"Still peachy?" Derek asks, breathing the word. It sends a chill down Stiles' spine, and he can't stop staring at the guy's mouth.
"Uhm, better, but I can only think of one fruit adjective other than peachy and that's fruity but, now that I think about it, I'm definitely feeling a little fruity right now," he exhales, rushing the words together. Or maybe they just slur together because he's drunk, he has no idea.
Derek smiles and dips his face closer, lips ghosting up Stiles' neck and, wow, yes, more of that.
He doesn't realize he actually said it that until Derek laughs against his skin, teeth nipping at the flesh below his ear. Stiles is too preoccupied to be embarrassed, a groan dropping out of his mouth, his head lulling back to grant Derek better access. His fingers, once pressed together behind his back, reach forward to Derek's hips, pushing up beneath his shirt.
Another bite, another gasp, and then Stiles' can't help himself – he drags his fingernails up Derek's torso and only stops when he finds the other's pecs. That's where he pushes, dragging Derek away from torturing his neck.
The RA is just as flushed as he is, Stiles is glad to note, and as their eyes meet, he detects a hint of concern.
It's quickly extinguished (at least, Stiles assumes so) when he lurches forward, crushing their mouths together. It isn't graceful, but Derek's lips still upturn briefly, and then he's back to pinning Stiles against the wall. One hand cradles the back of his head, cushioning him from the wall, while the other is hot against his cheek, and Stiles finds his fingers lifting from Derek's chest to his hair, locking into the strands just as he imagined the first time he laid eyes on the man.
When Stiles tugs slightly, unintentionally, Derek moans, his lips parting, and Stiles isn't the one to miss an opportunity – he slides his tongue into Derek's mouth, feels the other respond, and it's heaven.
Literally, kill him now so he can die happy.
It feels like it almost comes to that, but then they break apart, both panting, dragging in as much air as possible.
Neither of them actually move – Derek's still holding Stiles' head and Stiles' hands are still knotted in Derek's hair – except to lean their foreheads together. A vague part of his brain wonders if doing so is really effective, considering that they're probably just breathing in each other's carbon dioxide but whatever. It's hot, seeing Derek's swollen lips obscenely parted, feeling the way his chest swells with each gasp, noticing how hot his skin feels.
Eventually, he finds enough breath to mutter, "Fuck – should we… bedroom?"
Derek swallows and Stiles can't help but watch the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. The sight goes straight to his groin. What comes next counteracts the scene.
"No."
He blinks, swallows, feels his heartbeat drop into the negatives. "What, why?"
"I – Stiles, I don't think it's a good idea," Derek says. He licks his lips and adds, "I don't think this was a good idea."
A dismal variant of desperation claws up his throat, and when he asks, "Why?" his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.
It makes Derek wince and he begins to withdraw; that's when Stiles realizes his own hands have already dropped back down to his sides.
"I'm your RA, Stiles. You live on my floor, right down the hall…"
"So? You already kissed Jackson."
There's a hard flash of something in Derek's eyes and he scowls, takes a step back. "It's different, that doesn't – that doesn't count."
"It doesn't count because he's, what – he's in your league, so it's okay to bend the rules?" Stiles can feel himself getting sick, and he can't tell whether it's because of Derek or because he's – he's Stiles, the Unwanted, the King of fucking Virgins.
"I didn't say that, Stiles."
"You don't have to. Thanks for helping me up the stairs."
Stiles pushes off from the wall and almost stumbles into Derek, but he manages to veer off and stagger down the hallway to his room. He digs into his pocket to grab his key and he shoves it viciously toward the lock.
And misses.
"Shit fuck shitterson," he growls, repeating the motion.
Nope.
Stiles grabs the doorknob and tries to angle his hand very careful; the key trembles, but he gets it into the lock. A savage twist of his wrist and he shoves open the door, practically throwing himself inside.
Fuck fuck fuck Derek.
Fuck Derek for making him feel special, and then souring all of it. Couldn't he tell that Stiles liked him? Did he think it'd be fun to mess with Stiles? Oh, treat the weird, loner kid nicely and make him feel comfortable and exploit it, exploit him for everything he's worth?
No, that's not true.
Derek could have taken him back to his room, and Stiles would have done anything. He would have dropped down to his knees and he would have stripped himself naked and crawled onto Derek's bed. So long as Derek was there, so as long as Derek was the one biting at his neck and kissing his mouth and pushing into him, Stiles would do anything.
So why stop? Was he really that terrible?
Sure, Stiles has never kissed anyone, but he didn't think he was, like, awful. He figures he's seen enough porn and read enough erotica to have picked up something, anything. It's not like his mind is virginal; it's just his body that's unskilled and untouched.
Maybe he's taking it personal. He remembers Scott leaning across the booth, grinning at him: College is a different ballgame. People just wanna play ball.
Maybe that's all it was to Derek – a make-out session, just another one of a hundred.
Maybe Stiles' eagerness, his neediness, had been a turn off.
It probably meant more to him than it did to Derek, and Derek was trying to spare them both – spare Stiles the embarrassment of figuring out that Derek wasn't interested in dating him, and spare himself from a clingy little freshman.
A win-win situation.
It makes the most sense, and Stiles always tries to be logical – well, not always, but for the most part. The thought acts like baking soda on a grease fire, and Stiles suddenly just feels foolish.
He's wounded, because his dick is throbbing in his jeans and he's never felt so alive in his life and hey, he ruined all of it by being too presumptuous. And he may have also possibly ruined his chances of ever getting Derek to do those same exact things, if not more.
That's when he makes his decision.
He'll apologize to Derek for freaking out.
And then he'll fuck Derek without attachment.
Fuck, maybe he'll fuck people that aren't Derek, but even then, he won't get attached.
If people just want to play ball, Stiles can play ball. Sure, he sucked at gym his entire life and once managed to hit himself with a baseball bat, but he'll play ball.
It's just sex, right?
Just sex. And Stiles wants the sex.
But for now, he closes the blinds and tugs off his jeans and palms himself through his briefs. He pulls open his laptop and searches through a few porn clips before picking one, and it's the start of something good.
When he wakes up the next day, Jackson is passed out across from him, one hand dangling off the side of the bed. Stiles never heard him come in, already passed out by then – it's probably a good thing. Still, he lifts his blankets and looks down at himself, searching for any, y'know, stab wounds or bruises.
He rolls onto his stomach and the motion alone causes his head to swell in protest; he stifles a groan and peers over the edge of his bed, noting the time – it's stupidly early to be awake on a Sunday, especially when he's hung over, but he knows how much homework he has weighing down on his shoulders. It makes him sigh, and he scrubs at his eyes, then gingerly eases himself out of bed. He squints back at Jackson, making sure his roommate is still sleeping, then strips out of his clothes and secures a towel around his waist.
He shoves his feet into his sandals, grabs his shower caddy and keys, and heads down the hall. The fucking lights try to blind him, and he shields his eyes with his hand, trying to recall how many drinks he had last night – apparently, it was one too many.
The bathroom is empty, so he pauses in front of the mirror, half-hoping to find a hickey, or even just a bruise. There's nothing, though, and he can't tell whether he's glad or disappointed. At least he won't have to hide anything from Jackson.
Gods, he doesn't want to think about Jackson. Like, Stiles already knows the kid is going to make his life a living hell. And what if he finds out that Stiles totally stole Derek away, and then made out with him?
Yea, no, that can't happen. Ever.
He takes his time in the shower. The heat feels good against his skin and he can close his eyes and pretend his body isn't one big ache. When his skin starts to wrinkle, he shuts the faucet off and dries himself, fastening the damp towel low on his hips.
As he steps out, he realizes he's not alone.
Derek is at the sinks, brushing his teeth. His eyes flicker over to where Stiles is, away, and then back again as he realizes it's, well, Stiles.
Instantly, he feels himself darken. He'd hoped he could go a day or two without actually seeing Derek, but it's now or never. So he pauses in the junction between the showers and the sinks and takes the plunge. "Hey – I'm sorry for flipping out last night, I wasn't at my best, but I think you're making a mistake. I mean, no one has to know, right?"
He's confident at first, tone firm, but then he feels himself falter, and before he can stop himself, he adds, "Unless – unless it wasn't good for you. In which case, like, uhm, I…"
Derek spits out the paste in his mouth, rinses, spits again, and then turns to actually face Stiles. He's leaning against the counter in sweatpants and a white v-neck; it looks too sinfully good to be pajamas, and Stiles is painfully aware he's only wearing a towel and his body isn't that amazing to behold.
"Yea?" the RA says, lifting a brow, and Stiles squints over at him, not liking how haughty he sounds. It's the cure to his nerves, and he crosses the distance between them. His sandals squeak on the tile, but he tries not to focus on that, instead holds Derek's gaze as he approaches, not stopping until their bodies are millimeters apart.
"Yea," he answers.
Maybe it's a fluke, but Stiles is almost sure Derek's breath hitches just a little bit, and it's the boost he needs to press their mouths together. It's short and Derek kisses him back, which is surprising; as he withdraws, he nips at Derek's lower lip.
"Yea," he repeats, and he leaves.
He leaves, and as soon as he's out of the bathroom, he feels like a motherfucking badass. He may or may not do a fist pump.