#gleeddicted

“What am I going to do?” Stiles bemoans, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. The idea of reaching in crosses his mind, but even as drunk as he is, Stiles knows that his very drunkenness would only complicate things.

“My phoo-oone,” he whines. The only thing that would work now is a miracle, some kind of divine or demonic intervention—Stiles is not picky—or just some help.

That’s the moment when the door opens and a very grumpy, dark and brooding miracle happens.

“Uh?” is all Stiles manages to say as he gets back to his feet before the guy cocks his head, rolls his eyes at him and fishes Stiles’ phone from the bowl.

He even wraps it in toilet paper before handing it to Stiles.

Well, handing.

Tall, dark and super helpful actually presses the phone against Stiles’ chest.

And keeps his hand there.

“You should be more careful with your property,” the man says with a cocky smile. “It would be such a shame to have you moaning for anything else but—”

“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stiles exclaims, not even noticing the shift on the man’s face, from dark and sultry to shocked and amused. “You’re my hero, I must repay you! Come on, big guy,” Stiles continues, pulling the man by the hand—it’s a surprisingly soft hand, for such a large hand—to the bar. “The next round is on me.”

The man lets himself be manhandled to the bar, taking his hand back. “You are something.”

Stiles leans over the bar, plastering himself to the counter to get the bartender’s attention, before turning back to his rescuer. “Something good?”

The man’s eyes drift back from where they were, at the level of Stiles’ ass. “Very good.”

Stiles beams at his hero. “Oh wow,” he whispers. “You really have deserved a drink, dude.”

The man winces. “Don’t call me dude.”

“Well,” Stiles replies, patting the man’s shoulder—oh, that is a strong shoulder, looks perfect to sleep on or bite into— “give me something else to call you, dude.”

The man grabs Stiles’ hand as he slides it down his arm and pulls him closer. “Derek. Now, remember it, so you can—”

“What’s your poison, Derek?”

“What?!”

Stiles points his thumb at the bartender who is quietly laughing at them. “Whatcha wanna drink?”

Derek blinks a couple of times before huffing a laugh. “I’ll have a Sidecar.”

Stiles gestures for the bartender to make two of those before returning his attention on Derek. “A fan of the sours, uh?”

“I guess,” Derek mumbles. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Oh! Right.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “You can call me Stiles. And I really meant it, you were a life-saver.”

“Your phone isn’t saved yet,” Derek laughs. “You’ll need to dunk it in rice. But,” he adds, scooting his chair closer to Stiles’, “I’m glad I could… lend you a hand.”

Something in the way he paused makes Stiles wonder if perhaps there is a whole level of discussion passing him by. Like when he goes to see a Disney movie with his little cousins and they laugh at the animation while he laughs at the puns hidden throughout the movie.

“Do you want… me? To lend you a hand? With something?”

The drinks are placed before them, and Derek’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter. “You really are…”

“Yeah? I know how some people would like to end that sentence, but I’m curious about your choices.”

Derek looks back at him, his smile all soft and turning Stiles’ insides all gooey-mushy. “You really are unique, Stiles.”

“That’s new. Here’s to new adjectives!” Stiles replies, lifting his glass in a toast.

“To new things.”

---

Three sidecars and two white russians later, Stiles doesn’t even know why he is laughing, but he knows that he was right.

Derek’s shoulder is very comfortable to lay his head on.

After their first drink, they managed to dance a little before snatching one of the velvety sofas in a corner of the club, and they have been talking and chatting there all night.

“I heard you crying and I th-I thought—” Derek hiccups. “I thought, here is a voice I need to put a face on.”

“Awww, Derek-poo, that’s so sweet.”

Derek looks down at him with an attempt at a glare before shaking his head, lifting his glass to capture the last drops in his glass. To do so, he tilts his head backward, stretching the expanse of his neck for Stiles’ hungry eyes.

Stiles even licks his lips, but he doesn’t move from his very comfortable position.

He doesn’t do it quick enough to keep the gesture from Derek’s eyes, though.

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Stiles drops his eyes to Derek’s lips, still shining from the last drops of white russian he caught.

And there he goes again, licking his lips all while wishing he could lick Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes were already dark, but their pupils widen even more. Stiles doesn’t even have the time to fully think about how it makes him look dangerously sexy (or sexily dangerous) before Derek moves forward, twisting them so he can press his lips to Stiles’.

That kiss is not well thought through, not planned well, it’s too wet and too rushed.

Long story short, it’s a perfect first kiss.

“Oh,” Stiles manages to breathe when they part, “so you are interested.”

Derek opens and closes his mouth before chuckling, leaning his head against Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles,” he whispers, his breath hot on Stiles’ skin, “I have been hitting on you ever since I laid eyes on you. Yes,” he continues, looking up and cupping Stiles’ cheek, “I am very interested.”

“You have—hmph?” Stiles starts asking, his words swallowed by the return of Derek’s mouth on his, and he smiles into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck to pull him closer on top of him.

The voice comes from the darkness, where two eyes shine blue.

“Ah!”

The eyes come closer, revealing a slender fox stepping from behind a tree and carrying a basket filled with berries.

“Hi,” the fox says with a tentative smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m not afraid,” Blaine rushes to say, stumbling over his words.

The fox smiles. “I didn’t say you were. But I bet you didn’t hear me approaching.”

Blaine feels sheepish. “No, I didn’t. You’re very stealthy.”

“And you are not,” the fox replies. “You make so much noise as you go through the forest!”

“Do I?”

“Yeah!” the fox exclaims, seemingly delighted, his tail wagging behind him. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything about stealth?”

Blaine blinks. “Hum, no? Why would she? We’re not wild, we’re city dogs.”

The fox tilts his head to the side, observing Blaine more closely. “Oh,” he whispers, “you’re not a fox.”

“I’m not. I’m a dog.”

“You are.” The fox pauses, the wagging of his tail slowing down before picking up again as he offers a hand. “I’m Kurt.”

“Blaine. Nice to meet you,” he replies, almost automatically. The fox’s—no, Kurt’s paw feels warm in his.

Soft, too. Softer than he expected from a creature living in the woods.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Are you lost?” Kurt asks again, tail lazily moving behind him while he munches on some berries.

Blaine glares at him. “Yes. Happy?”

“Not really.” Kurt shrugs. “I could guide you out of the forest.”

“Why would you do that?” Blaine can’t help it—he has been taught to be wary of the forest inhabitants. Plus, there is the shepherd dog instinct fighting any trust he could have in the admittedly friendly fox.

“Well, at first, I thought you were another fox,” Kurt says, walking closer, “and I would never leave a fellow fox to fend for himself—especially one as cute as you.”

Blaine blushes, even darker after he realizes that his uncharacteristically fluffy tail is wagging at the compliment. 

“Then, when I realized you were a dog, I figured it would be better to help you out of here, if only to prevent more of your pack from coming in to find you.”

“Ah.”

“Not that being a dog makes you any less cute.”

“Oh.”

“If I showed you the way out,” Kurt continues, ears now perking up and turning a darker shade of auburn, “you—you could find your way back so we could, um, hang out? If you wanted?”

Blaine’s heart calms down just as his tail wags faster. “I’d love that,” he replies softly.

“Really?”

“Really really.”