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“-now that you’ve got your own place, and you’re settled in at the station, I thought we could throw a little party to welcome you back to town. Get all my kids together, throw a few steaks on the grill-”
“Chicken kabobs,” corrected Stiles, automatically. “And I’m going to be busy that weekend.”
“Didn’t actually mention a date, kiddo.” There were those sharp detective instincts. Stiles just wished his dad would stop using them on him .
“I’ll be busy every weekend,” Stiles said. Firmly. ”From now until March.”
Get all his kids together.
Sure, Pops.
Stiles liked to think of himself as a good person. Loyal. Tolerant. Kind, and patient, and blessed with an undeniable generosity of spirit that shone forth and made woodland creatures want to come over and nibble berries from his outstretched palms.
Or maybe that was Scott.
Either way, he didn’t have a problem with the weird 'second family' thing his dad had going on with the Hales.
A blameless slice of potato broke apart under Stiles’ vicious stab.
It wasn’t like he was still a recently half-orphaned ten-year old begrudgingly letting a sooty Cora Hale borrow his Batman sleeping bag for months at a time and dreaming of filling it with thumbtacks. Or deliberately keeping her brother up all night until he’d told him about every single episode of Samurai Jack.
He was a grown man who was in no way jealous of the way his dad had stepped in as a substitute father-figure after the extremely tragic Hale fire.
Actually, in retrospect, Stiles thought that was extremely cool and generous and heroic of him, and not just because Laura had somehow tricked the sheriff into thinking he liked spinach. Although one of these days Stiles was going to commission a local statue in her image. ‘Here stands the brave woman who saved our Sheriff’s life.’
“More green beans?”
“Yes, please.”
So what if his dad had been terrible at keeping the streams uncrossed between his duties as Dad-Dad to Stiles and Sheriff-Dad to the surviving Hale, what with the three months of foster care, and the bi-monthly dinners and the spotless attendance record at Cora’s lacrosse games and the way he’d had his spare kids over for Christmas every year when Peter headed off to the Riviera or wherever, and maybe tiny Stiles had been more than occasionally tempted to go full Tasmanian Devil over the threat to his territory-
“Stiles? Stiles.”
Whatever. The Hales were his weird pseudo-siblings who were all much cooler and hotter than him but still couldn’t beat Stiles at gin rummy. Plus, any excuse to hang out with Derek, i.e. the only Hale who’d ever brought Hales a birthday present. He’d made his peace with all of that. What Stiles was decidedly less copacetic with was his dad’s sudden obsession forming a permanent alliance between their two houses
“It’s been forever since you’ve seen Cora, kid.”
“Uh-huh.” Stiles nodded. “Yes. True. Almost exactly as long as it’s been since I’ve seen Laura, in fact. Or Derek. Or Parrish, or Mrs. Walpole down the street-”
“All right.” The sheriff coughed, and delicately shifted his approach. “You know, Cora just broke things off with that girl she was seeing, the drummer? I’m sure she could use someone to nurse a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with.”
It hadn’t been that lonely working out on the force in Pacifica. He’d had friends, and then a girlfriend, and then a boyfriend, and a messy breakup with said boyfriend had not been the only reason he’d crawled back to Beacon Hills with his tail between his legs, thank you Dad and Scott and Melissa.
“Maybe you could take her to the music festival in a few weeks. I think she has an extra ticket.”
Stiles could manage his own love life just fine, thanks, so there was no reason for the sheriff to spend every meal they had together talking up various Hales like Stiles was a Bennett and they were all Fitzwilliam Darcy Esquire. Papa, please ! I am too young for the marriage mart! If Stiles owned a bonnet, he would have clutched at the ribbons.
"-usual instructor broke her leg in a rafting accident, so Laura had to get a substitute to take over the beginner's class for a while. Kiddo, are you still into that yoga stuff?"
Huh. Another shift in approach. Was his dad firing blind? Had Stiles given himself away somehow? He sure hoped not, because if his Dad started focusing in on the one part-time firefighter and full-time hunk of a Hale that Stiles actually did have an enormous sweaty crush on, all this regency matchmaking was about to get mortifying.
They’d be picking up scattered pieces of Stiles off the road for weeks.
"-wha? Sorry, Pops, I missed like, all of that. What is going on with these green beans?"
The sheriff sighed. "Shorter cooking time and a little garlic powder. Stiles, you do yoga, right?"
"I try to get on the mat four or five times a week, yeah.” Humility was another one of Stiles’ many virtues. Stiles was a yoga prodigy. He was a yoga god. The sight of him on his head in Eka Pada Sirsasana had made more than one instructor openly weep. “Why? You want in, pops? I know some stretches that are great for when you sit in a chair for ten hours, which for you is every-"
"Derek is going to be teaching beginner yoga classes for the next six weeks and Laura tells me he's a little nervous. Maybe you could give him some advice."
Stiles half-choked on a green bean. "D- Derek Hale's going to be doing yoga? In public?" Don’t ask about yoga pants, don’t ask about yoga pants, don’t ask about yoga pants - "Like, in yoga pants? In front of people? H-hilarious."
Didn't this town have any decency laws?
“Don’t tease the man, Stiles.” His dad gave him a look. "Have you and Derek talked at all since you’ve been back?"
"I rescued his cat from a tree last week."
"Stiles, Derek doesn't have a cat."
"Okay, well, I rescued a cat. And Derek was there, watching me get used as a scratching post by a terrified Maine Coon. Actually, I guess a lot of people were there by the time we fell out of the tree."
"You're a credit to the force, son."
"Sure, some might call me a community hero, but I don't like to brag. So. Derek! Teaching yoga. Yeah, I mean, sure. Haha.” Stiles took a cooling sip of iced tea. He could have used a fan to go with his non-existent bonnet. “Maybe I should sign up for his class. Give him a friendly little face in the audience. Take some of the pressure off. My lithe and agile form will serve as inspiration for the other students."
The sheriff sipped his own ice tea, and nodded. “You can ask Laura if they have any openings when you all come by on Saturday. For chicken skewers.”
“Veggie skewers or I spend the weekend playing Stardew Valley.”
“Don’t push it, kid.”
Hale and Hearty had been founded on the principle that any path towards health and fitness was a good path, and Derek respected that. It didn’t make him any better at yoga. It didn’t change the fact that he vastly preferred kicking things to sitting around in sukhasana. And it didn’t even help that Derek owned a third of the gym.
“No one’s going to pay for a class with an instructor that can barely get into a boat pose, Laura.”
Laura threw an arm over his shoulder, splashing a few drops of her beer onto Derek’s shirt, and laughed. “Sorry, Der! It’s a very well known fact that everyone at that gym wants to see your ass in yoga pants.”
“Please don’t talk about my ass.”
“Honestly, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner.” Something about the gleam of avarice in Laura’s eyes reminded Derek strongly of their uncle. “Doesn’t matter how wobbly your chair pose is if the sight of it keeps those mom-butts glued to their mats. Oh!”
Derek groaned. “What?”
His sister shot him a suspiciously toothy grin. “Just remembered. Baby Stiles wants to book a spot in your Wednesday class.”
Laura turned her gaze on Stiles, and Derek followed it. He was standing over by the grill with his head thrown back, laughing at something Scott had just said, lit up by the sun. Derek’s mouth went dry.
The day a fire had broken out and swallowed up Derek’s entire life, the sheriff had been the one to bring them home. He’d stopped by McDonald’s and ordered them all Big Macs and Cokes and fries and the food had just sat there on their laps uneaten all the way to his house, leaking grease through the paper bags on the borrowed station blankets the three of them had been wrapped up in.
Stiles had been the first person in countless hours to look at them with anything other than pity. He’d treated Derek and his sisters with the same barely restrained annoyance any kid would have treated a bunch of unwanted relatives. He’d eaten all their fries without even asking first.
And now the sight of Stiles and the smell of charred beef took Derek back to that night he’d spent trying not to fall asleep on the Stilinki’s couch, with Stiles curled up next to him on the floor. Stiles had been ten, and small for his age, and he’d stayed up all night babbling one-sided nonsense until he’d lost his voice because Derek had started sniffling pathetically into his borrowed pillow whenever he’d stopped.
A month later Stiles had sprained his wrist doing hula hoop tricks because he’d been trying to make Derek laugh.
A decade later and he’d grown up into one of the most devastatingly beautiful people Derek had ever seen.
So Derek was used to paying attention to Stiles, for one reason or another, but the thought of having that attention returned was . . . overwhelming. Especially if the thing Stiles would actually be paying attention to was Derek’s form in a sitting forward fold.
“What if I take over two of Cora’s spin classes instead?”
“Did you and the kid have a fight or something?” Laura squinted at him. “Weren’t you hanging out a few days ago?”
Derek and Stiles had not been hanging out. Stiles, out on patrol in full uniform, had found Derek vainly trying to coax a cat down from a tree and climbed up after it with alarming(ly attractive) speed. Then he’d fallen out of the tree with the cat.
It hadn’t appreciated the soft landing.
“Okay, that was on me.” Stiles had looked up at Derek with wide, apologetic eyes and . “Absolutely mea culpa. But I’m sure it’ll come around if you go after him with an open can of Fancy Feast.”
Derek had opened his mouth to suggest that he take Stiles to get bandaged up (and maybe for a coffee afterwards), or at least to explain that it wasn’t actually his cat. But he must have been glaring more than usual, because Stiles had bounded up and disappeared in the opposite direction before he could get out a word.
It shouldn’t have been the highlight of Derek’s week. His long-running crush was starting to make him feel like more and more of a creep.
At least he hadn’t managed to scare Stiles off forever. He was here, at the barbecue, and he’d even visibly perked up when he’d noticed Laura and Derek staring. Stiles waved at them both, nodded to Scott, and ambled right over. The sun had brought out all the freckles on his arms and turned his nose and cheeks slightly pink. “Hale. Other Hale.”
“Why am I ‘Other Hale’?” whined Laura.
“Huh.” Stiles tapped his chin. “Derek’s taller, I guess? ‘Sup, big guy.”
“You’re getting red,” said Derek. “I’ve got zinc oxide in my bag-”
“Hey, me too!” Stiles held up a hand for a high-five. “Zinc buddies!”
“Put on some sunscreen, Stiles.”
Stiles saluted. “Yes sir! Thanks for attending to my health and safety, sir.” He turned in the direction of the garage, but Laura caught his arm.
“Wednesdays at ten. You can make that, right?”
“Wh-oh, for yoga.” Stiles blinked, glanced at Derek, and looked back at Laura. “Yeah, for sure. I go in late on Wednesdays. That’s my half-shift day.”
“Uh-huh. Cora already pencilled you in.”
Stiles laughed. “Thanks. So, uh,” he glanced at Derek again, and bit his lip, “it’s you teaching, right? Not Cora?”
Was he disappointed? Derek couldn’t tell. He’d never been able to tell whether or not Stiles had a thing for his sister. “Yeah. I’m the one teaching.”
“Great! I mean, good. Either way. I just, you know, Cora pencilling me in, maybe I heard my dad wrong, but I guess not.” Stiles tapped his fist against Derek’s arm. “Cool. Uh. Can’t wait for you to give me a good workout, big guy.”
A solo cup half full of beer imploded in Derek’s grip like a collapsing star.
. . .
Wow.
Derek Hale was really not good at yoga.
Like, obviously you should never clown on the level of a fellow practitioner who was clearly just starting to stretch their yoga wings, Stile knew that, and anyway being ‘good at yoga’ was not in fact the actual point of yoga, but no one should have to be at the front of the class demonstrating a sitting forward fold with their knees a yard apart and as high as their (adorable) ears.
“Bend your knees as much as you need-”
If you had told ten-year old Stiles that there was something even remotely athletic that Derek Fucking Hale couldn’t do, he’d have kicked you in the shins and called you a filthy liar. Stiles still vividly remembered the time he’d fractured his wrist with a hula hoop. And then, just as soon as Stiles had gotten back from the hospital, Derek had dragged him out onto the front lawn, called him an idiot, and performed the same trick flawlessly.
(And then the show-off had drawn a nearly perfect Bulbasaur on Stiles’ cast. Swoon .)
“Um, okay, so put your hands behind you and use them to get back to all fours-”
Maybe Derek could still hoop it up with the best of them, but it was Stiles’ third week in Beginner’s Yoga, and the man still hadn’t gotten his feet flat. It was terrible yoga etiquette to even notice where a fellow student’s (and they were all students, even the teacher) feet landed in a downward dog, but Stiles hadn’t bribed and cajoled his way into a coveted spot at the front of the class just to ignore the way Derek’s calves cutely quivered as he tried to ground his heels.
“-fine if your feet don’t touch the ground-”
Now Stiles had two reasons he needed to get his hands all over Derek Hale. And there was absolutely no way he’d be able to give Der a hamstring massage without embarrassing them both, especially if he made anything remotely close to the moans Stiles’ ex had always made when he’d gotten his hands on Marcus’ sore hammies-
“Make sure you keep your knee bent, Marisol-”
There he was. As Derek passed by his mat, Stiles artistically bent his core forward twenty degrees as he shamelessly teetered his (previously as still as the surface of a lake) arms in a perfect imitation of the kind of flailing he’d left behind after his first few months of practice.
Derek murmured, “Are you still alright with being touched?” and when Stiles nodded, he put one hand under Stiles arm and the other on his abs. Stiles hoped he liked what he felt. “There. You were about to overbalance. Remember-”
“-the spine is a staff.”
The spine shouldn’t be the only staff, Stiles thought, as Derek, with his bare toes still pointed against the mat, flushingly reminded the class for the third time that every tree was a part of the forest. Even the ones rooted to the ground by both feet. Was he wearing a dance belt or a jock or what?
“Janice, it looks likes you’re crunching your neck-”
“Oh!” A willowy blond in lavender lululemons blinked up at him with wide hazel eyes. “Instructor Hale, I just don’t get it. Could you show me-”
“Think of the spine as a staff,” Derek said, and hurried on.
Once he was safely back at the top of the room, Instructor Hale wobbled his way through a demonstration of an overly compact bow, and when that landed unceremoniously back on the mat, he admitted defeat and led everyone though a vinyasa with all the grace and fluidity of that plastic Megatron he’d gotten Stiles for his eleventh birthday.
Stiles deliberately made like a baby deer, or one of those cats with an inner ear condition, and he wasn’t the only one. Some of these women had definitely come out of the womb in yoga gear with a Stanley cup in both hands. All those helpless flipped-over turtle routines weren’t fooling him.
“-and now that we’re on our backs,” said Derek, with all the enthusiasm of the grave, “let’s. Let’s bring our knees to our chests to prepare for Happy Baby-”
Stiles promptly blacked out.
When he came to again, Stiles was already in the hall, gulping water and rolling his shoulders. It was definitely good for his lifelong practice to refresh himself on the basics, but the leaden soreness in all his limbs was a stark reminder of what a pain in the ass (and the neck, and the back, and the calves) it was for a natural genius to fake mediocrity.
New lore drop: you could be both over- and under-exercised at the same time. Stiles’ muscles were clearly heckling him.
Maybe he’d go for a jog, or catch one of those Tai-Chi for Elders (All Ages Welcome) classes they ran at the park, or-
“I was sure I had him.” Stiles glanced around the corner and spotted Janice, his kindred spirit and secret arch-nemesis. She was the one block of solid color amidst a kaleidoscopic sea of patterned lululemons. “But he never puts his hands on anyone.” She pouted, and tossed her recently unleashed curls. “Except for Stilinski. I suppose he’s not worried about a potential harassment suit if he’s touching another man-”
Biphobic if true, thought Stiles. I’m being micro-aggressed.
She gave her hair another toss. “I just don’t know how to convince that sweet man that all the women in class want to be touched.”
Listening to this outer reflection of his own inner objectification made Stiles feel like he needed a shower, but he was afraid to get anywhere near the locker rooms while that pack of hyenas was standing guard. These ladies wanted Derek Hale, a walking slab of herculean beefsteak, but they were so revved up that they might be willing to settle for a strip of turkey jerky. Stiles was neither brave nor stupid enough to risk it.
Instead, he steepled his fingers and stretched his arms high above his head. Stiles was pretty revved up himself, and he still really wanted a better stretch. Something that could really crack a few joints. Hale and Hearty was a sizeable complex - there was bound to be a spare corner or two where a guy could squat around in goddess pose until he’d neutralized all his ill-gotten yang energy.
Derek would have liked to follow Stiles directly into the storage room he’d ducked into - he’d been trying to ask him out for a weeks, and at least the storage room had privacy to recommend it - but he was swept downriver by a trio of his chattiest students and it took him several minutes to get disentangled.
So by the time Derek clicked open the door and crept in, Stiles was already face-down and bottoms-up in dolphin pose with his eyes closed and earbuds in both ears. A better man might have said something, or at least cleared his throat - Derek tucked himself into the corner where he’d have the best view of Stiles’ - form. Of his form.
His form, as far as Derek could tell, was exceptional, all the way from the placement of his forearms and right down to the inward rotation of his thighs.
. . . Stiles’ thighs were exceptional.
Derek watched silently as Stiles, a man who’d tumbled out of a tree pose at least five times less than an hour ago, moved beautifully and easily through dolphin into a plow and then several other poses Derek couldn’t even name. He could have easily watched him for hours, but when Stiles hoisted himself easily onto his forearms, Derek finally cleared his throat.
“Gah!” Stiles tumbled backwards onto the mat, which was probably the only honest fall he’d taken all day. One of his earbuds tumbled out, too, and he blinked up at Derek. “Shit.”
“Is someone in my class a murder suspect?”
“This isn’t what it looks like - what?”
“What?”
Stiles propelled himself back upwards and into cobbler’s pose, side-eyeing Derek all the while. “What was that about murder?”
“I don’t know what else you’d be doing in a beginner’s class.”
“Uh.” Stiles shifted uneasily. “C’mon, sensei. Aren’t we all beginners in grand scheme of-”
“That was a perfect flying crow, Stiles. There’s no way you’re benefiting from my instruction.” Derek rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I know you can’t talk about open investigations. If I need to stop singling you out in class-”
“Oh my god.” Stiles collapsed slowly forward until his nose touched his toes. “There’s no murderer, and you’re right, I’m not here to grow my practice. I’m so much better at yoga than you. We’re not in the same lane at all.”
Stiles was getting more dramatic by the second.
“I’m sorry my class wasn’t challenging enough.” Derek was trying very hard not to laugh, but he managed to sound wounded.
“Oh my god, no, it’s not your fault that your class is like purgatory. I’m weak and I couldn’t resist the chance to see you in a chair pose.” Stiles tilted his face up just enough for Derek to see the genuine remorse glittering in his sooty lashes. “I’m worse than Janice, I’m worse than Bethany-Anne, I have lust in my heart, and-” He pushed himself up on his forearms and squinted, “-are you blushing?”
“No,” Derek lied. He was an idiot. This was everything he had wanted for the past five years. Derek took a deep, calming breath. “Stiles, why do you think you’re the only person in class I ever touch?”
“. . . because I was pretending I had Vestibular Disease and you were worried I might hurt myself? No?” Stiles took his own nourishing breath. “. . . was it not because you’re comfortable with my body as a sexless, fraternal irrelevance? I mean. Correct me if I’m wrong. Please, please, please correct me if I got that wrong. Derek.” Stiles extended a foot and poked him in the calf. “Der. Der-bear. Why do you get so handsy with me in class?”
“. . . it’s because I finally had an excuse to get my hands on you.”
“Whoa, what?” Derek could have heard the grin in his voice from a mile away. “Derek Miguel Hale. Are you telling me you felt lust in your heart?”
“That’s not how I would put it.”
“Obviously not, big guy. You clearly lack the remorseful eloquence of America’s thirty-ninth president.” Stiles sprang to his feet in one fluid motion and pressed mercilessly into Derek’s personal space. “Der . You want me to smooch you all over your stupid, stubbly face. You think I’m a cutie-patootie. A wild stallion! A major snack-”
“Please stop.” Derek turned towards the wall and willed his cheeks to cool. He was absolutely blushing. Hope fluttered in Derek’s chest like a bird. This was the most embarrassing best-case-scenario that he’d ever been a part of. What was that thing Stiles always said? ‘Task successfully failed.’
“Der. Derrrrr. Don’t be embarrassed; I’m the one who used to doodle your name with a heart around it in my Lisa Frank diary.” Stiles stood on leg and tilted himself back into Derek’s line of sight. “Seriously, I need you to tell me you’re not fucking with me. Is this some kind of convoluted revenge for that time I kicked you in the face doing a three-legged dog?”
“Yes,” said Derek. “And I won’t forgive you unless you let me take you out for a drink after work.”
"Oh my god," Stiles wheezed, clutching his heart. "You're gonna kill me, and then my dad's going to have to arrest you. Holy shit, dude. Do I have to wait for the third date or can I kiss you right now?"
Derek beat him to the punch.
Stiles’ mouth felt like home.
Several minutes and several kisses later, they were both sprawled out on top of the pile of spare workout mats, with Stiles showing off exactly how open his hips were by straddling Derek’s outstretched tights. Seven kisses. Twelves kisses. Derek had lost count.
He’d just managed to pull Stiles’ ridiculously tight pants down far enough to wrap a spit-slick hand around them both when Stiles nipped him hard on the ear, and pulled back, panting, one hand still firmly on Derek’s pec, and gasped out, “Wait, wait, wait, wait - yellow light, wait-”
Yellow light. Shit. Derek took his hands off Stiles immediately, and then put them behind his head just to be safe. “Are you okay? Did I-”
“No, you’re good, you’re so good - I just.” Stiles chewed at his lip. His hair was mussed, his mouth was red, he hadn’t even tried to put his dick away, it was leaking against his flat stomach, he was biting his fucking lip, he looked -
Be good. Derek dug his nails into the meat of his palm.
“Sorry. Sorry. I have a huge crush on you.”
It almost sounded like Stiles thought that might not be the best news Derek had ever heard.
“It’s not just lust in my heart? I’ve also got feelings in there. A lot of feelings,” Stiles admitted. “Maybe more feelings than lust, which is crazy because fucking look at you, but I like you a lot, Der, romantic-style, and it’s been practically forever, so if this is just some kind of casually kinky student/teacher thing for you I’m going to have to reluctantly-” he gave Derek’s pec a squeeze - “yeah, damn, very reluctantly going to have to nope right out-”
“Stiles.” Derek unclenched his hands and put one on top of Stiles’. The one on his pec. At least it was heart-adjacent. “We can stop right now and pick this up again on the third date. Or the thirtieth.” Or the three-hundredth, Derek thought.
The smile Stiles gave him lit up the whole storage room. “Nah. Forget everything I just said about traffic lights.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to the corner of Derek’s mouth and murmured, “I’m willing to go into makeout debt if you are, hot stuff.”
The sheriff might not have actually believed anything he’d said about a sudden attack of food poisoning, but that was a problem for future Stiles.
Current Stiles was curled up in Derek Hale’s bed (which was his new favorite place in the world) (and not just because Stiles was still sleeping on an air mattress in his new apartment) after a bout of very athletic sex, with Derek right next to him, drawing sleepy circles on his thigh, and Current!Stiles was finding it hard (hard ish. give him ten minutes) to believe that he might ever have a problem again.
“I can suck my own dick, beeteedubs.”
“Oh my god,” Derek groaned. The poor baby was all worn out. He and Stiles were totally going to have to do some serious work on his core. And his balance. And his-
“That’s why I’m so great at it. I mean, yes, oral fixation, duh, but also I’ve had a lot of practice-”
Scratch, scratch.
Huh?
Stiles rolled over onto his elbows and stared at Derek’s bedroom door. Scratch, scratch. “Babe. I think your apartment might be haunted.”
“It’s just the cat.” Derek tugged sleepily at Stiles' waist. “Come back.”
Cat?
“Can I let it in?”
“No. He needs to learn to respect closed doors.”
“Please?” Stiles rolled back over and rubbed himself up against Derek’s whole length, pressing kiss after kiss into his shoulder. “C’mon, just this once, I want to see the kitty, Der, pretty please-”
Derek, the sucker, kissed the top of Stiles’ head and said, “Fine,” into his very sweaty hair. “Just this once.”
There was one born every minute. Stiles sprang, sheet-clad, out of bed and bounced over to gently push open the door. The cat bolted in as soon as it could reasonably fit and made a couple of very fast laps around the room. It took a minute for Stiles to recognize that this was absolutely, one-hundred percent the same maine coon that had ungratefully mauled him the other week.
The cat hopped up onto the bed without waiting for an invitation and kneaded several biscuits into Derek’s comforter-covered calf with its massive forepaws. Calf massages. That had been Stiles’s idea, and that darned cat had scooped him.
“So he was your cat. That shows what kind of detective my old man is.”
“He wasn’t my cat at the time,” Derek explained softly, rubbing the cat behind one ear. “No chip. And no one’s responded to the flyers.”
This fucking guy. Stiles was going to find that old diary and draw another dozen hearts around his name. Wary of another oncoming swoon, he climbed back on to the bed himself and offered to let the cat sniff his fingers.
“Careful,” said Derek. “Logan doesn’t really like strangers.”
“I guess not,” Stiles agreed. He drew his hand back before Logan could take another warning swipe at it. At least he’d kept his claws to himself this time - wait. “Logan? As in-”
“Cora helped me get him to Deaton’s, so she got to name him.” Logan rubbed his face against Derek’s hand and purred like a racecar. “Apparently they have the same sideburns.”
“Oh shit, they totally have the same sideburns.” Stiles wriggled back into his spot on Derek’s other side. “Maybe Wolverine would agree to a truce if I brought him a couple of catnip cigars.”
“Pf.”
“Maybe I should buy Scotty a red quartz sun visor so Logan’ll hate him instead.”
“Pfft.”
“Ugh, you have the cutest fucking laugh. Got it. I adopt a grey tabby, name her Jean, and-”
*ding*
Derek’s cell vibrated on his nightstand. “Is that the default text alert? Bo-ring . You’re so much better than that, baby. Let me-” he reached over to grab Derek’s phone, but Derek easily batted his hand away and grabbed it himself.
He had better aim than Logan, but much worse follow-through; Derek barely even tried to keep Stiles from nosily read his texts over his shoulder.
did you just defile our wittle bby brother in the back room of the studio?????
“I forgot about the security cameras.” Derek looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere. Stiles kissed the tip of his bright red ear.
“Our first sex tape! So romantic. Tell Laura I want a copy for Christmas.”
derek??????
derek!!!!!!!!
. . .
he's not our real brother
oh my GOD deedee
“Deedee-”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Der.” Stiles nosed at Derek's cheek. "Tell her it was a mutual defilement. And relax. You own a third of that storage room, anyway."
stiles says it was mutual
oh my god??? is he there with you rt nw???
i'm calling him
Stiles’ phone buzzed loudly from the pocket of his jeans. He retrieved it, ended the call without bothering to answer, and tucked himself back under Derek’s arm while he texted Laura 'busy defiling ur bro ttyl kisses' followed by a string of heart-eyed emoji and a single eggplant.
Laura sent him back a skull.
A few seconds later ~~Let’s get physical, physical~~ rang out from Derek’s phone. Logan yowled along with Olivia Newton John until Derek answered. He had a beautiful voice; resonant and electrifying.
“Hi, Laura.”
“. . .”
“I’m so sorry.”
“. . .”
“Please just erase it, I’ll - no I don’t want a copy-”
“I do!”
“Shut up. Not you, Stiles . . . he’s twenty-four, Laura. What? Yeah, I-”
“. . ."
“I’ll ask.” Derek covered the phone with his hand and turned to Stiles. “Laura wants to know if you’d be open to teaching beginner’s yoga. She-” again with the ears, Stiles was going to smooch this giant goober to death, “-she says the guy we have right now is terrible.”