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Chapter Text

Derek loves the first day of October. The unofficial end of summer tourist season on the Oregon coast is also an unofficial day of celebration for the town of Heceta’s year-round residents. It’s a small beach town stretching a few miles along the magnificent central coast, a popular summer destination for surfers and those that can afford the exorbitant rental and summer homes that crowd the rocky cliffs overlooking the wildly pristine beach. The town’s population swells from approximately three-thousand locals both hardy and weird enough to not only endure but enjoy the bitter fall and winter coastal weather, to nearly ten thousand at the height of summer. The town’s economy depends on tourism, and even though Derek hates that his beachfront home is surrounded by drunk college students and spoiled high school kids all summer, he loves this town and he’ll never leave again.

So he endures the summer crush of traffic and crowds and the rotating cast of upper-middle class families and partiers that trek in and out of the rental houses that surround his own. And really, he doesn’t completely hate summers on the coast. The surfing is incredible, the sunsets are fucking mind blowing, and yeah, a constantly-rotating crop of new sexual partners for four months a year is pretty fantastic. And while his custom-order surfboard business, Triskele Surf, makes most of its money from dedicated and accomplished surfers in California and Hawaii, his brand’s presence at and his partnership with the local surf shop – the oldest on the Oregon Coast – is proving to be increasingly profitable in the summer months.

It’s been a good summer for him – he reached new levels on the water, made and sold some boards he’s truly proud of, had some fun bonfires on the beach with his friends, fucked a lot of tourists. But he’s ready for the off-season and a slower pace, fewer crowds. He can’t wait for the weather to turn, even though it will soon be too cold to surf, even with a dry suit. He loves the palette of grays and blues that color the Pacific and her sky in the winter months just as much as he loves the rainbow of oranges and pinks and reds of the summer months.

Derek was born in Portland and lived there until he was sixteen, until his parents and siblings died in the fire. From the age of ten on he had spent two months each summer in Heceta living with his grandparents. When his family died his older sister Laura was at school in New York, so he moved in with his grandparents, and from then on he considered himself a coastie. His grandparents died when he was nineteen, leaving him the house and a sizable inheritance to add to his already obscene life insurance money. He left for a few years for college in California after that, and came back when his best friend Isaac’s dad died. He used some of the money to start his board business, and then some more to help Isaac buy his glassblowing studio and then all of a sudden he realized he had put down roots in this odd little coastal hamlet and was glad of it.

He's going into his sixth year with the business, his sixth year of waking up the morning of October first to join his friends and neighbors in breathing a collective sigh of relief and relaxation.

But Derek doesn't feel that relaxed when he wakes up this morning. He jolts awake an hour before his alarm goes off, body thrumming with early-morning energy. He doesn’t feel anxious, exactly, because he’s not worried about anything. He just slightly unsettled, like something in his chest is telling him to be alert, to be ready for something. He tries to shake it by pushing himself even harder on his morning workout routine, running six miles on the soft sand before doing a couple hundred sit ups and push ups on the large deck of his house overlooking the beach. It’s an exhausting workout and he’s sweating buckets in the cool morning air. It feels good, but it still doesn’t settle him much.

He chugs a Gatorade and makes eggs and bacon for breakfast and settles into his drafting table chair nestled in the northwest corner of the large open living room. He set the table up here because it has the best view of the beach and the ocean, and because the southwest corner faces a tacky beach rental that he can’t stand to look at. This window faces the Swinton’s small Craftsman-style beach cottage that has a deck almost as big as Derek’s and even better bay windows. The Swinton’s had been year-rounders too, up until last year when they moved to Colorado to be closer to their first grandkid. They rented their house out a couple of times this summer, but it had remained empty most of the time, something which always made Derek a bit sad whenever he glanced over there. Veronica and Samuel had been good friends with his grandparents, had been kind of like family to him.

Forcing himself to stop daydreaming, he turns to his sketchpad and begins idly drawing. He’s meeting Isaac later at the glass studio, and he’s just killing time until then. Isaac’s glass blowing studio is nestled in the woods along the Siletz bay in a quaint, fairy-tale-like building that tourists just eat up. The studio is attached in an open floor plan to a showroom, and is open to the public six days a week in the summer. Isaac demonstrates the beautiful art of glassblowing and sells insanely overpriced vases and wine goblets to Bend housewives and bougie gays. In the off-season, though, he closes the studio three days a week so can supplement his income by providing high quality blown-glass pipes and bongs for head shops and boutiques all along the west coast. Isaac started teaching Derek a few years ago, and although he’s still an amateur, he’s become quite skilled at making pipes. He helps Isaac with that side of the business a few days a week, usually working in trade for glass and pot. Because, oh yeah, Isaac is also a pretty successful grower. They’re best friends and unconventional business partners, but it works for them, and they’re doing pretty damn good for two guys who met while sharing a joint before taking the GED test when they were seventeen.

He manages to get some work done – some simple designs for a new board, a couple of half-assed sketches for water bubblers he’d been thinking about trying out at the glass shop – but that feeling of alertness stays, pushed only slightly to the back of his mind as he draws. He’s probably spent just as much time staring out of the window at the ocean as he did actually putting the pencil to paper, but he doesn’t mind too much. One of the benefits of being self-employed is to work as you will, and if Derek’s not feeling it, he doesn’t force it.

It’s barely past eleven when he finally decides to leave, feeling too restless to stay home any longer. He’s not meeting Isaac at the glass shop until noon, but he figures he’ll stop for coffee and maybe go bug Erica at her bookstore for a few minutes. He doesn’t bother changing out of his running clothes – the heat from the studio will have him sweating again in no time. He grabs a couple bottles of Gatorade from the fridge and slips on a pair of Reef flip flops. He keeps socks and work boots at the studio, even though Isaac still laughs at him for it. No matter how comfortable Derek’s getting with glassblowing, he still has no where near Isaac’s easy confidence around the 2000+plus degree furnaces – confidence so ingrained from a lifetime of glass work that he not only regularly wears Birkenstocks while working, but often works shirtless on days when the studio is closed to the public. Erica likes to joke that he would make even more money if worked shirtless on public studio days, and Derek can’t help but silently agree, even if he long ago decided that he could never really think about Isaac sexually. He’s objectively attractive of course, but they’re practically brothers.

He puts on his favorite aviator sunglasses and steps out onto his deck just as a battered old blue Jeep pulls up in the short driveway of Veronica and Samuel’s house. He remembers something from an email Veronica sent him a couple weeks back – a family member, a nephew, he thinks, who was going to be living at their house for a few months while finishing a book. Derek hadn’t thought much about it since.

The guy that spills out of the Jeep – and spills is the only way to describe the liquid, Gumby-like tumble of his lithe limbs – is not who Derek would have imagined if he had bothered to imagined the writer nephew at all. He’s young, or young-looking at least, the aura of youth significantly heightened by his tattered t-shirt and threadbare Captain America hoodie. Of course, Derek would need to see him out of his clothes to know for sure how much they contributed to his youthful appearance, and it’s when that thought crosses his mind that Derek realizes that the guy is incredibly attractive.

Beautiful, really. He’s smiling as he gets out of the Jeep, and Derek can see that he has a full, dark pink mouth and a scattering of beauty marks across his cheeks. He’s wearing sunglasses – expensive looking Ray Bans, so hey, maybe he’s not that young – but he pulls them off as he turns away from the house back towards his Jeep, where he holds the driver’s side door open to let out a chocolate Labrador Retriever. The dog is beautiful too – not one of those fat suburban barrel-chested labs, but long-legged and well-muscled, projecting boundless energy and strength. Like her owner, Derek thinks.

The dog bounds over to Derek, giant paws flailing wildly, and he realizes that she can’t be more than a year old. Derek loves dogs, and labs have a special place in his heart, so he squats to meet her at her level, and either she is so excited at the gesture or she’s just one happy dog because she body slams him with her powerful chest while licking wetly across his face, and the next thing he knows he’s on his ass.

“Jesus Christ, Boomer,” Attractive Writer Guy yells as he runs over to Derek’s porch. “Fuck, I am so sorry. She is such a spaz. She got kicked out of puppy obedience school for puppy ADD and - ”

Derek looks up from he had been gleefully – yeah, he gets downright gleeful around dogs – been petting Boomer and letting her lick his face as he crooned sweet nothings into her ear. The guy stops talking when he realizes just how much Derek is enjoying himself. “Clearly that school sucks,” Derek says. “She’s just misunderstood, aren’t you, Boomer?”

The guy has this look on his face that Derek can’t quite decipher. It kinda looks like the wide-eyed daze that some people (okay, fine a lot of people) get when they look at him, a look that he knows means that they are slightly stunned by his looks. But there’s also something in the crook of his eyebrow that looks confused or maybe even scared, like he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. Derek extricates himself from Boomer’s affections, which he would be reluctant to do if he hadn’t finally gotten a glimpse of Attractive Writer Guy’s eyes.

About six months back he made a custom wooden longboard for an old-timer from Hawaii, and the organic, fair-trade stain he used on it was called “mellow mahogany.” He remembers thinking that the name was dumb, but the color was stunning: a warm, honeyed brown that seemed to somehow glow with rich luminescence. The board had turned out so beautiful Derek almost refused to sell it.

Attractive Writer Guy’s eyes are mellow mahogany. They sparkle in the sunlight, and shit, Derek is in trouble if he’s noticing how a guy’s eyes sparkle. Somehow he still has his own sunglasses on – they’re streaked with dog slobber though – so he takes them off and offers his hand to him. “Hi. I’m Derek Hale. You must be Veronica’s nephew?”

The look on AWG’s face changes then to one of unmasked attraction, and Derek can’t help but feel a little smug about that, like maybe the playing field is just a little more level, judging by the way his eyes lock on his own. He wonders if the guy is searching for a color to describe his eyes. He is a writer, after all.

He realizes that he’s grinning like a damn idiot, but then he feels better about it because Mellow Mahogany Eyes is too, but then clears his throat and finally speaks. “Derek, hi, yes. Nice to meet you. I am in indeed Veronica’s nephew. Stiles. Stiles Stilinksi.”

Derek likes the sounds of his name in this guy’s – Stiles’ – voice. A lot. He also likes the feel of his hand in his as he meets his handshake. His fingers are long and strong and fuck, his hand feels good. “It’s nice to meet you too, Stiles.” He can’t believe how calm and collected he sounds. His heart is racing and that feeling in chest that woke him this morning stronger, so much stronger but now it feels good and right and he has no idea what’s happening to him.

He can’t think about it too much though, because Stiles is still talking. And damn, Stiles can talk. “You’ve already met Boomer. Well, actually, judging by the amount of slobber in your beard, you’ve already been to second base with Boomer. And you didn’t even buy her dinner, or hell, even a drink first, so, in addition to my dog having ADD, I think she’s kinda slutty. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m definitely not slut-shaming anyone, especially my dog. Or you, for that matter, if I any way implied that you could also be accused of slutty behavior in this metaphor. Which, you know, it’s really fucked up that the male – I assume, by your traditionally masculine appearance that you identify as male, please feel free to correct me if this is a mistake on my part – the male subject in this scenario is not the one that most would typically assume is the referent for the slutty comment, when clearly both parties, male and female, were enthusiastically consenting to the intimate behavior, but it’s the female participant who is negatively marked for it. So, even though I’m vehemently anti-slut-shaming, for the sake of undoing heteropatriarchy just a bit, I’m going to revise my earlier statement and say that you sir, engaged in slutty behavior with my dog.”

Derek thinks that Stiles might be one of the most ridiculous people he’s ever met, and he spends all of his time with coastie stoners and surfers, so that’s really saying something. Stiles is liquid movement even as he’s standing still, and Derek is just as mesmerized by the movements of his hands as he speaks as he is by his crazy torrent of words. Derek’s trying to come up with a reply to whatever that was when Stiles speaks again, this time slower and slightly less manic.

“I’m sorry. I do that, when I don’t know what to say. Which is weird, right? You would think not knowing what to say would lead to you know, not saying anything.” He shoves his perfect hands in his pockets – Derek is sad to see them go – and looks down and honest-to-god scuffs his feet on the deck. Derek can see a faint blush rising across his cheeks, and good god he’s even more beautiful when he’s embarrassed.

There are a lot of questions Derek wants to ask – chief among them, why don’t you know what to say – but, as adorable as Stiles is right now, Derek certainly doesn’t want to embarrass him any further. “So,” he says, smiling. “Veronica says you’re a writer?”

Stiles seems grateful for the change of subject and relaxes again. “Yeah, professor, actually, at OSU. Gender Studies. Hence the rants about heteropatriarchy. I’m on sabbatical right now, trying to finish my second book.”

A professor? Second book? Either he was a prodigy or he’s certainly older than he looks. “I took a couple Gender Studies classes in college,” Derek says, intrigued even more by the guy. His new neighbor, he thinks, his heart ticking up just a bit. “I really liked reading Simone De Beauvoir.”

Stiles’ mellow mahogany eyes go wide, and Derek hopes it’s because he’s impressed with his feminist namedropping, but he knows it’s probably because Stiles is surprised to realize that Derek might actually be intelligent. Given his appearance and his surfer persona, he understands, even if it frustrates the hell out of him. Stiles doesn’t sound surprised or incredulous though when he speaks again. “de Beauvoir is fantastic. Understudied, in my opinion. Where’d you go to school?"

“UC Santa Cruz. Never finished, though. Came home and started my business instead.” Derek is trying to reconcile the energetic, vibrant, devastatingly handsome man in front of him with his college professors, and it doesn’t quite work. He might have stayed in college if his professors had looked like Stiles.

“Surfboards, right? Aunt Veronica said you make custom surfboards? That is so fascinating.”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t know if it’s fascinating – especially to someone tearing down heteropatriarchy brick by brick – but I enjoy it.” Derek knows he’s smirking; specifically, he knows it’s what Erica calls his “flirtsmirk,” the cocky-yet-cute grin whose power he regularly wields with easy confidence and startling effectiveness. Many a strong man and woman have been devastated by the Derek Hale flirtsmirk.

Stiles laughs, and Derek might just gasp a little at the sound. “Touche, Mr. Hale,” and dammit, his eyes are still sparkling.

They’re interrupted by the arrival of a small moving truck, and Stiles reaches down to grab Boomer’s collar. “Ah, my stuff! I gotta go supervise…we’ll, uh, see you around?”

“Yeah, see ya around,” Derek replies, bending over to pick up his keys from where he dropped them when Boomer toppled him. He doesn’t look to see if Stiles checks him out as he does it, but he’s pretty confident that he does.

So confident that, as he pulls away from his house he rolls down the window of the Camaro and calls to Stiles, “tell Boomer that she owes me that drink. I don’t want her thinking that I’m really that easy.”

Chapter Text

Derek definitely watches Stiles’ retreating shape in the rearview mirror as he drives away. It’s immature and positively silly, but he finds himself hoping that Stiles is impressed by the Camaro. He seems like the type of guy who might roll his eyes at a sports car and make a comment about overcompensating for something like Boyd likes to do from time to time just to fuck with him. He starts to wonder if he should have taken the Tacoma instead. He typically only drives the truck when he’s hauling tools and materials and boards around, and since he’s not going to his shop today he didn’t even think about it. The Tacoma is his work and surfing truck, and it’s beat to hell and starting to rust in some spots like all coastal cars eventually do. The Camaro was a gift from Laura and he cherishes and babies the damn thing, and yeah, of course a guy like Stiles would see a guy who looks like him get in this car and think what a fucking douchebag.

And that’s when Derek realizes he’s nervous, because what the hell? He’s worried about what Stiles might think about his car? Since when does he give a fuck about what a hot guy thinks about anything other than whether or not he wants to fuck him?

Because Derek fucks. He doesn’t date, he doesn’t have relationships, he doesn’t even particularly need to like talking to the people he fucks. He’s not an asshole about it. He’s honest and straightforward about his boundaries and what he wants. He tells the women and men he sleeps with that he’s only interested in sex, and if that is not okay with them, then they can just be friends. Or not. And he really means it. He rarely gets turned down.

There are a couple of locals who he has casual fuck-buddy relationships with, and of course the influx of tourists in the summer months means he has ample options for casual, no string attached sex. This past summer he had a two-week fling with an oceanography grad student, a three-day affair with a college student that began when the guy blew him on the beach after a surfing lesson, and a threesome with two bi girls passing through town on a road trip. And that was just the month of June.

Kate Argent had been the first person he had sex with, and he had thought he loved her. He had thought she loved him. She destroyed him in pretty much every way possible, and when he put himself back together again a couple of years later he realized that she had taken away his ability for romantic love but not his enthusiasm for sex. It was like whatever part of him had been capable of love had been hollowed out and filled in with pure, emotionless lust.

He had tried again, once, though, just to be sure. About a year after he came back from Santa Cruz he dated Jennifer, and the less that is said about her, the better. She didn’t put him through the hell that Kate had – who could? Kate had taken almost everything from him – but when Jennifer finally got the hell out of his life, she not only took his dog but any remaining shreds of his ability to love someone ever again.

He hasn’t had a relationship in years and he’s perfectly okay with that. He has his remaining family, Laura and Peter, and his friends, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, and they’re enough for him.

The point is, Derek’s gotten quite good at getting his sexual needs met outside of dating and relationships, and that’s because he’s very good at initiating sex with people he finds attractive. He sees someone, he wants someone, he approaches him or her. Often, all it takes is eye contact and a smile, because yeah, he’s got a face and body that people like. It’s easy and it’s empty and he’s happy with it.

So it doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense to him, the way he just stared at Stiles even though his skin was jumping with excitement when he saw the way Stiles was looking back at him. That’s usually his cue to make a move – step closer, a gentle hand on the arm, the hip if he’s feeling daring, a witty remark dripping with innuendo and invitation. But he hadn’t done that with Stiles, and it sure wasn’t due to any sense of propriety about trying bang his neighbor before he even had a chance to move in. Truth was that the strategy and maneuvering that he typically does when trying to turn a conversation into foreplay never even crossed his mind when he was talking to Stiles. Yeah, he deployed his flirtsmirk there at the end, but it’s because he was flirting, and not his usual aggressive flirting that's a thinly-veiled pretense for lust. This was like, cute, sweet flirting.

Because he wanted Stiles to like him. There wasn’t any other explanation for the way he let himself get lost in his eyes, for the way his heart was pounding, is still pounding. What else could explain the pang of fear he had felt in those brief moments when he thought Stiles had assumed he was stupid? How else to explain his internal freakout about the Camaro? Shit, how else to explain the fact that he had walked away instead of making a point to stay and talk, maybe offer to help and then jump his bones, fucking the guy while bending him over a stack of boxes.

Derek parks in front of Solstice Café, his favorite local coffee shop. He stares at his hands for a minute, as if the answer to his predicament is somehow there. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, seeing those big brown eyes and beauty marks, those long, big hands. His heart has finally stopped hammering, and suddenly Derek realizes something: he’s not freaking out. Yeah, it’s a little weird to suddenly feel this way – like discovering a muscle you didn’t know you had after doing a new exercise – but it’s not scary. For as much as his reaction to Stiles stuns him, it also excites him.

He’s thinks that maybe he had been happy with life of no strings attached sex because he hasn’t met anyone he’d want to get attached to. He thinks that maybe the feeling that startled him awake in the middle of the night and then exploded in his chest when he met Stiles was something like hope.

 ~*~

Of course, just moments after this epiphany, Derek finds himself face-to-face with one of his regular fuck-buddies. In a town this small though, that’s bound to happen. Especially when you’re as sexually active as Derek, and especially when one of your fuck buddies is a barista at your favorite coffee shop.

Justine is working the register today – just like she was two years ago when she wrote her name and number on his cup and they fucked later that night on his porch – and she smiles at him and begins writing his name on a cup. “Morning, Derek. You look happy today.” There’s the slightest hint of question in her very pretty face, but he knows it’s general curiosity. They’re both very clear and very on board with their casual acquaintances-with-benefits relationship.

“Of course I am,” he replies, handing over some cash. “It’s officially the off season. No more fucking tourists.” There’s a collective cheer from the shop patrons close enough to hear him.

“How are the grad school applications coming along?” he asks as he moves aside to wait for his soy latte. He supposes that to some people this would be weird, talking to Justine about her grad school applications when just a week ago she showed up unannounced and stoned at Derek’s door in the middle of the night. She hadn’t let him speak – she put her hand over his mouth the second he opened the door, and only removed it to replace it with her mouth. She pushed him into house, back on to his couch, and they fucked each other senseless for two hours. She left immediately afterwards, neither of them having said a word the entire time. And the very next morning he had ordered his coffee from her and chatted about the tourist traffic.

“Ugh, painful,” she says. “I’m glad I decided to take a year off after undergrad, because sometimes it feels like applying to grad school is a full time job. But they’re coming along. You doing glass or boards today?”

“Glass. Isaac’s got tons of back orders, so I’ll be in the glass shop all week, I think.”

Justine hands him his coffee after sprinkling cocoa powder over the foam, just like he likes it. “Nice. I’m looking for a new pipe – something small that’ll fit in a classy purse – want to make me something?”

“Sure. Any color preferences?”

“Surprise me.”

“Will do. See you later.”

“Later, dude.”

Back in car, sipping his perfect latte, he wonders why Justine doesn’t make him feel the way Stiles does. She is a little young – too young for him really, twenty-three to his thirty. But she’s beautiful and smart and funny, and obviously cool as hell because she smokes pot and is on the same wavelength as he is about sex. He enjoys her company and he loves fucking her, but it’s never felt more than that to him.

He’s never come close to feeling what he felt this morning with anyone, even Kate. Hell, he thinks. Maybe he was just enchanted by the dog. Derek really does love dogs.

~*~

Derek spends an easy, relaxing day working next to Isaac in the glass studio. The national trend towards social and legal acceptance of marijuana means a growing market for premium, quality glass, which means that more and more of Isaac’s profits are coming from his sales to head shops and boutique distributors. Derek can only help him so much before he needs to get back to the board shop, and he’s already suggested that Isaac begin training a full-time apprentice.

The pressure of orders to fill is a good distraction for Derek, and he and Isaac long ago learned to be comfortable with each other without talking. It’s soothing, and they work until dark and then meet up with Erica and Boyd for drinks and dinner. He ends up drinking too much and staying out late, and Boyd has to give him a ride home.

He hasn’t mentioned Stiles to his friends. It’s still too new, too confusing, and he knows that once he mentions possibly having an actual crush, or hell, possibly even the actual desire to go on a date with someone before fucking them, he’ll never hear the end of it.

But when Boyd pulls up to his house Derek can’t help but look over to Veronica’s – Stiles’ house – hoping for…something. There are lights on downstairs and from his vantage point in the passenger seat of Boyd’s pickup he can kinda see into the living room. But he doesn’t see Stiles. He sits for a second, waiting, definitely confusing the hell out of Boyd.

“Something wrong, buddy? Is there supposed to be someone in the Swinton’s house?”

“What?”

“You’re glaring at their house like you’re about rip someone’s throat out. Is whoever’s in there not supposed to be in there?”

“Oh, no. I mean, yeah. That’s my new neighbor. Stiles. He’s Veronica’s nephew. Living here for a few months to write a book. Awesome dog. Pretty eyes. Stiles.”

“Oh really?” If Derek were sober he would be concerned about the knowing look on Boyd’s face and maybe even annoyed at the I’ve-always-seen-through-your-bullshit crook of his eyebrow. But he’s pleasantly buzzed, so he just laughs.

“Yeah.” He says it like he’s confessing something important, because he is.

He declines Boyd’s offer to walk him to the door – he’s not that drunk – and he’s so busy trying to look casual as he glances over at Stiles’ house that he nearly trips over something in of his front door. It’s a six-pack of beer – an IPA from a local brewery – and there’s a folded piece of paper tucked between two bottles. Derek’s so damn excited he has to force himself to get inside and set the beer down on the kitchen counter before he drops it. His stupid hands are shaking when he unfolds and reads the note.

The handwriting is neat, square and assertive and Derek doesn’t know whether to swoon or laugh when he’s done reading it. He’s pretty sure he does both.

“ The young girl throws herself into things with ardor, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain All.”

- Simone de Beauvoir

Cheers! XOXO,

Boomer

Chapter Text

The next morning when Derek returns from his run (still slightly hungover), Stiles and Boomer are sitting on their deck. It’s still early – probably barely eight am, and Derek is pleasantly surprised to see him. Stiles is wearing the same Captain America hoodie and a beanie and somehow looks even less like a professor than he did yesterday. He’s sitting at the patio table, reading and drinking coffee, and when he looks up and sees Derek jogging up the shared beach access staircase between their houses he smiles and waves and Derek’s chest does this thing, this fluttering thing.

“Morning,” he calls, hoping he sounds relaxed. He never worries about sounding relaxed. “Thanks for the beer.” He walks to the steps leading up to the deck, hesitating. “Although, doesn’t the welcome wagon work the other way? Aren’t I supposed to bring you a welcome gift?”

Stiles laughs. “Good thing it’s not a welcome gift. It’s a sorry-I-insulted-your-honor gift, and really, it was all Boomer. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yeah, coffee would be great,” he says, not caring about how eager he sounds as he steps up to the deck. Stiles disappears into the house and Derek bends to pet Boomer, who is still thrilled to see him but much calmer than yesterday.

“I hope black’s okay,” Stiles says as he comes back out on to the porch carrying a bright green and yellow mug. “I don’t have cream or sugar. Or pretty much anything other than coffee and beer right now.”

“Black’s perfect, thank you,” Derek says, and yeah, it’s totally not an accident when his hand brushes Stiles’ as he takes the mug of steaming, fragrant coffee. Stiles also brings him a bottle of water, and once he sees it Derek realizes how thirsty he is. “Thanks, man,” he says drinking almost the bottle in one long gulp. When he looks back at Stiles he’s staring, big brown eyes wide.

“Tough run,” he asks, gesturing towards a deck chair and sitting back down on his own.

“Yeah, but mostly because it was a tough night. Too much to drink.”

“And you were still up at dawn running on the beach? Are you a cyborg? I’d love to have a cyborg neighbor.”

Derek laughs. “I wish. The early morning workout out is a holdover from when I was younger. Baseball, then competitive surfing. I’ve stopped both, but I still don’t feel right if I don’t try to kill myself by working out most days.” In Santa Cruz he saw a therapist for awhile who had a theory about his intense and punishing workouts. He had resisted it, of course, which means she was probably right.

“Do you always run on the beach? Because running on the beach is hard. Like really hard And you’re probably one of those guys who runs in the soft sand too. No cheating and running down at the tide line where the sand is hard, right?” Stiles is looking appreciatively at Derek’s body as he talks, wrapping his long fingers around his coffee mug. Even though it frustrates him that the way he looks leads many people to make certain assumptions about his intelligence, he still can’t deny how flattering it feels to be regarded with open appreciation the way Stiles is looking at him. He craves that look in people’s eyes, and when he sees it, he usually pounces. Not today though, not with Stiles. He’s got to try and do this right.

He looks bashfully down into his coffee mug. “Sometimes on the way back I’ll run on the harder sand,” he says, shrugging and hiding a small smile as he sips his coffee. Stiles makes excellent coffee.

Stiles laugh fills the cool morning air, and Derek wants to drink it up. Wants to hear it forever. “Well then, I am no longer impressed. Disappointed, really. Embarrassed for you, in fact.” He smiles into his own coffee mug and Derek is saved from the awkwardness of a way too-long lingering stare by Boomer, who decides right then to shove her cold nose into Derek’s lap. He laughs and puts his own mug down so he can bury his hands in her scruff.

“Pretty girl,” he croons. “Thanks for the beer, sweetheart.” She start licking the sweat from his arms and he knows he should make her stop – she’ll never learn manners if she’s indulged this way – but he misses his own dog so much that he can’t bring himself to deny this puppy anything. He hazards a glance back at Stiles, who is now staring at him quite openly, a small smile at the corners of his slightly open mouth.

“You’re up awfully early for someone on vacation,” he says, forcing himself to stop staring at Stiles’ perfect fucking mouth.

“Sabbatical. A working vacation. Or something like that. I woke up to the smell of the ocean this morning, and I was just awake, you know? I had to come watch the water for awhile. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching the ocean.”

“I haven’t yet. Have you been here before?” Derek is certain he would have noticed Stiles if he had seen him before, but it’s entirely possible that their paths never quite crossed.

“Not in years. We used to visit fairly often when I was a kid, but then my mom, Veronica’s sister, passed away when I was thirteen. My dad didn’t like coming here after that. I came up on my own once for Christmas when I was in high school, but I haven’t been back since. I met your grandparents once. They were really nice. I’m sorry you lost them.” Derek watches Stiles closely as he talks, sees the shadow of sadness cross his bright eyes when he mentions his mother. It’s a shadow he knows too well.

“Thank you. I’m sorry about your mom.” He takes a long drink from his coffee, preparing himself to talk about his family, something he rarely does. “I know how hard that is. I…I lost my parents and my brother when I was sixteen.”

“I’m sorry. That sucks.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, because it does suck.

“You’ve lived here since then?” When he’s not joking or manically ranting, Stiles voice is melodic and soft, downright gentle.

“Yeah. Aside from three years in Santa Cruz. I love it here. It’s home. Where’s home for you? I mean, it’s probably not Corvallis.”

“Right. I’ve been in Corvallis for two years, and before that I was in Seattle for the PhD at UW, undergrad at University of Oregon. Shit, sorry. I’m such an academic. I’m so used to vomiting up my CV when people ask about me.”

Derek laughs. Stiles makes Derek laugh a lot. “No worries, dude.”

He gives Derek a quizzical look, but keeps talking. “I’m from a small town in the middle of California that know one has ever heard of, Beacon Hills. I like it well enough, but I’ll never live there again, even though my dad’s still there. I guess Corvallis is home now. My best friend just started at the veterinary school there. Too bad there’s no university on the coast though. I could get used to this…view.”

There’s no mistaking the mischievous cock of his eyebrow, and shit, Derek thinks he might have actually winked when he said “view” and what in the hell did Derek do in a past life to get punished by this beautiful tease? He drinks his coffee calmly, knowing that if he responds to flirting with flirting that he’ll be on his knees with Stiles’ dick in his mouth in a matter of minutes. Goddamn, he’s never wanted to get a dick in his mouth as much as he wants Stiles’. He imagines it’s a pretty great dick, if his hands are anything to go by. Fuck.

“How long is your sabbatical?” He asks, in the least-sexy way he can muster. Erica likes to tease him and say that it’s literally impossible for Derek to be unsexy, and even though he knows she’s full of shit, he thinks for a second that maybe she’s on to something because Stiles doesn’t look deterred at all. In fact, he looks even more interested. He is clearly unimpressed with Derek’s attempt to not be sexy.

“I have the entire academic year off, and all of next summer. I’ll stay here until the book’s done, which, who knows how long that will take. I tend to get distracted.”

Derek manages to control himself for the rest of the conversation, which lasts long enough for Stiles to make another pot of coffee that they finish together. He tells him more about his business and his work with Isaac at the glass studio, and because he has a Pacific Northwesterner’s sense of hospitality, he offers to hook Stiles up with pot if he’s interested. He says he is, and Derek is tempted to offer to smoke right then and there, but he decides not to. He’s even hornier and flirtier when he’s high, and he doesn’t want Stiles to think he’s just a stoner beach bum. But he’s happy about it nonetheless, already excited to have something to offer him, another reason to talk to him.

Stiles tells him about growing up with the town sheriff for a father and his best friend Scott. He talks about his book project. Derek is enthralled by his wit and his whip-fast intellect and the way he seems genuinely interested when Derek speaks, which isn’t that often because he’s just kinda laconic like that and because he’d rather listen to Stiles. They laugh and lightly tease each other and talk about dogs and books and Derek’s never enjoyed talking to anyone this much. And while Stiles is hopelessly attractive, Derek finds himself even more interested in actually listening to what he has to say and, amazingly, wanting Stiles to like what he says to him. It’s a terrifying and thrilling realization.

They’ve just about finished the second pot of coffee when an alarm goes off on Stiles’ phone. “Oh shit,” he exclaims. “I forgot that I have a phone appointment with my editor. She’s probably dying to tell me in excruciating detail why my first chapter is incomprehensible garbage.”

“Good luck,” Derek says, rising. “Thanks for the coffee.” He gives Boomer a kiss on the head and walks away, liking the way Stiles’ eyes track him as he moves.

When he gets in his house, he walks straight upstairs to the shower, stripping his running tank off as he walks, desperate to get his hands on his cock while his mind and body are still thrumming with Stiles. He strokes himself slowly, remembering the way Stiles’ hand curled around the side of his neck and he rested his elbows on the table. Derek had wanted to put his own hand over Stiles’, wanted his hands wrapped up in Stiles’, wanted to bury his face in his neck where his hand rested and breathe deep. He comes quickly, gasping as he buckles forward and braces himself against the tile, grunting Stiles’ name.

~*~

Stiles isn’t on his porch the next morning when Derek returns from his run, but he is there the day after, and he offers Derek coffee again, and they sit on the porch and talk and pet Boomer. After that it becomes something like a routine – not every day, but every couple of days. The third time he already has Derek’s mug of steaming coffee ready for him when he comes up the steps, and they take Boomer down to the beach.

Mornings with Stiles have become the best part of Derek’s life. He feels both at ease and on edge around Stiles: the pull of intense attraction battling with his confusing emotions at actually wanting something more than sex from someone, and letting the newness of that paralyze him into inaction. For some reason, in all of their conversations, neither one mentions relationships. Stiles mentioned sometime during their second coffee morning that he’s gay, and Derek felt a surge of relief. He had been assuming, given the way Stiles was so not subtle in his appreciation for his looks, but it was nice to have it confirmed. Derek casually drops a mention of his bisexuality the next time they talk, feeling awkward and like a damn teenager who just can’t bring himself to ask out his crush.

He almost asks Stiles out on a date at least a twice morning, but he always stops himself, and he knows it’s because he’s scared of Stiles’ rejection, because once you decide that you do want to put yourself out there for someone, the thought that that someone might not want you is too much to bear. At least it is for Derek, who had been convinced for so long that that part of him was dead as his family.

Derek has also imagined another possible result of asking out Stiles that scares him even more than outright rejection: that Stiles is only interested in him for sex. The irony of that fear is not lost on Derek, and it frustrates him. He spends even more time lifting weights in his garage, and he starts pushing his beach runs even longer, running the entire three and half miles to the northern most jetty on his stretch of beach before turning back to run home just as hard. For as long as he can remember he’s dealt with his feelings by pushing his body to its limit, and the chaos of emotions that Stiles ignites in him has him itching in his skin with the desire to move, to be active, to get out of his mind and get to the place where the only thing that matters is the pain he inflicts on his body.

After about two and a half weeks of morning coffee, Derek thinks he has finally worked up the courage to ask Stiles out. He decides this over beers with Erica, Isaac, and Boyd. Boyd must have said something to Erica about Derek’s weirdness the other night, because she is not at all surprised to hear that Derek has a crush. Derek had been expecting outrageous enthusiasm, disbelief, and general haranguing from her, but instead she smiles quietly and sweetly, like she knows how fragile and new this whole thing is for him. “That’s great, Derek. I’m excited for you. You know I’ll wingwoman for you any time, right?”

“You’re the best,” he tells her, sipping from his beer

“I know. Now, tell me more about this Stiles. Start with why in the hell his name is Stiles.”

They’re at the Tidal, a local bar owned by Erica’s friend Danny. Erica went to high school with him so he never charges her full price and he stocks the best Oregon microbrews. Derek tries to appreciate Danny for this, but struggles, mostly because he really can’t stand Danny. He’s friendly enough and, yeah, he’s attractive, but he’s a total douche. Derek can’t stand the way Danny flaunts his sexual conquests – yes, he calls the men he sleeps with sexual conquests – stringing guys along and making big public shows of all the hot gay sex he seems to be having. Whereas Derek is upfront and straightforward about is no-strings-attached rules, Danny seems to thrive on attaching bullshit strings, manipulating men into chasing and falling for him so he can turn around and use them to his liking before moving on the next. He did it to Isaac years ago, and Derek has never forgiven him for the emotional turmoil he put his best friend through. And then he had the gall to hit on Derek, and well, when Derek in no uncertain terms turned him down, his friendly façade disappeared. He now regards Derek with reserved coolness for Erica’s sake, but he never misses a chance to passive-aggressively insult him. If it weren’t for Erica’s insistence, Derek would never come to his damn bar, but he loves Erica, so he forbears.

And tonight, even though Danny is glaring at him harder than ever from behind the bar, Derek is utterly thrilled that they’re hanging out there because just as he begins to tell Erica about Stiles, the man himself walks in the door. His heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he sees him. His hair is disheveled in the cutest way, and for once he’s not wearing a hoodie, and shit, his red t-shirt is really tight and Derek can see the muscled squaring of his surprisingly broad shoulders and chest. He can’t take his eyes off of him.

Stiles is moving to take a seat at the bar – he’s alone, Derek is happy to see – when he spots Derek across the room. His eyes light up and he immediately turns and starts walking toward where he’s sitting with his friends.

“Just be chill, assholes,” Derek says under his breath as Stiles approaches the table. Before Erica can ask him what in the hell he’s talking about Stiles is there, hands in his pockets, looking shy.

“Hey Derek,” he says smiling shyly, and it’s all Derek can do not to touch his face, not to cradle that perfect jawline in his hands and run his thumbs over those cheekbones.

“Stiles. It’s nice to see you.” He had last seen him yesterday morning, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “Want to join us?"

“Yeah, sure. I’d love to, thanks.” They make room at the table for him as Stiles grabs a chair. Derek’s just finished introducing him to his friends when Danny appears, practically sidling up to Stiles’ side. Derek knows the strategic deployment of dimples when he sees it, and it doesn’t surprise him in the least to see the way Danny’s looking at Stiles as he introduces himself and asks what he wants to drink. He is surprised, however, at the jealous rage that surges in his chest, a rage that he wants to exorcise by punching Danny in his stupid dimpled face. He fights the urge to touch Stiles, to physically lay claim to him, another surprising urge because one of the best parts of casual, no-strings-attached sex is no jealousy. Jealousy and possessiveness are as new to him as whatever it is he’s been feeling for Stiles.

He doesn’t make a move to touch Stiles, but when Danny finally deigns to look at him and asks, sounding bored, “another Ninkasi IPA for you, Hale”?” he smiles up at the man, but he knows there’s very little of anything resembling friendliness there. He knows it’s practically a snarl.

“Please,” he says. “And go ahead and put Stiles’ drinks on my tab.” The sour look on Danny’s face is worth the inquisitive eyebrows he gets from Erica and Boyd. Isaac smirks.

“Really dude?” Stiles asks him, Danny still standing there.

“Of course. I’ve been drinking your coffee at home for weeks now. Least I can do is buy you a few rounds.” And then the look on Stiles’ face is definitely worth Erica and Boyd’s, because Stiles smiles and his cheeks redden the tiniest bit, and yeah, Derek is smitten. Danny looks like he just bit into a lemon, so Derek’s feeling pretty good about life right then.

Danny doesn’t say anything when he brings their drinks over, and Derek doesn’t even deign to look at him, but he can feel his eyes on Stiles, on the place on the table where Derek’s hand rests so close to his. Fuck off, Maheleani, he thinks, and doesn’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

Stiles’ natural charm and charisma captivate his friends, and Derek relaxes back into his chair after awhile, simply basking in the easy way they all seem to be getting along. Stiles is thrilled to learn that Erica and Boyd own the only bookstore in town and vows to spend a small fortune there every week for the duration of his stay on the coast. He asks Isaac about glassblowing, and seems genuinely interested in what he has to say. When stories from his misbegotten youth pop up Stiles looks at Derek with a glint his eye and a huge smile. And when he laughs – Jesus, he does this full body laugh that starts with a thrown-back head and then shakes through his body, as if his joy can’t be contained. After a couple of hours it feels as if Stiles has always been there in their little group. It feels right.

They’re about to order another round when Derek’s phone rings. It’s sitting on the table near his glass, and he notices that not only does Stiles glance at it to see who’s calling, but that he frowns when the picture ID shows a gorgeous dark-haired, green-eyed woman. “My sister, Laura,” Derek explains, taking careful note of the slight relaxation of Stiles’ shoulders. “I don’t know why she’s calling this late” – it’s nine thirty pm local time, which means it’s past midnight in New York and Derek knows Laura only calls that late when she needs something. “I better talk to her. Order me another beer, will ya?” he calls to the table as he rises to go outside. The bar has filled up as the night as gone on, and it’s loud and crowded now.

He’s right – Laura’s in a crisis. Or, more accurately, Laura is drunk and sad. He spends nearly thirty minutes outside on the phone with her, mostly just listening to her struggle through telling him about her latest argument with her husband. It’s emotionally exhausting and he hates the guy for putting his sister through this, and he hates himself for being too far away to doing anything about it.

But even Laura’s drama can’t get him too down, and when he finally goes back into the bar he’s still hopeful about spending the rest of the evening with Stiles, determined to just ask him out already. But when he gets back to the table Stiles’ chair is empty. Derek feels panic rising in his chest. He would have seen him outside if he had left, right? He wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye, would he?

“Relax,” Erica says. “He’s at the bar ordering drinks. Table service ends at nine, remember?”

“What? I wasn’t worried,” he says as he sits, and is rewarded with a magnificent roll of Erica’s big brown eyes. Those eyes suddenly go narrow, though, as they dance over Derek’s shoulder. “Maybe you should be…” she says, jutting her chin towards the bar. “I was just about to come find you,” she adds weakly.

Stiles is at the bar, elbows resting and leaning forward on the dark wood – giving Derek a spectacular view of his sweet little ass – but he can’t really appreciate that because Stiles is so intently leaned over the bar because he’s talking to Danny. He’s laughing at something Danny is saying, and then he’s leaning in closer so Danny can say something softly in his ear. Stiles’ shoulders go tense and his head hangs bit as Danny speaks, and as much it physically hurts him to see Danny’s lips so close to Stiles’ face, he can’t tear his eyes away.

“Maybe you should go over there?” Isaac suggests. He, Boyd, and Erica are all staring too. This is bad, Derek thinks, his stomach turning.

Stiles comes back several minutes later, precariously and possibly magically carrying four pint glasses of beer. “You’re back,” he says to Derek, voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah, sorry. My sister’s heading towards a divorce. She’s having a rough time.” Stiles distributes the beers. He doesn’t have one for Derek.

“I’m sorry to hear that, man. That’s tough.” He’s barely meeting Derek’s gaze, eyes fluttering back and forth from Derek’s face to down to his beer. This goes on for at least a minute or two until the tension feels like it’s about to snap. “Um, here’s your card,” Stiles eventually says, pulling Derek’s credit card and a receipt out of his back pocket and sliding them across the table with his long, elegant fingers. “Danny assumed you left, so he closed out your tab.” Stiles takes a long swallow of his beer and won’t meet Derek’s eyes at all now. The others are conspicuously silent and Derek has no idea what in the hell is happening but he hates it. He feels sick to his stomach, like the floor is rapidly dropping away from him. Stiles’ entire demeanor has changed: where before he was all languid, relaxed grace, now he’s rigid and tense, biting his bottom lip in a way that would make Derek groan with lust if he wasn’t so sure it was a sign of anxiety or maybe even anger. Whatever it is it’s clearly directed at Derek and is most certainly because of something Danny has said to him.

Derek can’t stand to look at him anymore, so he quickly and harshly signs his bill and puts his card back in his wallet. “I guess that’s my cue to go, then. See you around, Stiles.”

He walks out without looking back.

Chapter Text

He knows he shouldn’t drive after five beers, but he does anyway. He makes it home just fine and immediately loads a bowl and collapses onto his couch. What. The. Fuck.

Erica must be psychic, because right then he gets a text from her.

- the fuck? Also, rude for not saying goodbye to us. Boyd’s pouting.

Fuck. He feels like such as asshole, storming out the way he did. Real mature, Derek. Great fucking way to get a guy to want to date you. Great fucking way to treat your friends who would do anything for you. Fuck. He takes a long pull on the pipe, holding the sweetly sour smoke in his lungs for as long as he can. He doesn’t really even care about getting high right now. He just wants the pot to put him asleep so he doesn’t keep thinking about the way Danny’s hand ever-so-lightly brushed Stiles’ as he handed him a glass, or the way Stiles’ mellow mahogany eyes looked so dark and closed off when he came back to the table.

- I’m sorry I left like that. I just had to get out of there.

- Are you okay?

- Is Stiles still there?

- Yes. He’s not talking to Danny, though. He and Isaac are playing shuffleboard.

Well, that’s something. He knows that Isaac will only have good things to say about him, and he’s sure Isaac is actively trying to keep Danny away from Stiles by playing shuffleboard with him. Isaac is a saint.

- Did he tell you what Danny said to him? That’s what happened, right? Danny said something about me and when he came back he was upset with me?

Derek tosses his phone onto the couch cushion next to him and squeezes his eyes shut. How did everything go so wrong so quickly, when he wasn’t even there?

- That’s what it seemed like. He didn’t say anything to us about it. Maybe he’ll tell Isaac. I’m sorry, Der-bear. I now hate Danny on your behalf.

Derek hates to admit it, but that helps. Small victories. Erica texts again before he can respond.

- And, for what it’s worth, he totally seemed into you. Until, you know, whatever the fuck that fucker said to him.

- Have I told you recently that you’re the best?

- Yes, but I never get tired of hearing it.

- Boyd is a lucky man.

- Fuck yeah he is.

Derek is pleasantly crossfaded, Isaac’s superb weed mixing with the beer and quickly mellowing him. The dull ache in his chest has subdued, and his head is foggy enough that he can’t really think about much of anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows this won’t last, that he won’t feel this good for long, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, can’t think about that, can’t think about Stiles anymore because it’s starting to physically hurt when he does and he doesn’t know how to deal with that.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting on his couch staring at his blank TV when his phone chirps again, another text from Erica.

- By the way, Stiles is too. A lucky man, to have you crushing on him. Even if he doesn’t realize yet.

~*~

They stop having morning coffee. Four days after what Erica has termed “Hurricane Danny,” Derek finally admits to himself that he should stop hoping to see Stiles on his porch when he returns from his morning run.

He deals with it by stomping up the stairs of his deck and stripping off his long-sleeved running shirt. He drops to the deck and does push-ups until his arms and hands go numb. At some point, it starts to rain. It doesn’t stop him. When he finally does stop and stand, his hot sweat mixes with cool rainwater and runs down his back and chest, and he’s slightly panting. He’s feels almost…feral. Wild and on edge.

When he hazards a glance towards Stiles’ house he sees him there, standing in doorway waiting for Boomer to pee in the grass, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. “Morning,” he croaks out, hand going up in an awkward wave.

“Morning,” Derek says, the slight growl in his tone belying the crushing weakness he feels at the sight of Stiles wanting him. He turns his back to him as he opens his front door, and even over the rain and the susurrus of the waves crashing on the shore below them, he hears Stiles gasp. He wonders if it’s his back itself – he knows how insanely muscled his shoulders are, thank you very much – or his tattoo, a large triskele nestled between his shoulder blades, that Stiles responds to. He hopes it’s both, and then he curses himself for hoping again.

~*~

Almost another two weeks go by with no contact, other than grunted hellos when they happen to be outside at the same time. Derek is positively miserable. He’s known Stiles for just over a month and it’s been the most exciting, terrifying, and devastating month of his life since the fire. He’s distracted and irritable, and can’t seem to focus enough to get work done at his own shop or the glass studio.

Isaac tells him that he saw Stiles and Danny out to dinner together. He pretends to shrug it off.

He runs more. He lifts more. His body is starting to ache almost constantly with the exertion, so he smokes more pot. He starts to think about looking up his therapist in Santa Cruz, the one with the theory about why he physically pushes himself so hard. He doesn’t.

One morning as he watches the waves before starting down the stairs to the beach he is struck with the overwhelming urge to be in the water. He doesn’t surf that often in the fall and winter months because the water is too cold, and he rarely surfs at his beach because the breaks are almost always too far out and too big even for an expert like him, but this morning they’re a bit smaller and it’s actually a little bit sunny out. It’s like the gravitational pull of the moon that’s shaping the tides is pulling him too, luring him into the cold, smooth comfort of his ocean, the only place where he’s ever known peace.

He goes back into the house to trade out his running clothes for a pair of short, snug-fitting swim trunks. It’s nice to go into his garage with surfing on his mind instead of with the intent to destroy himself with his free weights. He decides that it’s cold enough to wear his dry suit, and in a matter of minutes he’s suited up and jogging down the stairs to the beach, fiberglass board he made with his own hands under his arm, the Triskele Surf logo that matches his tattoo dark against the creamy white of the board.

The water is shockingly cold despite the dry suit, despite the fact that he was prepared for it. He knows he won’t be able to stay in too long, so he paddles out hard and fast. It’s been just over a month since he’s been on a board after a summer of almost daily surfing, and his body knows what to do. He catches break after break; the waves are clean and strong, almost glassy, and he gets in some decent cutbacks before going for a roundhouse. He executes it flawlessly, and he’s exhilarated, utterly blissed as he continues to paddle and ride. Eventually, it’s not the cold, but the wind that drives him to shore. The waves become choppy and too gnarly, so he rides in, feeling lighter and happier than he has in weeks.

He leaves his board on his deck and walks to the outdoor shower built into the side of the house just to the left of the steps that lead up to the deck and front door. Derek had helped his grandpa install it not long after he took up surfing. It’s awkwardly placed because it was the easiest spot to access the hot water heater, and it’s certainly not built for privacy. It’s essentially just a large steel showerhead and handles jutting out of the side of the house. But Derek’s grandmother couldn’t stand sand on the bathroom tile, and honestly, neither can Derek.

He’s covered in sand and really starting to feel the cold, so he cranks the thing on full heat and pressure. Steam rises from his suit and cloud around him; as soon as the suit is rinsed clean of most of the sand, he unzips it and pulls it off, tossing it over the deck railing. The scalding hot water feels painful and perfect against his cold skin, and he closes his eyes and lets it pour over him for a minute. He’s well aware that he’s nearly naked – his swim trunks don't really cover all that much, for good reason – bunching material under a wet or dry suit is super uncomfortable – and that anyone driving by, or say, perhaps looking out their bedroom window, would have an unobstructed view of him showering outside.

He lets himself imagine that Stiles is watching him shower, just like he let himself imagine that Stiles was watching him surf, and he wants it to be true so badly he begins to think it might actually be, that maybe he does feel eyes on him instead of just wishing that he did. But he won’t turn around and look. The hurt and anger of Stiles choosing Danny over him is raw, and the disappointment and pain of losing whatever tenuous relationship he had been building with Stiles returns full force as he stands there facing his house, head down, eyes closed, water beating a hot tattoo on his neck and back. He’s completely sand-free now, he should go inside and dry off, get warm for real, but he doesn’t want to move, wants to stay right there in his fantasy that Stiles wants him still, might want him enough to watch him from his window, Danny be damned.

When he eventually forces himself to turn off the water and go inside, he hasn’t looked towards Stiles’ house, not once since he got back from beach. He can’t bear the thought of looking over there and not seeing him.

~*~

Erica and Boyd have him over for dinner that night. They don’t say much about Stiles, other than to ask for any updates (none). They make it their mission to cheer him up with wine and pot and Boyd’s incredible homemade pizza, and it works. He’s in a better mood when he leaves, feeling lucky that he has such wonderful friends.

When he gets home just after eleven, Stiles’ Jeep is nowhere to be seen and his house is dark. Derek smokes a joint and jacks off imagining Stiles’ fingers inside of him.

~*~

The next morning when he goes out for his run, Stiles’ Jeep is still gone. Derek’s letting the implications of that sink in when hears a sad whimper and the scratch of claws on wood. He walks over Stiles’ front door and is greeted with an absolutely pathetic sounding Boomer as she yelps at him. He glances in the windows on the door and sees her staring up at him, paws scratching against the door.

“Shit,” he sighs. Stiles didn’t come home last night, probably because he’s fucking Danny, and now Boomer has to pay for it. Poor girl is likely dying to go outside. The Swinton’s used to keep a spare key hidden under a flower pot on the deck, and Derek’s relieved to see that it’s still there. He unlocks the door and Boomer bounds out, pausing to lick his hand before squatting on the nearest patch of grass and pissing for what feels like an eternity.

She’s probably pretty hungry too, but Derek isn’t about to go into Stiles’ house for the first time uninvited. When he’s not even there. When Stiles probably doesn’t even know that there’s a spare key lying around. Derek maybe lovestruck, but he’s not stupid.

Boomer leaps over to him when she’s done peeing, and the pure joy that emanates from her is contagious. He pets her for awhile, glancing at the road every so often, both hoping and dreading to see Stiles’ Jeep. He tries to herd Boomer back into the house, but she’s having none of it. Admittedly, Derek isn’t trying that hard, because he loves this damn dog and wants to spend time with her. “Fuck it,” he says. “Want to go for a run on the beach?” He takes Boomer’s jump and yip to mean yes, so he walks back over to his house to get a piece of paper. He’s not about to take off with Stiles’ dog without leaving a note, as much as a part of him wants to hurt Stiles just a little bit, in any way possible.

He’s weirdly nervous when he goes to write the note, not knowing what to say and wondering if Stiles will judge his handwriting. He thinks back to thoughtful and funny and flirting note Stiles – no, Boomer, he thinks, with a smile – left for him the first day they met. There’s no way Derek can be thoughtful and funny and flirty in his own note, not after Hurricane Danny and the subsequent Freeze Out (Erica loves naming things). So he just writes:

Took Boomer for a run.

- Derek

He stares at it for a second, wondering if he should mention the key, or if he should just explain that when he gets back. He thinks about writing I used the hidden key to let her out, but that just seems weird and kinda creepy. He opts to forgo mention of the key and decides to just give Stiles the damn thing when he brings Boomer back.

He folds the note in half and goes to leave, Boomer, who had followed him in to his house, eager on his heels. The note from Stiles is still on his mind though, and he doesn’t make it out the door before he’s turning around, crumpling his note in his fist and reaching for the notepad again. “Fuck it,” he says again. He doesn’t really have anything left to lose. He writes:

“Went for a run with Derek.”

- Simone de Beauvoir

XOXO,

Boomer

Chapter Text

Running on the beach with a not-very-well-trained puppy who wants nothing more than to lick your face is challenging, to say the least. Derek can’t take three strides without Boomer trying to weave herself between his legs and jump on him, so gleeful she is to be on the beach. He finds a sturdy piece of driftwood to throw for her, and that helps. He jogs lightly, throwing the driftwood farther and farther in front of him to keep Boomer occupied enough to let him run. He doesn’t go all the way down to the jetty like he has been; in fact, he only goes about a mile up the beach before turning back. Boomer seems to get the whole jogging thing down, and she runs at his side in the surf almost the entire way back. It’s one of one the easiest runs he’s ever had, and loves every second of it.

He starts to feel anxious about his note, though, as he and Boomer climb the stairs up from the beach. What if Stiles doesn’t get it, or doesn’t remember his first note? What if he thinks Derek’s an idiot or a creep for trying to flirt now, after they’ve barely acknowledged each other in the past two weeks? He’s hoping that Stiles isn’t home yet so he can grab the note from the windowpane on the front door and destroy it before he can read it.

Of course, that means Stiles is not only home, but actually standing by his front door reading the damn note just as Derek and Boomer reach the top step. Fuck his whole life. But hey – wait – Stiles is smiling. He’s reading the note and he’s smiling that shy quiet smile that made Derek’s heart flutter whenever he saw it over morning coffee.

Stiles looks up then and sees them, and his smile disappears. “Fuck, I am so sorry.” Derek’s not sure if he’s talking to him or to Boomer. “I am the worst dog dad in the whole world. I had too much to drink last night and I couldn't drive, and I told Danny that I had to get back Boomer, but…” He trails off, cheeks reddening, not looking at Derek. “Thank you for letting her out and taking her to the beach. That’s so awesome dude. Did you use the key hidden under the flowerpot?”

Derek has been digging his nails into his palm since Stiles said Danny’s name. “What? Oh, yeah. The hidden key. I put it back. Sorry for using it, but she seemed upset like she really needed to go out, and then, I don't know, she kept following me when I tried to leave. We had a good run.” Apparently all his thinking about Stiles had led Derek to talking like him, because, shit, he sounds like a manic mess.

“Please, I am the one who should be apologizing. To you and to Boomer.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It won’t happen again.”

He looks Derek directly in the eye then, and Derek pretends that that means something more than what it probably does. “Stiles, it’s okay. I like dogs. I like Boomer. I don’t mind taking her out.”

“Can I take you to breakfast?” Stiles blurts out, looking as surprised as Derek feels. “As a thank you, for rescuing my lady love. Come on, I’m kinda hungover and need some greasy hashbrowns. Let’s go.”

Shouldn’t Danny be taking you to breakfast, he wants to say. “Okay,” is what he does say.

~*~

“Want me to drive?” Derek asks after Stiles feeds Boomer and locks her in the house. “I mean, since you’re not feeling well or whatever,” he adds lamely.

“Dude, I was hoping you would offer. I’ve been dying to get a closer look at your Camaro.”

“You say ‘dude’ a lot for someone with a doctorate.”

Stiles smiles and slides into the passenger seat of the Camaro like he belongs there or something.

~*~

Derek drives him to his favorite diner, just a block from Solstice Café, just three blocks from the Tidal. It’s a small town.

They ease back in to talking to each other well enough. They talk about neutral things: Erica and Boyd’s store, the ridiculous revisions Stiles’ editor wants him to make, the increasingly cold and rainy weather. But their conversation doesn’t have the lighthearted comfort of their previous ones, and there’s an awkward tension between them that neither seems able to openly acknowledge. Derek is stiff and anxious, only talking when he must, which isn’t all that often because Stiles is Stiles. He looks tired and his clothes are rumpled, and the voice in the back of Derek’s head keeps screaming it’s because he fucked Danny last night. This is what he looks like after he’s been fucked.

He’s ready to just throw some cash down on the table walk out when Stiles goes silent, apparently having run out of things to say. They hold each other’s gaze across the table for a moment, and Derek wonders what Stiles sees when he looks at him. “I saw you surfing,” he says softly, like he’s confessing something.

“You did?” Derek asks, the hope in his voice confessing something too he thinks.

“Yeah, man. You’re amazing. It was incredible to watch.”

Derek feels his cheeks redden and he’s pretty sure his own small smile matches Stiles’. “Thanks,” he says finally. It’s the best he’s felt in weeks.

~*~

Stiles insists on paying for breakfast, and as they walk out of the diner he asks if Derek minds walking up to Solstice so he can buy coffee beans. Derek agrees, deciding that he wants a latte and any reason to stay in Stiles’ company longer. He distractedly wonders if it’s a good idea to take Stiles there if Justine is working, but doesn’t worry too much about it. They’ve never acknowledged their sexual relationship at her workplace, so it’s not like they’re going to start now.

“Oh my god, Dr. Stilinksi!” Justine yells as soon as they walk in the door. She comes around the counter to greet him with a hug. Derek is very confused.

“Whoa, Justine! What are you doing here?” He looks totally surprised and a little confused.

“I live here! Well, not here here, but you know. Born and raised in Heceta. What are you doing here?”

“I’m on sabbatical! Living the coastal life while working on my next project. You know, I think I knew that you’re from here but I totally spaced. What a small world. It’s great to see you. I just submitted your letters of recommendation, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Stilinksi. I appreciate that so much.”

“Justine, you’ve graduated, you’re going to be in grad school soon. Call me Stiles.” Stiles finally looks over to Derek to explain. “Justine is, was, one of my strongest students. You’ve taken, three, four of my seminars?”

“Four. You’re the reason I want to go to grad school!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” They both laugh like it’s pretty damn funny, and for some reason Derek want to roll his eyes. “That reminds me,” Stiles continues, “I still think you should revise and submit your paper from the Masculinity and Nationalism class for publication. It’s got so much potential, and it’s can’t hurt to have an article under review when you’re applying to grad school. Since I’m living in town for awhile, I’d be happy to meet up with you to talk about it some more.”

Justine positively swoons at that, and Derek can’t help but smile. Of course Stiles is a great professor whose students adore him. He’s brilliant and beautiful and kind and fuck, those moles on his cheek are just begging to be licked…

Justine’s voice saves him from his dangerous thoughts. “Hey Derek,” she says. “How do you know Dr. Stil – Stiles?”

“We’re neighbors,” Derek offers, still trying to process the fact that for the past two years that he’s been fucking Justine whenever she came home from college, she had also been taking classes with Stiles. Small fucking world indeed.

Justine looks back to Stiles. “Oh are you living in the huge monstrosity rental to the south of Derek’s place or the adorable cottage to the north? I love that little house. It’s so quaint.”

Stiles doesn’t respond for a second, and when he does he sounds confused. “The cottage. It’s my aunt and uncle’s.”

Justine finally goes back around the counter to take their order, and Stiles seems tense and awkward again. What in the hell now, Derek thinks. Oh fuck. Justine hadn’t acknowledged their sexual relationship, but she might as well have by revealing that she knows exactly where Derek lives. That’s she’s been there several times if she can not only describe the surrounding houses but remember that one of them is fucking quaint.

Derek tries not to freak out. After all, Stiles is dating Danny. Fucked him last night, probably. Who the fuck cares if he knows about his relationship with Justine?

For some reason, Derek does care that he knows, and for the first time since he’s met Stiles, he’s pissed off at how he feels about him. It’s just too hard, too confusing, too scary.

They get their coffee and walk back to the car in silence. Once Derek starts driving, Stiles speaks. “Crazy, right? That one of my students lives here. And knows you.”

There’s a question in his voice, maybe even an accusation, and Derek is not having it. He doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone, let alone Stiles. Stiles, who chose Danny.

“Yeah, crazy,” he says, keeping his eyes firmly on the road and not on the way Stiles’ fingers drum across his thigh in a rapid, anxious beat.

“You know, uh, one time last year I overheard Justine talking to some friends of hers. The undergrad lounge is right next to the copy room, and you can hear pretty much anything that’s said in there when you’re making copies. It can be pretty funny, sometimes, but also horrifyingly embarrassing for all parties involved. But, uh, yeah, Justine was, uh, telling her friends about a hot surfer dude from home she was cheating on her boyfriend with.”

Justine had never mentioned a boyfriend. Derek doesn’t really care. He’s more interested in the fact that Stiles just implied that Derek was hot. A phyrric victory, given the trajectory of their conversation though. “Well, I guess you just figured out that it’s me,” he says finally.

Stiles doesn’t say anything until they get back to their houses and get out of the car and start walking towards their respective front doors. “Is it an ongoing thing, you and Justine?”

“Why do you care?” Derek responds, sounding a lot harsher than he intends and way too defensive.

Stiles looks stricken. “Nevermind. Thanks again for helping out with Boomer.” He turns back to his house, and Derek wants nothing more than to run after him.

He doesn’t.

~*~

Two days later when Derek heads out on his morning run, he’s not really all that surprised to see Danny’s stupid Mini Cooper parked next to Stiles’ Jeep.

He runs as hard as he can all the way to the jetty, runs so hard he throws up when he gets there and has to lean against the porous black rock to catch his breath and rub the sweat and tears from his eyes.

~*~

Two days after that, Derek looks up from where’s he drawing some specs for a custom board order he just received when he sees Justine’s car pull up next to Stiles’ Jeep. She’s carrying a laptop bag and has an armload of books and Stiles smiles warmly when he opens the door for her.

A few hours later he’s watching the sun sink into the Pacific from the same spot when he hears a soft knock on his front door.

Justine’s car is still in Stiles’ driveway but she’s at Derek’s door, and he knows that look. “Hey you,” she purrs. “I was in the neighborhood.” She walks past him and has her shirt off before he can even get the front door closed.

“You were at my neighbor’s house. Your car is still in my neighbor’s driveway.” Derek knows he should care more about that – it’s kind of awkward and obvious and somehow tacky, and of course Stiles is going to know she came over here, he may have even watched her walk to his door. But he finds that he’s just too tired to care, and Justine’s ample breasts are spilling out of her black lace bra and it’s been over a month since anyone has touched his dick.

“Oh, Dr. Stilinski won’t mind. I asked if he minded if I left my car there so I could come say hi to you and he said it wasn’t a problem at all.” So yeah, Stiles knows. Derek hates himself for feeling a little glad about it, but he does. He hopes it hurts Stiles to think of him with Justine as much as it hurts him to think of Stiles with Danny. It’s petty and immature, but that’s what he has been reduced to.

“’Come say hi?’” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well I wasn’t exactly going to tell my favorite professor that I was coming over here to fuck you. But he gave me this weird look like he totally knew, so oh well. He’s sex positive, you know. He’s probably proud of me.” Derek snorts a laugh at that. She’s pressed up against him now, her breasts soft and warm through thin fabric of the white tank top he’s wearing. Her hands are at his belt, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s going to anyways.

Justine is his type to a T when it comes to women, tall and curvy with full soft lips and big tits and an ass that doesn’t quit, and she’s an enthusiastic lover who never asks more from him than he can give. He needs that so desperately right now.

He leads her up to his bedroom and loses himself in her beautiful, soft body. She kisses him expertly and presses her fingers against his asshole as she sucks his cock. She rides him, fucking him hard into the mattress until they’re both shaking with the force of their orgasms. Afterwards, they lie next to each other and smoke a joint.

“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that my mentor lives next door to you right now. So random.”

“Did he help you with your paper?”

“God, yes. He’s so brilliant. So generous and supportive too. My friends are going to be so jealous when they find out I got to hang out with him at his house. He’s like, a celebrity on the OSU campus. He has a weekly relationship advice column in the student paper.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. His Intro to Gender Studies lecture classes are always full, and there’s always people begging for seats. And his upper division seminars are insane – some of the hardest classes I’ve ever taken, but I’ve never learned so much or been so inspired.”

“Impressive,” Derek mumbles, pulling hard on the joint before passing it back to her, imagining Stiles in a tie, lecturing, sleeves of a slightly-wrinkled button up shirt rolled up, his obscene hands punctuating his thoughts. He likes the image.

“Of course everyone thinks he’s super hot too, but it’s the being brilliant and funny that makes him even hotter, you know? I think all of my straight female friends died a little inside when they found out he’s gay.”

“But I bet your gay male friends were excited,” Derek says.

Justine laughs. “Oh totally. But I don’t think he’d ever sleep with a student. He’s not that kind of guy, you know? From what I’ve heard, he was in a pretty serious long term relationship that ended last year.”

“Oh,” Derek says softly, putting this new piece of the Stiles puzzle on the board, but he’s very stoned and can’t focus. Instead, he takes the joint from Justine, takes one more quick puff and then smashes it out in a glass on the nightstand.

He turns her onto her stomach and fingers her from behind until she’s wet again and begging for his cock. He leans back to slide on a new condom, admiring the full round curve of her ass and the way her open pussy is spread out before him. She always turns to putty at his touch, so he easily pulls up to her hands and knees and slides into her in one smooth, practiced motion. He closes his eyes, letting himself relax into the exhilarating pleasure of her tight warmth.

He’s blissfully stoned and every thrust into Justine sends tremors of languid electricity through his entire body. She’s good, so good, but she’s not what he needs, what he really wants. But still he fucks her, thrusts getting harder and harder, hands gripping her hips and she moans, calls out his name. He wants to feel her come, wants to feel her body come apart under him the way he feels his heart coming apart every second he’s not with Stiles. He reaches around to rub her clit in rhythm with his thrusts, and in no time she’s throwing her head back and gasping, clenching tight around his cock. He pulls out and rips off the condom just in time, spurting hot stripes of come across her ass and lower back. It’s not something he’s ever done with her before, and he knows he should have asked. She doesn’t seem to mind though.

For a perfect moment his mind is wonderfully blank and he’s nothing but a coiled mass of pleasure. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough for now.

Chapter Text

In the morning, he walks Justine to the front door wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. She’s already stepped outside when he remembers the pipe he made for her. It had finished annealing weeks ago but he keeps forgetting to bring it to her when he goes to get coffee. “Hold up,” he says, lightly grabbing her wrist. “I’ve got something for you.” He gets the pipe from it’s been resting on the windowsill above his kitchen sink. “Your classy purse pipe,” he says with smile and small flourish. He’s back at his open front door where Justine is standing and he looks up from her face just in time to see Stiles and Boomer coming up the beach stairs.

Justine giggles and eagerly takes the pipe. It’s a lovely piece, if he does say so himself. It’s a deep cobalt with flecks of silver and a graceful row of bubbles along the stem. “Derek, this is fucking gorgeous! Thank you so much. I can’t believe you really made this for me. You’re a sweetheart.” There’s nothing more than causal affection to her tone, and even the kiss she gives him before walking away is almost chaste. He realizes then how lucky he is to have someone like her in his life.

“Morning, Dr. Stilinksi,” she says a little bashfully as she walks by him to her car.

“Good morning, Justine.” Stiles says, and Derek can’t read his tone or his face.

Stiles is staring at him – he is standing in his doorway in his underwear, after all. Derek waves cautiously. To his surprise, Stiles waves back.

~*~

Derek doesn’t see Danny’s car at Stiles’ place for the next week and he doesn’t think Stiles spends the night away again, but he can’t be sure. He also can’t believe that he’s so pathetically hooked on the man that he’s paying such close attention. He feels like a damn stalker. He says as much to Isaac and Boyd as they sit around on his massive couch waiting to for Erica to show up with pizza.

“I haven’t seen him around with Danny again,” Isaac says, noticeably avoiding the question of whether or not Derek is a stalker. “Maybe they stopped seeing each other.”

Derek grunts and takes a hit from the bong they’ve been passing around – one of Isaac’s masterpieces. Erica arrives then, and they all jump up to help her carry the pizza boxes to the kitchen. “Sorry that took so long, guys,” she says, “but I ran into someone in the parking lot of Gallucci’s. Danny.”

The way she says it makes it seem like there’s a hell of a lot more to her story, and Derek gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Christ, Der-bear, your laser eyes are boring into my soul. Stop with the glare okay? Just because you perfected the Blue Steel doesn’t mean need to use it all the time.”

Isaac grins and Boyd downright cackles, and fuck, Derek is laughing too despite himself.

“What happened?” he asks tentatively.

“Well, I might have cornered him a bit. There may have been some vigorous chest-poking on my part.”

“Boyd, your woman’s poking another man’s chest. Watch out,” Isaac says shoving a huge slice of pizza into his mouth.

“She can poke whoever she wants, as long as it’s for a good cause,” Boyd retorts.

Derek can’t stand waiting anymore. “Jesus, Erica, what did you say? You didn’t tell him how I feel about Stiles, did you?” The thought that Danny might know how insanely jealous Derek is of him makes him nauseous with anger and embarrassment.

“Of course not, dummy. I just asked him what he told Stiles about you.”

“And?”

“And, well…you’re not going to like it. I don’t really want to tell you.”

“Erica.” It’s practically a growl.

“Fine, fine. These are his words, not mine, and I in absolutely in no way agree with him, okay? Please keep that in mind.”

“I know, Erica. Please just tell me.” He hates how small and sad he sounds.

“He said, and I quote, ‘I simply told him the truth. That Derek is a narcissist who uses people for sex and discards them like trash. That he sleeps with anything that moves, and that he thinks he’s too hot to date, but that he likes to lead people on for the attention. I advised him not to get involved with him unless he wanted to end up like so many other heartsick tourists.’”

“So, he basically described himself. What a piece of work,” Isaac says, surely remembering his own heartbreak at the hands of Danny.

Boyd exhales loudly. “What a fucking dick. I’m sorry, Derek.”

Derek says nothing, just puts his plate on the counter and walks back into the living room to stand at the window and look at the ocean. His breath feels shallow and it feels like something is collapsing inside his chest. Then Erica’s arms are around his waist, and her head is pressed between his shoulder blades. “That’s when I poked him,” she says, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I told him he was a liar and an asshole and the he should go fuck himself.”

Derek puts his hand over hers where it rests against his stomach and relaxes into her hug. “Thanks,” he whispers, and turns around to wrap her in a real hug. But suddenly he’s falling, his knees weak and he’s about to take Erica down with him but then Boyd is there, catching them both and guiding them to the couch.

He sits down heavily and leans his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, trying to stop the ache in his chest from exploding and killing him.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Erica says quietly, “I got the impression that they’re not seeing each other any more.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says, and he sounds almost as wrecked as he feels. “It doesn’t matter because he believed him. Stiles believed him.” It’s devastating and saying it out loud makes it even more so. Stiles is smart and kind, so if he believed Danny – which he clearly did, the way he pulled away from Derek – it means that Danny must have simply confirmed what Stiles had already been suspecting. “He believed him,” he says again. He stands and walks upstairs to his bedroom, leaving his friends staring after him.

~*~

It’s too windy and cold most mornings to run on the beach now, so Derek does his morning run through town, sticking mostly to the local access roads that run along the water parallel to Highway 101. He sees more people this way and he has to run farther to get the same workout, and he kind of hates it, but Derek pretty much hates everything these days.

It’s been three days since Erica confronted Danny, three days since Derek felt his heart shatter at the realization that Stiles thinks he’s nothing more a pretty face who will hurt him and not care. Three days since he left his friends in his living room and curled up in bed and silently cried until he slept. He felt slightly better the morning after and he woke up and decided to forget it all, forget he had any feelings at all for the man, for anyone, ever.

He’s vowed to stop thinking about him, to stop looking at his windows every few minutes hoping to catch a glance of him. He’s decided that the only way he’ll get over it is to live a completely Stiles-free life. He hates it.

Stiles, however, does not seem intent on living a Derek-free life, it seems. Night is falling on the Monday before Thanksgiving and Derek is sitting on his couch in pair of loose-fitting sweats and a white tank top, trying to decide what he movie he’s going to watch as he gets too stoned to think. He hears the knock followed by a small, excited yelp, and he knows it must be Stiles and Boomer but he’s still surprised to see them standing there when he opens the door.

“Hey man,” Stiles says, handing rubbing the back of his neck like he’s unsure of himself. “I’m not bothering you, am I?” he asks.

Derek almost laughs because there are so many different answers to that question. “No, I’m not doing anything. Everything all right?” Boomer – who had been very politely sitting at Stiles’ side – decides that she’s been patient long enough and leaps forward, bounding into Derek’s house.

“Jesus, Boomer. You’re ridiculous,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry. I’ve been training her and she’s getting so much better about listening, but I don’t know man, she gets so excited around you.”

Boomer has completed a lap of the downstairs of Derek’s house; both Stiles and Derek watch with raised eyebrows as she walks to the couch, pauses for a quick second, then leaps up and settles into the cushions like she owns the place. She gives them a look that clearly says she gives no fucks, and then both of them are laughing.

“Do you want to come in?” Derek asks. “I mean, it seems like she’s not going anywhere for awhile, so…”

Stiles accepts the invitation and then he’s there, in his house, close enough that Derek can smell his tantalizingly musky scent. “Have a seat,” he says, stepping away. “I’ll grab some beers.” He eyes Stiles carefully from the kitchen. He’s wearing jeans and a tight black t-shirt that Derek can’t help but appreciate. He’s slender and lithe, with taut, muscled arms that don’t come close to matching Derek’s bulk, and yeah, Derek likes that. Likes that Stiles is smaller but still strong, likes that there’s still power there that can break Derek, if he were to let him.

He would let him.

Stiles hair is sticking straight up like he’s been running his fingers through it harshly, and his lower lip is red and bitten. Derek hands him a beer and sits on the couch, leaving a full cushion and a half between them. He stares out the window because looking at him hurts too much.

“This is an incredible couch,” Stile says, because it is. It’s a light gray pseudo-suede sectional that frames half of his large living room, a huge-L-shaped thing with extra deep cushions and two huge square ottomans that can be pushed to fit snuggly against the couch to make a giant bed-couch.

“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” he says. “Boomer seems to like it, at least.” Boomer groans and stretches out in response to hearing her name.

“She does have excellent taste,” Stiles quips, smiling shyly. Derek doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything, but then Stiles talks again. “Everything’s not okay…to answer your question from before. I’ve had a pretty shitty day. I guess I just…I wanted to talk to someone and I saw that you were home…I’m sorry if I’m intruding.” He’s tapping a finger along his beer bottle in time with his bouncing foot, like he can’t sit still, like he’s nervous.

“It’s okay, Stiles. I don’t mind seeing you,” Derek lies.

Stiles eyes land on the loaded pipe Derek left on the end table next to the couch. He picks up and examines the glass. “Is this one of yours?” he asks, lifting towards the lamp to better see the colors in the glass. “Green and gold,” he says quietly, to himself mostly.

“Yeah, made that one last year. It’s a good piece.”

“It’s beautiful. You’re talented.”

“Did you want to smoke? You look like you could use it.” Derek risks holding his gaze while drinking from his beer. He watches Stiles track the way his lips close around the bottle, the way his throat moves as he swallows. Derek needs to smoke too.

He tosses Stiles a lighter and tries not to drool over the way his long fingers cradle the glass as he puts it to his mouth, tries not to stare too hard at the way his cheeks hollow as he inhales, the ways his long eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he leans back and exhales a thick ribbon of smoke that Derek wants to kiss off his lips.

“Fuck,” Stiles sighs, handing the pipe to Derek. They pass it back and forth a couple of times without talking, each settling into to the couch and letting the drug calm them.

“What happened?” He knows Stiles will eventually tell him if he just lets him talk, but he hopes that asking him to talk about it will help him, will maybe stop him from feeling guilty about bothering him. “You can talk about it, I mean. You can talk to me.” He feels awkward and clumsy.

“Oh, it’s nothing major. Just a lot of frustrations, you know? I’m stuck on this chapter. I hate everything I’ve written so far, I can’t fucking focus, my editor is on my ass. That’s been going on for weeks though, and I’ve been dealing. But today my best friend Scott called and he and his fiancé decided to go skiing this weekend instead of doing Thanksgiving. Which is cool, so happy for them, but we usually all do Thanksgiving together, you know? I was planning going home for a few days, but now they won’t even be there. And Lydia and Jackson, my friends in Portland, they’re in Hawaii, so I know it’s lame and I’m twenty-nine years old and I shouldn’t fucking care, but I do. It just sucks, you know? Being alone. On a holiday, I mean,” he adds weakly.

“Come to Erica’s,” Derek says without thinking.

“What?”

“For Thanksgiving. Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and I have Thanksgiving at Erica and Boyd’s every year. You should come.”

“Really?” The cautious hope in his voice nearly breaks Derek in two.

“Yeah, really. They’ll be happy to have you. And Boyd is an incredible cook.”

“Okay, yeah, thanks man. I mean, I don’t want to intrude or invite myself, but if you think Erica won’t mind, I’d really like that.”

“She’ll be thrilled to have you.” I’ll be thrilled to have you, he thinks.

“Cool. That’s awesome. I’m not dreading the holiday nearly as much now.”

“Good.” The bowl is cashed so Derek gets up walks to the kitchen, cleans it out in the sink and re-loads it from the mason jar he keeps in the cabinet next to the fridge. He brings two more beers back to living room along with the new bowl and hands the pipe and a beer Stiles.

“Shit man, you don’t mess around.”

“Go big or go home,” Derek smiles, and it feels good. It feels even better when Stiles smiles back.

Stiles coughs lightly after taking a big hit, exhaling through his nose as he hands the pipe over to Derek. “Is uh, um…will you be bringing Justine to Thanksgiving?” He doesn’t look at Derek. In fact, he seems to be making a concerted effort to not look at Derek.

Derek is surprised at the question. He and Justine have never shared a meal, other than ice cream in bed after stoned sex. “No. Justine and I…don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“What about you and Danny?” He asks tentatively, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as he thinks it does, ignoring the quick tightening in his chest as he speaks.

“Oh, I’m not seeing him anymore. That was…a mistake. I don’t really know why I went out with him.” He’s looking at Derek now, looking right at him, his eyes wide, one hand back to rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, Danny can be charming,” Derek offers weakly.

“He’s an asshole.”

Derek is so relieved he actually laughs. “Yeah well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He’s stoned but alert, body thrumming with energy. He knows he’s approaching something, a turning point maybe, with Stiles, and he’s practically holding his breath because he’s doesn’t know which way things will turn. He has to try though. “Why, uh, why did you stop seeing him?”

Stiles scoffs. “Because I didn’t like why I started seeing him in the first place.” His eyes dart around anxiously, like he didn't mean to say that. “I mean, I was never really that interested in him, but he asked me out, you know? And that doesn’t really happen all that often, so I figured why not? I feel kinda slow on the uptake, but it took me a little while to realize that he wasn’t actually interested in me. He just wanted to piss you off. He really hates, you know. I think he sees you as like, his competition or whatever.”

Derek thinks this through as he watches Stiles’ hands circle around his beer bottle. “Oh yeah?” He says, because it’s all he can muster.

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but then stops, as if he’s changed his mind. He fidgets a bit, rapidly scrapes a thumbnail over the wheel of the lighter, the metallic scratching the only sound in the room. When he finally speaks again, it’s soft, tentative. “I’m pretty sure he only asked me out because he wanted something you had.”

It’s like all of the air goes out of the room. Derek swallows hard. “Did I…have you?” his voice is quiet, so quiet and soft he’s worried Stiles didn’t hear him, and fuck, he doesn’t think he can say it again.

“Yes. You did.”

They’re quiet for a long time, watching each other, both scared to disturb the fragile something that’s now hanging between them. Derek wants to move to him, it would be so easy, he’s right there, just a couple of feet away and he can finally put his hands on him, can finally touch him, but he can’t, his body won’t move, won’t listen to him, because even though Stiles’ words – yes, you did – are blooming bright with joy and hope inside of chest, he can’t go to him. Not yet.

“You believed him,” he says, and he doesn’t want it to sound like an accusation but he thinks it does. “He told Erica what he said about me, to you. You seemed to believe him.”

Stiles’ expressive face falls, like something inside him has broken. “Yeah, I guess I did. I mean, I didn’t really, but I kind of did? It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.” It’s a command, and it surprises Derek.

“It didn’t really add up, what he was saying. You seem like a really nice, genuine guy, but then I started thinking about how I didn’t really know you that well, even though it felt like I did. And…I don’t know, man. I’ve been burned pretty hard before, and I’ve never been able to do the casual sex thing, and fuck, I figured that even if you’d want to sleep with me that’s all it would be. I mean, of course it would be. What else would someone like you want with someone like me?” He stops to take a pull from the pipe.

“Someone like me?” Derek asks, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“Someone smart and talented and funny and kind, and utterly beautiful.”

“And someone like you?” It’s starting to dawn on Derek that Stiles might be kind of an idiot sometimes.

“Yeah, you know. Skinny manic professor guy who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

Derek smiles and meets his eyes. “I think you mean smart and talented and funny and kind, and utterly beautiful professor guy who can’t keep his mouth shut.” Stiles blushes then, honest god blushing, his cheeks turning a ruddy warm color that Derek wants to taste.

“I’m sorry I believed him, I shouldn’t have. I think I was scared, of how strongly I felt about you, and I let him convince me so I had a reason to avoid my feelings for you.” It shocks Derek how completely open and honest Stiles is being with him, and he treasures it, even though what he says still stings a bit. Stiles maybe didn’t completely believe what Danny said about him, but he didn’t completely not believe it either.

And Derek can’t blame him for that, he realizes. Not when he understands why Stiles felt that way, not when he knows that his own behavior can be so easily misinterpreted by others, and certainly not when Stiles has just confessed his feelings for him. He wants to do the same. “Danny wasn’t completely wrong, you know,” he says quietly. “I don’t manipulate people, and I don’t lie about what I want. But I do have a lot of casual relationships, and I don’t date. He wasn’t right about the how or the why, but he was right about the what.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that,” Stiles says, sad and quiet.

“But I want to date you,” Derek says. Stiles’ eyes shoot up, wide and disbelieving. “I’m not very good at this, and I don’t think I handled it well, but I was scared too. Scared of how I felt about you. I’ve never…” He sighs heavily, like it hurts to say the words, like it hurts to be so vulnerable because it does. “I feel something for you that I’ve never felt for anyone, and I didn’t know how to handle it, and I was scared – “

Suddenly Stiles is there, in his personal space, on his knees between Derek’s where he sits on the edge of the couch. He’s eye-to-eye with him and up close he can see that his mellow mahogany eyes have tiny flecks of amber in them and Christ, he smells so good and his hands, shit his hands are cradling Derek’s face and he has to close his eyes and convince himself that this is really happening. “Derek,” Stiles whispers, his voice choked and urgent. He runs his strong thumbs across Derek’s eyebrows, smoothing the furrow there. He sweeps his thumb under Derek’s eye, and Derek feels like his skin is going to blister from the heat of his touch, and he wants it to, want the spark of Stiles hands on him to consume him in flames.

His thumb traces the outline of Derek’s mouth, and he can’t take it anymore, so he flicks his tongue out, catching it, pulling it into his mouth and sucking gently. “Fuck,” Stiles moans, leaning his forehead against Derek’s. “Can I kiss you?” Stiles asks, and Derek isn’t sure why but that’s the moment he realizes that he’s hopelessly and irrevocably in love with Stiles.

“Please,” he whimpers. He watches the smile dance across his face for a second but then, finally, Stiles’ mouth is on his and he’s drowning, falling, burning. Stiles’ mouth is warm and soft and he takes charge of the kiss immediately, pressing firmly on Derek’s mouth with his tongue, demanding entrance. It’s a beautiful dance of tongues and lips and teeth and hands, and Derek knows he’s kissing Stiles like he’s dying, and he doesn't care, not one bit, because Stiles is kissing him back just as hard.

 He runs his hands down his back, relishing the taut, firm muscles there. Derek ghosts his hands over his ass, pausing for a moment to catch Stiles’ small gasp with this mouth. His hands keep moving though, further down until hooks his hands around the back of his thighs; he grabs the strong muscles there and pulls him on to his lap so he’s straddling him, all in one easy move, never breaking the kiss. “Fuck, dude. Your ability to manhandle me shouldn’t be this hot,” Stiles pants, mouth teasing at Derek’s earlobe.

“I though manhandling was the whole point.” Derek grins and runs the tip of his tongue along the constellation of moles on Stiles’ left cheek.

Stiles’ laugh is breathless. “Ooh, wordplay. Very clever, Mr. Hale.”

Derek answers him with a low growl and pulls on his hips, bringing him closer. He thrusts up, just slightly, his cock aching for more friction, for Stiles. He gets an answering groan and his hands find the hem of his t-shirt and begins to pull it up when Stiles stops abruptly, breaking the kiss and leaning back.

His mouth his red and raw and his pupils are blown, and how is it possible that every time Derek looks at him, he’s nearly rendered breathless by how perfectly beautiful he is?

“We should take it slow,” Stiles says. “Even though my dick really hates me for saying that,” he adds, glancing down at where his obvious erection is tenting his jeans. It takes self-control he didn’t know he had for Derek not reach for him, not to take him into his mouth and swallow every lost drop of his come.

“Slow,” Derek breathes, like he doesn’t know what the word means. He kinda doesn’t, in this context at least.

“You were upset that I thought you only cared about sex, and I was worried that you only wanted me for sex, remember?”

“I’m trying to forget,” Derek mumbles from where’s he sucking gently on Stiles’ collarbone, hoping to leave a mark.

“Three dates,” Stiles huffs, pulling away and standing, not-so-subtly adjusting his crotch, which is right at Derek’s eye-level now, and he thinks this must be a new form of torture the universe has devised just for him. The absence of Stiles’ weight on him feels wrong, like he’s missing a limb.

“Three dates?” he asks.

“Oh, put that damn eyebrow down. Three dates. We're going to do this right. It’s what we both need.”

Derek is kinda shocked to realize that he feels relieved. As much as he wants Stiles, and fuck, he wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone or anything, he knows that Stiles is right. After all, Derek didn’t make a move in those first weeks because he wanted to do things right, get to know Stiles better, wanted it to mean something when they had sex. “Okay,” he says. “Three dates.”

Stiles sighs. “Okay. Awesome. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

“Going on a date with my mouthy neighbor.”

“Good.”

Derek invites Stiles to stay and he does. They curl up on the couch next to Boomer and watch Starship Troopers and smoke another bowl. Derek can’t believe how happy he is to just lie there curled around Stiles’ back like he was made to be there, like he was built to echo his shape and hold him tight. Derek walks Stiles to his door at midnight, the almost-full moon lighting a path between their houses. He kisses him softly, with less urgency. They have time.

Chapter Text

On their first date the next afternoon, Stiles drives them down to Newport to go to the aquarium. Stiles grabs his hand and laces his fingers through his when they’re standing in front of the otter exhibit, and Derek grins like a fool. They take overpriced pictures in a photobooth – Derek only pretends that he has to be talked into it – and they leave with a strip of four black and white photos of them framed by silly-looking cartoon sharks and starfish. In one photo, the last one they took, Derek is looking right at the camera and grinning wide, his eyes bright. Stiles is looking at him, turned completely toward him so only is exquisitely sculpted profile is in view. He’s smiling too, but it’s that small shy smile that Derek has started to think is just for him. “This one’s my favorite,” Stiles says, running a finger lightly over Derek’s cheek in the photo.

“Mine too,” Derek says.

~*~

Their second date is Thanksgiving dinner, even though Stiles says it shouldn’t count as a date they still do. Boyd makes a feast and they drink too much wine and play Cards Against Humanity. It’s the best holiday Derek has ever had.

Later that night as they curl up on Derek’s couch and watch the moon glow over the Pacific, they have the awkward but necessary safe-sex talk. He’s not exactly sure how it comes up, as they’ve both been quiet about their Sex Appointment, as Erica has decided to call it.

“My most recent test was six months ago,” Stiles says. “Totally clean. And I haven’t…haven’t been with anyone since.”

Derek swallows hard, knowing both what Stiles is asking for and knowing that this is his way of telling him that he didn’t fuck Danny.

“I get tested every three months,” Derek says neutrally. Given his lifestyle, it’s only smart. “Clean as well. And I’ve been safe with everyone I’ve been with since my last test.”

Stiles eyebrows go up at that and it’s too dark for Derek to fully decipher is expression, but he thinks he’s pleased.

~*~

They have their third date the Friday after Thanksgiving. Stiles has him over for dinner and makes grilled steelhead and a salad. Derek’s helping him do the dishes when he feels his long, strong arms snake around his waist, his soft breath on the back of his neck.

“Three dates in one week,” Stiles whispers into his ear, sending shivers straight to his cock. “You must really like me,” he says, whispers turning to soft, gentle kisses all along his neck, his hands idly stroking Derek’s abs.

“Something like that,” Derek whispers as he turns to kiss him. It starts soft and tender, but turns urgent quickly, both of them quaking with need, hands and tongues greedy.

“Bed. I need you in my bed right now,” Stiles huffs, pulling him up the stairs.

They strip quickly and tumble into the unmade bed, neither of them willing to take their hands or mouths off of the other for too long. Stiles stretches out over him, and every point of contact along their bare skin feels alive and shimmering. Naked Stiles is a vision. Naked Stiles is a goddamn revelation. “You’re so beautiful,” Derek mumbles into his hair, feeling shy about it. He’s never been one to talk during sex, but Stiles overwhelms him, rattles him, makes him want to tell him just exactly how strong his hold over him is.

“Jesus, Derek, you’re…you’re perfect,” Stiles sighs as he moves down Derek’s body, taking his nipple into his mouth and biting gently. Derek bucks and hisses, his body reacting to his touch as much as to his words and the way Stiles’ voice catches a bit. Stiles, of course, loves talking, even during sex, Derek is learning, and he loves it, wants to hear every thought Stiles will give him. “Do you know how hard it’s been for me to see you everyday, wearing your tank tops and your tight running shirts and doing fucking shirtless pushups on your deck, looking all chiseled from stone like that? I don’t know how I even stopped myself from climbing you like a tree the minute I met you.”

Derek groans as Stiles licks a long, slow line down the middle of his torso, from his pecs to his happy trail. He runs his hands through the hair on his chest while his tongue teases lower towards his cock. “Fuck, Stiles,” he gasps.

But Stiles still has things to say. “And then I watched you surf…I sat right here on this bed and watched you out the window, the way you moved on the water like you were made to do it. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He kisses along the long lines of hard muscle at his hips, tender kisses turning into bruising, sloppy suckling. “And then,” Stiles practically growls. “You stripped and showered outside.”

“You watched me?” Derek pants, and he can hear the fractured hope in his voice and it scares him just a bit.

“Of course I did. I felt like a weirdo and creep but I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop looking at you. Were you trying to torture me?”

“Maybe a little.” Relief and want and love blooms in Derek’s chest.

Stiles snorts. “I knew it, you devious bastard. The things I imagined doing to you…” he drops back down to his abs again, tracing the outlines of his muscles with his tongue. He hasn’t put a hand near Derek’s dick yet but he’s already painfully hard and leaking. “The things I imagined you doing to me…” Another tantalizingly lick, lower now.

“Did you touch yourself,” Derek asks, and fuck, for a second he’s embarrassed, shouldn’t have asked that, shouldn’t have admitted that he wanted that.

Stiles just sorts a laugh though. “Of course I did. I’ve jacked off everyday with your name on my lips since I met you.”

And that’s it, Derek can’t take it anymore. He hauls Stiles up by his shoulders and rolls him over, covering his body with his own, grunting heavily as their cocks brush together. “Oh goody, more manhandling,” Stiles laughs, his hands squeezing Derek’s ass. “Fuck your ass feels amazing. I’m going to have to become much more intimate with it soon.” He wiggles his eyebrows and smiles goofily, and Derek loves it, fucking loves every silly little move and sound he makes, loves every line and curve of his expressive face.

 Stiles moves his hands though, brings them up to curl his fingers into Derek’s hair, other had cupping his cheek like he had just a few days ago before their first kiss. The look on his face breaks Derek open, fills him with hope and love and forever, and he can’t take it, it’s just too perfect. “Dammit, Stiles,” he whispers. “You can’t look at me like that. I feel like I can barely breathe when you do.”

“Like what?” Stiles asks, not teasing now. Derek bends down and leaves a tender kiss over his heart, just above his nipple. He holds his mouth there for a moment, lost in the beat of Stiles’ heart against his lips.

“Like…like reverent.” He closes his eyes against Stiles’ warm chest when he says it, feeling his face flushing with heat.

Stiles pulls him gently up to his mouth and kisses him softly for a long time. “I do, you know. I revere you. I adore you. I need you.” He’s still not teasing, even though he has that joking lilt in his voice at first, but it disappears as Derek moves down his body, leaving his pale, beauty marked skin red with beard burn and glistening with his saliva.

Like the rest of him, Stiles’ dick is gorgeous. It’s long and thick and cut and it’s flushed redder than his cheeks, and fuck, he’s so hard. Derek teases the head with his tongue, pushing a thumb gently against the spot just under the head and is rewarded with a soft drip of precome. He licks it up greedily, and is rewarded again with a throaty moan from somewhere deep inside Stiles’ chest and he’s so happy that they’ve talked about doing this bare because he wants all of Stiles, wants to drink up anything he will give him.

Derek is an accomplished cocksucker, and he makes sure Stiles’ knows it with every flick and swirl of his tongue and twist of his fingers. He teases him mercifully, pulling off now and again to suck his balls into his mouth while brushing an exploratory finger between the cheeks of his perfect little ass. He finally takes him all the way in his mouth when Stiles’ moans have turned to whimpers, swallowing him down and relaxing his jaw and throat expertly. He’s got him all the way down, his face buried in the soft brown curls at the base of his cock. His eyes are watering a bit because, yeah, he might be an expert at this but Stile’s dick is big, might even be bigger than Derek’s and that’s impressive. He loves it though, loves the way the head pushes against his throat, loves the way he fills his mouth, loves the way his cock twitches against his tongue as he begins gently sucking as he slowly pulls back, only to dive back down and take him all the way in again, and again, and again.

He looks up from under his lashes to find Stiles staring at him, resting on his elbows so he can watch Derek mouth at his cock, chest and neck are flushed the prettiest pink Derek’s ever seen, and he’s biting his bottom lip, his breath coming in hot gasps. He’s watching Derek with a heat in his eyes that sends thrums of hot pleasure through his body, and his pupils are blown so wide his eyes look all black in the moonlit room. Something electric passes through them when their eyes meet, and Derek moans and smiles as much as he can with a dick in his mouth. Stiles’ head hits the pillow with a loud grunt and he buries his hands in Derek’s hair. “Derek, oh my god, Derek.” He sounds absolutely wrecked, and Derek takes that as his cue to really start sucking him off in earnest.

It’s not long before he’s thrusting up towards Derek’s mouth and Derek lets him, wants it so badly. He can feel his own cock dripping and aching for touch, but he ignores it, way too wrapped up in the way splay and spasm of Stiles' abs as he writhes under him. Stiles tries to warn Derek by pulling on his hair and backing his hips away, but Derek isn’t having any of that. He bears down harder and squeezes Stiles’ ass as he sucks, one finger pressing gently against his rim. Stiles comes with a shout, spilling hotly down Derek’s throat as he sucks him through it, milking his cock for every last drop, Stiles shuddering and swearing above him.

When he finally pulls off with a wet pop and accomplished grin, he’s greeted by blissed out mellow mahogany eyes that are positively hungry for him. “Jesus fucking Christ, dude,” he pants, still recovering as Derek moves to lie next to him, feeling very pleased with himself and already devising all the other ways he wants to make Stiles come.

Stiles rolls to his side to face him. He laughs and runs a finger along Derek’s chin. “You have my come in your perfectly sculpted man-beard,” he says, holding up his finger, which, yeah definitely has some come on it. Derek just grins and grabs his hand and slowly, so slowly, licks up the come dripping from it, never taking his eyes off Stiles’. “Fuck, Derek. You’re going to be the death me,” he huffs. Derek just smiles and buries his head in Stiles’ neck. “What are we going to do about you,” Stiles asks, long fingers playfully dancing down Derek’s side.

“Whatever you want,” Derek sighs, and he means it. “I’m all yours.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Stiles says, hand circling around Derek’s straining cock.

He’s having a hard time speaking because Stiles’ hands, those deliciously elegant long, strong hands are slowly jacking him and dammit, he could get off from just that if he let himself.

“I want to fuck you,” he manages to pant. “I’m going to fuck you.” Stiles kisses him then, and Derek knows what else he wants and asks for it before he can stop himself. “And then, I want you to fuck me.”

Stiles stops moving, clearly surprised. Derek almost definitely whimpers at the loss of those hands on his cock, but Stiles quickly composes himself and starts stroking him again, this time with more purpose, starting a steady, teasing pace, skillful fingers teasing his foreskin and sliding through his precome. “I didn’t think…I mean, I didn’t just want to assume, but I guess I did, that you don’t bottom. I know it’s a bullshit stereotype, but, you know, you’re you with the muscles and glaring and the big tough masculine thing going on, which I am not criticizing at all, because, as I’m sure you can probably tell, that totally does it for me, you totally do it for me, you’re so fucking gorgeous and I can’t believe you’d let me fuck you.”

Derek is not only impressed, but utterly fucking amused by the fact that that Stiles’ hands never stopped moving, didn’t miss a beat in fact, as he calmly stroked his cock as he rambled. “I don’t that often,” he says. “Haven’t in a really long time, actually. But I want you inside of me.”

“But you’re going to fuck me first right?” Stiles doesn’t just sound hopeful, he sounds nervous and Derek’s pretty sure that Stiles doesn’t top very often, if ever. It makes him want him even more.

“Fuck, Stiles...” Derek is burying his words in Stiles' neck as he mouths at the taut tendon there, worrying a mark into his pale skin. He wants to mark Stiles up, inside and out, making him his. Stiles is groaning like he’s the one breaking into a million pieces, like he’s the one who can feel the carefully-built walls he’s been building around his heart for years shattering, crumbling, dissolving with the cataclysmic power of the strength of what he’s feeling. “Can you come again if I fuck you?” Derek asks, pulling back from a bruising hickey on Stiles’ collarbone to look into his eyes. “I’m only going to fuck you if you come while I’m inside you.”

“Fuck, Derek. You’re…I…fuck. Yes, god yes.”

Derek groans and rolls away to get lube from the nightstand and when he turns back Stiles is on his back with a pillow under his ass, one wiry arm tucked behind his head. The other is draped over his abs as he lazily strokes his half-hard cock, his eyes tracking Derek’s every move slowly and fucking wantonly, his mouth slightly open. It’s a heady sight, and Derek feels lightheaded for a moment with a need and a want that’s so infused with tender affection it makes him gasp and he feels his cheeks going hot.

“Derek Hale, are you blushing,” Stiles practically sings, eyes narrowing, mouth transforming into a wicked little smirk that Derek would kiss off his face if he didn’t love it so much.

Derek just grunts and plants himself between Stiles’ legs, spreading them farther and holding him still by firmly planting his broad, strong hands on the insides of Stiles’ slender, muscled thighs. He’s got him laid bare and exposed and Stiles is gasping shallowly, and yeah, he really does seem to like it when Derek manhandles him. He’s going to remember that. But Stiles is still wearing that self-satisfied grin at making Derek blush, and Derek won’t stand for that. Won’t stand for that at all.

He dives down and breathes hotly for a quick second across Stiles’ hole, then licks a sloppy stripe to his balls. He takes both of them in his mouth at once this time and sucks, then hums just a bit, feeling the vibration shake against his taut and heavy sack. Finally, he pulls of with the tiniest, softest little nip, making Stiles yelp.

Derek looks up from under his lashes – yeah, he knows what he looks like when he does that – and crooks up an eyebrow. Stiles is fully hard now and his chest and neck are flushing red. “What was that about blushing,” he purrs, and Stiles just groans, eyes heavy lidded and fluttering. “That’s what I thought, you little shit."

Stiles laughs loudly, squirming under Derek’s grip. “Oh my god, you’re such an asshole.” He reaches for Derek’s shoulders then and pulls him up so he can kiss him, and kiss him he does. It’s fierce and strong and fuck, Derek will never get enough of kissing Stiles. He breaks the kiss long enough to lube up his fingers and he gently, cautiously runs a finger around rim as Stiles pulls him back into another earth-shattering kiss.

When they break apart again, he’s a knuckle-deep and Stiles is begging for more. Derek sets his mouth to his collarbone and bites lightly, sucking another mark there as he pushes farther in and adds a second finger. Soon Stiles is rocking back on his hand, eager and needy, and Derek just wants to stay like this for as long as he can, watching Stiles fuck himself on his fingers while he licks the sweat from his neck.

“More Derek, I need more, I need you, I need your cock,” and fuck, he’s pretty when he’s desperate for it. He adds a third finger and begins stretching him a little more vigorously, fingers spreading him open as and curling to just barely tease his prostate. Stiles moans and moves a hand towards his leaking cock, but Derek brushes it away, pins him down a bit.

“Not yet,” he growls into Stiles’ neck. “Not until I’m fucking you.”

“Well then fucking fuck me already,” Stiles yells, and Derek laughs.

He rises up to his knees and slicks his cock with lube. He’s so incredibly hard and Stiles is lying there open wide for him, begging for it, and he has to close his eyes and squeeze the base of his cock to stop from coming. “How do you want me,” he asks huskily.

“Like this, just like this. I want to kiss you. I want to see your face when you come.”

“Stiles...fuck. Do you have any idea what you do to me,” he whispers as he presses his trembling cock against him. The head slides in smoothly and Derek pauses, giving Stiles a second to adjust. The heat and tension encircling his head are overwhelming, and he knows he’s not going to last long. He continues to ease in, inch by inch as Stiles cants his hips up to meet him, hole twitching around his cock as he eagerly pulls him in.

“I’m not going to break, Derek. Give me your fucking cock already,” he demands, and Derek can’t not do whatever Stiles wants him to, not anymore, not ever again, so he thrusts hard and bottoms out, the slap of their skin sealing them together. Stiles yells his name, and fuck, Derek likes the way it sounds all wrapped up in his moans. Derek pulls out almost all the way out, dragging slowing until his head catches on Stiles rim, and Stiles gasps, like he’s terrified of losing him. He buries himself to the hilt again and then he can’t be precise or teasing anymore, it’s just too good, Stiles is just too good, too perfect, too hot and wet and tight.

He ruts madly, his body seeking its pleasure on its own now. Stiles pulls him down into a sloppy kiss, his tongue eager and thrusting into his mouth as Derek’s cock thrusts into his hole. Stiles’ hands are cupped hard on Derek’s ass, pulling him in harder with each thrust. “Fuck, Derek, yes…god your fucking cock feels so good…fuck, harder, Derek, fuck me…” Stiles’ words are pouring into him, buzzing through him, filling Derek up.

Stiles’ dick is pressed between them leaking precome over them both as they move together, and Derek rises back to his knees, taking a moment to catch his breath. Stiles whines a bit at the lost friction, but seems more than happy again when Derek wraps his legs around his hips, allowing him to fuck him even deeper and hit his prostate and just the right angle. Stiles’ yells get louder and increasingly nonverbal, and Derek knows he’s close. Derek’s so close too, heat gathering behind his knees, in his thighs, coiling deep in within him as his climax builds. 

He gathers the small puddle of precome that has pooled on Stile’s belly and slicks his hand with it. Stiles’ eyes lock on his and he’s pretty sure Stiles sobs when he wraps his hand around his dick and starts jacking him quickly in time with his thrusts. The sound does something to Derek, stuns him and shakes him and makes him feel like he’s dissolving and solidifying all at once, and fuck, this this, is the ache in his chest that woke in him in the pre-dawn hours the day he met Stiles. This what he’s been looking for, and it’s so, so much better than what he thought he was looking for. The look on Stiles’ face is need and want and love, and Derek finally, finally feels whole.

Stiles arches beautifully and his hands claw at the mattress as hot ribbons of come throb from his dick, splattering across Derek’s abs, igniting his skin with the heat of it, making him grunt in satisfaction. Stiles’ ass clenches impossibly tight around his cock, and then he’s coming too, his rhythm stuttering and shaking as he thrusts deep with the force of it, pleasure igniting him from the inside out. It pulses through him in quaking spasms, smoldering satisfaction burning through him as he empties himself inside Stiles. Through the haze of pleasure he hears Stiles, still coming down from his own orgasm, panting and it’s so fucking raw that Derek’s dick gives one final pulse before he collapses in a sweaty, shaking heap onto Stiles.

It’s possible that he sleeps for a few minutes; he comes back to something resembling consciousness with Stiles shifting underneath him, the slick-slide of come on their stomachs making Derek’s softening cock twitch where it’s still nestled inside Stiles. “As much as I like you being on top of me, I can’t breathe, and if I die now we can’t fuck again.”

Derek laughs quietly and kisses whatever part of Stiles his mouth happens to be on at the moment – the crook of his armpit, he thinks – before gently pulling out and moving to lie next to him. Stiles gives a little whimper at the loss of his cock, so Derek finds his wet, stretched hole with his fingers and pushes in, smiling at the feeling of his come still so hot inside of Stiles. His pushes his fingers in deeper, wanting to keep his come there, wanting his come to become a part of Stiles, feeling a wave of possessiveness he’s never felt before. “Is this okay,” he whispers into his hair.

“It’s so okay…Jesus, Derek, you’re unbelievable. This…us….” Stiles’ voice drifts off and Derek wonders for a moment if he’s hurting him but no, he looks as blissed out as Derek feels, and yes, this, this is what Derek has needed all his life.

~*~

Derek wakes up several hours later with his face buried in the back of Stiles’ neck. He breathes in deeply, wanting to memorize the sweet-sweat musk of him, of them. He vaguely remembers falling asleep still covered in Stiles’ come, and is disappointed to realize that he’s not still, until he realizes that that means Stiles must have cleaned him up while he slept, and the thought fills him with an aching tenderness.

He wants to give himself completely to Stiles, wants to see how Stiles will take care of him when he submits.

He mouths at the back of Stiles’ neck, teeth digging in slightly. He wants to leave mark here to match the ones he knows are blooming on Stiles chest, and he wonders if Stiles would mark him if he asked. He can’t help but rut against him a bit as his hand cups Stiles’ slim hip and as his hand dances towards his cock. Derek’s still not sure Stiles is awake when he gently wraps his hand around his half-hard dick.

“I could get used to waking up like this,” Stiles mumbles, voice husky with sleep, his hips thrusting slightly into Derek’s hand.

Derek smiles into his shoulder. “Good. You’re going to.” It’s flirty and sexy but it’s also hinting at something deeper, and Derek’s heart jumps in his chest.

Stiles wraps his long graceful fingers around Derek’s wrist to pull his hand from his cock, and Derek thinks for a moment that he’s scared him off or that he’s having second thoughts, but Stiles just rolls over so he’s facing Derek, moving closer and hitching a leg over Derek’s hip so their rapidly swelling dicks are pressed together. “Promise,” Stiles whispers against his collarbone, hesitating just a moment before pressing his teeth against the hollow just above Derek’s clavicle.

Derek hisses and bucks his hips, his body clenching reflexively at the way Stiles’ touch and words shimmer through him. “Yes, Stiles, god yes.” He sounds broken, not at all like the casual morning after affect he usually settles so easily into. Stiles has stripped him bare in the only way that matters, and Derek can’t help but show him just how strong his thrall is. “I promise,” he says, still sounding wrecked but less shaken. He closes his eyes because the wide-eyed joy and surprise he sees in Stiles eyes is so beautiful it hurts.

Stiles takes Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks lightly before pulling Derek into a real kiss, his talented tongue exploring Derek’s mouth. It’s not rushed but urgent, the previous evening’s passion alighting them anew. Derek feels their cocks growing harder together and ruts against him. Stiles pulls back from the kiss and smiles, one hand reaching down to tentatively squeeze Derek’s ass. “Can I still…do you still want me to…Derek, please, tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me." His body humming is with anticipation of something he so rarely gets, of something he realizes he’s never truly wanted until Stiles. He tosses back the sheet that’s barely covering them anyways and rolls on to his hands and knees, arching his hips in invitation, never taking his eyes from Stiles' face as his eyes go wide and dark with surprise and lust.

“Derek, fuck. Look at you,” he whispers, moving behind him and settling on his knees between Derek’s legs. Stiles runs his hands up Derek’s back, sending shivers down his spine. Stiles’ cock drips precome against the back of his balls as he leans over him to trace the lines of his tattoo with his tongue, and Derek wants to weep at the feeling of being covered by him, of Stiles being so turned on by him he’s leaking.

“Stiles,” he growls, his need quickly destroying his self control.”

Stiles is licking a slow line down the center of his back and when he smiles, Derek can feel a the whisper of stubble on the tender skin there and he shivers a bit, his elbows going soft. “Don’t worry, big guy,” Stiles says, his breath hot as he moves farther down Derek’s body, mouth ghosting over Derek’s ass cheeks. “You’ll get me. But I’m going to take my dear sweet time with you, okay? You’re too beautiful to rush through this.”

Derek let’s his head fall to the pillows, so overwhelmed he can barely hold himself still. The movement sticks his ass farther in the air, shoves it right into Stiles’ face really, and Stiles just laughs and spreads him with his long, firm hands. “Fuck, Derek, it kills me to see you like this. So greedy to be opened up, so needy. Is that what you want, Derek? Do you want my cock?” Stiles voice cracks a bit at the end, like he’s trying to sound playful but can’t quite manage it.

 “I want all of you,” Derek confesses, any pretenses he had about his feelings for Stiles dissolving completely.

Stiles responds by licking a tortuously slow circle around his hole, eliciting a deep, barely human growl from Derek. He takes pity on him and begins to lick at him in earnest, slicking him up with his spit before gently pressing in with the tip of his tongue. Derek groans and rears back, aching for more. Stiles obliges him, diving in deeper for a moment before pulling away long enough to spit into Derek’s hole. It’s so fucking hot Derek nearly comes, precoming dripping from where his cock is hanging heavily between his legs.

Stiles fucks him with his tongue, all teasing gone, replaced by eager, nasty little thrusts. His hands are holding Derek open and squeezing rhythmically, and Derek can’t help it, he’s so fucking hard, so goddamned greedy for it he starts to thrust back.

He tries and fails not to whine when Stiles pulls away. He feels his hole twitch at the loss and nearly comes when he hazards a glance over his shoulder at Stiles. He’s watching Derek’s ass, his mouth – red and raw from tongue-fucking him – hanging open as he squeezes the base of his cock, trying not to come. “Derek,” he grunts. Derek isn’t sure if it’s a command or a question or a plea, so he doesn’t do anything, just stays there with his eager hole exposed, there for Stiles’ taking.

Stiles moves finally, lumbering on his knees with sex-stupid gracelessness to grab the lube from the night stand. Instead of immediately returning to his place behind Derek, he hesitates, stops next to him and places his hands under Derek’s bicep and pulls, bringing him up so he’s standing on his knees too and they can look each other in the eye. Stiles looks like he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out what so Derek just kisses him, chases the taste of himself on his raw mouth. His rubs a hand over Stiles’ chest and feels the frantic thump of his heart, and it dawns on him his daze of need and pleasure that Stiles is nervous. He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Stiles, moving his hand to cup his jaw, letting his fingers dart over the scatter of moles on his cheek. They stay that way for a moment, practically sharing breath. Derek wants to tell Stiles how much he wants this, wants him, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Stiles knows that Derek wants this – his body is alive with his desire. But it’s more than desire, and that’s what Stiles needs to hear. That’s what Derek needs Stiles to know.

“Stiles,” he whispers, still not moving. “I love you.” Distantly, he knows saying that the first time to someone during sex is probably not a great idea, but Derek doesn’t care. He means it, with every fiber of his being and it should scare him and it kinda does but it also doesn’t, and he just needs Stiles to know. Needs Stiles to trust that he won't hurt him.

Stiles is still for a beat and then he’s grinning, hands scrabbling to pull Derek into another messy kiss. “I fucking love you so much,” he pants, and then kisses him again, nerves seemingly gone. Derek feels himself smile as they kiss, and god, he’s never been happier. Stiles pulls away and gives Derek a playful push, tweaking his nipples as he does. “Back on all fours, big guy,” he orders with a smile.

Derek rolls his eyes but smirks and obeys, his hole twitching again in anticipation. Stiles settles back in behind him and he hears the click of the lube bottle and then, finally, yes, god, finally, Stiles’ long fingers are inside of him. He works him open expertly, adding more lube and twisting his fingers in and out, the stretch aching him to his core in the best way. “You’re so tight,” Stiles huffs against his back. “When was he last time you got fucked?”

“Years,” Derek huffs out, unable to recall the face of the last man who fucked him.

“Do you ever fuck yourself,” Stiles ask, sliding a third finger in. “Do you ever fuck yourself thinking about me,” he adds, a little more breathless.

“Fuck, yes,” Derek grunts, because it’s true. It’s never felt this good, his own hands could never compare to the real thing. “Need you Stiles.”

Stiles pulls his fingers from him, leaving Derek groaning with the loss and the anticipation of what’s coming. Stiles surprises him though and instead of moving to slick up his own cock after pouring more lube into his hand he reaches forwards and slicks his hand over Derek’s dick, just a few confident strokes that leave Derek whining. “That’s it, Derek. I want your cock nice and slick while I’m fucking you. How do you want to come? You wanna jack yourself while I fuck you, or you want me to do it? Or you think you can come untouched, just from my cock?”

Good god, Stiles will be the literal death of him. Derek can’t handle it, can’t handle how fucking good Stiles is at getting under his skin, at sparking such pure lust in him. Stiles speaks again before Derek can answer, and Derek dimly realizes that it wasn’t really a question for him anyways. “Fuck it,” Stiles pants, dropping Derek’s cock and sitting up behind him, his thighs slotting into place behind Derek’s like they were made to be there. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you while I’m inside you. I want my hands on your cock when you come.”

Derek watches over his shoulder as Stiles rubs his hand over himself, slicking it up before he spreads Derek once again and presses in. He sighs, the stretch releasing a flood of endorphins that make his head drop and his hips flex. Stiles eases in slowly, and Derek can feel the way his thighs are shaking against his own and that stops from just thrusting back the ways he wants to. “Stiles,” Derek gasps once he’s bottomed out.

"Talk to me, tell me how you feel,” he gasps, still not moving, hands squeezing Derek’s hips hard enough to bruise.

“You,” Derek gasped, surprised that he can still speak. “I feel you, so full of you, god Stiles.” Derek falls onto his forearms, the shift in angle driving Stiles deeper.

“Derek,” Stiles whines, and he sounds utterly wrecked, broken, overwhelmed.

Derek breathes in deep, feeling as fractured as Stiles sounds. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Derek says, and he does, he’ll take care of him, even though he’s the one getting fucked. Derek rolls his hips, cautiously at first, listening for the quick harsh intake of breath that precedes Stiles’ groan. He does it again, faster this time, and then again, and then he’s snapping his hips in sinuous roll, fucking himself against Stiles’ cock in a hypnotic rhythm that makes them both pant and groan. Stiles finds his own pace, leaning back to thrust deeper, clasping Derek’s ankles for leverage as he pistons into Derek’s undulations. It’s a wickedly hot frenzy and Derek feels like he might explode from the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it all.

Stiles eventually collapses across his back, his rhythm stuttering, thrusts becoming uneven. He’s so close, and so is Derek, and then it’s all over when Stiles reaches around to stroke Derek’s swollen cock, still slick with lube and precome. His vision blacks for a moment and he shoots hard, come hitting his chin and chest as Stiles pumps him through it, panting in Derek’s ear. It feels like his body is dissolving, shattering and shimmering into a million tiny pieces that Stiles is gathering up with each snap of his hips, each whisper of his lips against Derek’s neck, each squeeze of his hands around his hips.

Derek feels himself clench around Stiles’ cock, drinking in the almost-pained groan Stiles lets out. He feels Stiles’ cock spasm inside of him as his thrusts still and he grinds into him with one last push, filling him.

They’re finally still, Stiles lying full across Derek’s back, their bodies slick with sweat. Derek loves the feel of his weight on top of him, sex-dense and languid. He thinks he starts to say as much, but Stiles is talking too, nibbling clumsily at Derek’s ear lobe while he mumbles. “Derek, so beautiful, so perfect, god, Derek…fuck, I love you.”

The surging heat in Derek’s chest is so strong he can’t speak, can reach for Stiles’ hand and wrap his arm around him, squeezing tightly, hoping Stiles gets it. The way Stiles settles further into his back and squeezes his hand back, and Derek knows he does.

~*~

It’s not bright when he wakes again, but a glance at the clock on the nightstand tells him it’s past noon. The room is gray with the heavy clouds that hang outside, a perfect day for not getting out of bed. Derek reaches an arm to find the bed next to him empty. That’s usually a relief for him, but today is seizes him with terror until he hears a door open downstairs and the jangle of Boomer’s collar, followed by Stiles’ muffled voice as he talks to her.

Derek smiles and forces himself from the sheets that are still warm and spicy with Stiles’ scent, their combined sweat and spunk. There’s no one there to judge him, so he lets himself bury his face in the middle of the bed, inhaling deeply, before tugging his jeans on, not bothering with underwear or even buttoning them. He’s too eager to find Stiles and plans to bring him back to bed as soon as possible.

The kitchen is rich with the smell of brewing coffee and Derek smiles when he sees the chipped University of Oregon mug next to it that Stiles had always served him coffee in in those first few weeks when they were getting to know each other. Derek pours himself a mug and pads out the deck where Stiles is standing watching the ocean while Boomer sniffs around. Derek watches him from behind for a minute, wondering if he’ll ever not be struck by Stiles’ extraordinary beauty. He’s wearing sweats that hang obscenely low on those narrow hips – Derek’s ass is still smarting from the beguiling power of those hips – and the sight of his high, round ass makes his mouth water. He’s wearing Derek’s shirt, the dark grey Henley he wore over last night, and it hangs a bit off his shoulders in a way that sends shimmers of affection through his him.

It’s way too cold for Derek to be out on the deck shirtless, but walks out anyway, setting his coffee on the table so he can wrap his arms around Stiles, settling his forearms across his waist. “Good afternoon,” he says, planting a row of gentle kisses across the back of his neck.

Stiles leans back into his touch and reaches an arm up to run his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Good afternoon, gorgeous,” he purrs. They stand there like that for a few minutes, watching the crash of the sleet-gray waves and marveling in their now-easy intimacy. “I could definitely get used to this view,” Stiles says finally.

Derek hums in agreement and squeezes Stiles even tighter. “Me too".