Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Guardian Angels
Derek and Stiles are two angels - ageless and immortal beings tasked with watching over humans. As Derek is an Angel of Death, and Stiles an Angel of Birth, they rarely cross paths... until one day they're assigned together as guardians of a newborn child, a banshee orphan.
Together, they find themselves thrust into the roles of spiritual parents of this gifted human girl, who not only can see them both, but apparently can see more about them than they can about each other. Used to working at the opposite ends of the human life spectrum, they slowly start to realise that they have more in common than they thought, and that even eternal beings like themselves are not quite immune to the stirrings of affection and desire.
he's so devoid of color / he don't know what it means / and he's blue / everything is blue
i.
Scott asked him once what was so special about Derek Hale.
It was the kind of question that Stiles thought came out of nowhere, except that probably wasn’t true. Ever since Derek had left Beacon Hill, Stiles had known things were different.
He was different.
It was the type of thing that he tried to brush off and ignore, but it turns out that was much easier said than done. See, if someone had told him three years ago that he’d become so damn attached to Derek Hale, Stiles would have laughed. Because he’d always remember how Derek used to scare the shit out of him. What, with the grumpy growls, the flashing blue eyes, and sharp fangs that always came out when Stiles was being particularly annoying. Derek Hale had always scared the shit out of him.
Right?
But then one day, Scott had asked him what was so special about Derek Hale. And Stiles told him “nothing.”
There was nothing special about Derek Hale.
It was easy enough to lie to the boy, he supposed, despite Scott being a werewolf. That was something Stiles had come to realize a while ago. He couldn’t lie around Derek, which was the strangest thing, because why the hell would the man ever be listening to him? Yet, Stiles always knew when his heart skipped a beat because Derek would always give him a strange look, every single time. One that Stiles could never quite decipher.
It was easier to lie around Scott, though. The boy didn’t seem to notice such things so quickly. And Stiles tried not to think too hard about that either.
He wasn’t lonely— first of all. That wasn’t something he felt like he should have to state, but then again, there was this little protest in the back of his mind that always repeated that on a loop. Stiles wasn’t lonely, because he didn’t miss Derek.
Derek was gone.
Stiles had watched him leave three months ago with a bag in hand, standing in his driveway at 2 am and feeling so damn confused because, for some reason, the man had decided to pay him a visit before he hit the road.
Him. Stiles Stilinski, idiot token human and sometimes pack researcher.
Stiles had wondered, afterward, what would have happened if he’d told Derek to stay. The man didn’t always listen to him— in fact, he usually didn’t— but there were times when he had. Times, when Stiles supposed it really mattered.
He’d had wondered, later, if that had been a time that’d mattered.
If he’d ever been something that mattered.
That had scared him at the moment. Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if he’d messed up again but this time, it was for the last time. He’d never see Derek again. Except, then one month turned into two, two turned into three, and Stiles had forced himself to decide “nothing.” There was nothing special about Derek Hale and nothing special about the night he’d left.
Nothing special in all those days leading up to the point.
When he thought of Derek now, he thought of blue.
Stiles figured it was probably because that was the last thing he’d seen of the man. It had been dark when Derek had rung the doorbell— and that was a first in itself. Stiles thought that was when he first realized something was wrong.
Derek never rang his doorbell.
The second thing was a lot more obvious. Stiles barely had a chance to say ‘it’s two am, what the hell?’ before Derek was pushing a bundle into his arms. And that in itself was also the strangest thing because Derek, as constantly confusing as he was, had never really given Stiles much of anything. A few heart attacks here and there, yeah, but Stiles didn’t think those counted.
He’d never seen the man without his leather jacket before.
That night had been the first.
Stiles wasn’t sure what to do when Derek pushed it into his arms, but one look at the man’s face and he’d been empty for words. Because… what the hell? There were times when Stiles couldn’t stop speaking, couldn’t stop reacting to things. It was rare that he was the one without words.
It was funny, Stiles thought. Derek had always been able to make him speechless when words really mattered the most.
fast forward to a few confusing minutes of silence later, and Derek was already halfway down his driveway. Stiles had just trailed after him, lost for words and confused beyond measure and then he’d just… he’d just watched.
The last real thing he’d seen of Derek Hale was a pair of glowing blue eyes glancing back over his shoulder in the dark. Blue eyes; and Stiles had seen them all before. Red, green, gold.
Blue eyes in the darkness. That’s the last thing he saw before the man was gone.
When Stiles thought of Derek, he thought of blue.
Five months ended up passing and Stiles hadn’t been able to shake that realization from his mind. When the words ‘Derek Hale’ were spoken, his first memory was blue eyes, blue string, and the leather jacket that was still hanging up in his closet, not worn once.
Blue was just pretty, he thought.
(so maybe the special thing about derek hale was that he was blue)
ii.
When he went off to a summer internship for college, Stiles didn’t look back.
He was pretty sure his dad wanted him as far away from Beacon Hills as possible, with every good intention possible. Sometimes, the man looked at him like he was seeing a ghost, and Stiles figured that was fair. There were a lot of things that he still was, but the boy who had entered the woods with Scott three years ago was not one of them.
He got accepted into an FBI program the summer after Derek had left and figured at that point, why not? Stiles had seen a lot of terrifying things over his high school career and honestly, he felt like he was practically invincible at this point.
Or maybe he was just an idiot who was really good at testing fate.
Whatever.
There weren’t a lot of things that Stiles took with him from home. A few pictures of his dad, a few of him, Scott, Lydia, and the few of them in the pack that were still surviving.
He’d looked at Derek Hale’s mugshot for a long time before sticking it back into his desk drawer with a sigh. Because he wasn’t pathetic, alright? Stiles had one picture of the man and he wasn’t going to hang a framed mugshot of an ex-(alleged) con on his dorm wall for his possible roommate to judge.
He’d looked at the man’s leather jacket for even longer, though. It still smelled like pine and aftershave, and dammit if that didn’t send Stiles back in time to that one stupid night.
He’d hung it back up in his closet with the determination to never look at the thing again.
The morning he left, he’d shoved it into the back of his car.
Before his mom died when Stiles had been a kid, he’d wanted to grow up to be exactly like his dad. Law enforcement, big and cool with an awesome uniform and his own gun. He liked all of his dad’s coworkers; they always gave him snacks when he visited the office and let him look at non-scarring crime scene photos, so yeah. Stiles had wanted to be like him.
But then one night, he found himself alone at the hospital.
Stiles didn’t remember a lot vividly from that night, but the sound of beeping and the slapping nurses’ footsteps as they raced past him into his mom’s hospital room was something that he’d never forget. His dad had been on a call, that night. He couldn’t get away from work and he didn’t make it to the hospital until much later in the morning.
Long after Stiles’s mom had passed.
Stiles had decided he wanted to grow up and be something else, then. Something much different. And the FBI, well. That was different, right?
Maybe not so much.
But maybe he just wanted to test things out. Stiles was good with computers and research and shit., so maybe he could find a future in that. He was good at finding stuff and finding people and… dammit. Finding people.
There was some part of him that thought, maybe, one day, he’d see Derek Hale again. Maybe the man would come back to Beacon Hills or Stiles would somehow stumble across him some time, somewhere.
Or maybe, one day, he’d track the asshole down. Track him down and just yell for a little— about how unfair it all was. How unfair it was that the last time Stiles had seen him, it had been in the silent darkness in the middle of the night, standing like an idiot with nothing but a head full of questions and an armful of a leather jacket.
Yeah, he’d like to do that. He’d like to chew Derek Hale out.
Stiles would like to, but he wasn’t sure if he ever would.
The internship itself was pretty uneventful. Stiles hadn’t really known what he was going to do with his summer in the first place, so going all the way out to Washington and spending his days listening to lectures or ‘professional’ people talk was something, at least.
It took his mind off things. It took his mind off people.
And it had all been going really well until this one random day when Stiles got to watch a video of a half-naked man running through the woods, the only half-glance that was thrown over his shoulder showing him the quickest flash of blue eyes.
Stiles promptly spat out his water all over the girl in front of him. As one should.
Because Derek Hale— fucking Derek Hale.
The FBI was hunting Derek.
(and maybe another special thing about him was that he was a fucking blue-eyed idiot)
iii.
They shot his toe.
They shot his fucking toe, which was the exact moment when Stiles decided he no longer wanted to be a part of the FBI.
He was good at a very small number of things, okay? Having ADHD, annoying the shit out of anyone within a ten-foot radius, and managing to talk his way into or out of the most ridiculous situations possible.
That might of been how Stiles found himself being a part of the team hunting Derek, which was never something he’d imagined in his wildest dreams. Sixteen-year-old him would have taken one look at Derek Hale, with flashing blue eyes and pointy bared teeth, and said ‘no thank you, I’d prefer to live”.
And he would have been all the wiser for it.
It was easy enough to track down Derek, but it was a lot harder to actually save the man without becoming a criminal wanted by the FBI himself. Though, he supposed that somehow— in between the gunfire, flashing lights, and loud yelling— Stiles had managed to pull it off.
They shot his fucking toe. His memory of whatever the hell happened was a little fuzzy with all the pain he had experienced.
Stiles was pretty sure he saved the day though.
Derek didn’t seem to agree with that.
Remember that time when Stiles had decided when he next saw Derek Hale, he was going to scream in the man’s face? Well, Stiles felt like technically, he had lived up to that promise. Because in Derek’s words of “I carried you”, Stiles had definitely been doing a lot of screaming.
But he’d also been in pain, okay?
It was kind of funny how fast Stiles had gone from pretending that Derek didn’t exist to sharing a hotel room together. Because Derek was technically still a fugitive and Stiles definitely wasn’t going back to his internship. His dad probably wasn’t going to be very happy when Stiles returned to Beacon Hills, but Stiles figured he’d take supernatural craziness over getting toe-shot again.
Being around Derek again after so long was awkward as hell.
Stiles sat on the opposite side of the room, watching as Derek moved around unpacking things from his duffle bag. That one bag he’d been holding the night he left, the image permanently ingrained into Stiles’s brain.
He didn’t know what to say or if he should even say anything. Stiles was pretty sure if he started talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and he was kind of terrified of what would come out then.
Derek must have felt him staring, though, because the man finally glanced over. And Stiles automatically frowned, pulling his knees even further into his chest.
Derek raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Stiles, I can hear you lying.”
And he always could, couldn’t he? Stiles set his jaw and glared, and Derek continued to watch him, expression displaying nothing.
“Stiles.”
“It’s just not fair, Derek!”
The man’s other eyebrow raised and Stiles let out a loud noise of anger, pushing himself up and storming across the room. Derek didn’t move as Stiles approached him and didn’t even react when Stiles jabbed a finger into his chest. He just looked at Stiles, glanced down at the finger, and then raised his eyes back up.
Stiles hated him sometimes. “It’s not fair, you asshole.”
“What’s not fair?”
“What’s not— what’s not— are you freaking kidding me?”
Derek held his gaze for a moment longer and then reached up, taking Stiles’s hand and removing the finger from his chest. Stiles felt like he was thrumming with anger, now, but he didn’t try to pull away. Derek didn’t let go either, lowering his hand but still gently holding on.
Stiles felt like he could burst. “You know what I mean.”
“Stiles—”
“No, you know exactly what I’m talking about, you furry ass! How long ago has it been since that night, now, huh? Seven months? Eight?”
And finally, finally, Derek reacted. There was a flicker of blue in his eyes as he let Stiles’s hand go, arms going up to fold across his chest instead. It forced an extra few inches between them and Stiles stepped back, searching Derek’s face for something, anything, more.
“How long has it been, Derek? Do you ever think about it? How crappy of a way it was for you to leave?”
“And what kind of way would’ve been better?”
Stiles bit down hard on his tongue and stared. He had an answer for that— he thought he had an answer for that, didn’t he? How Derek could've possibly said goodbye in a better way. Because there had to have been one, right? One that didn’t make Stiles want to go into the preserve and scream at the sky.
There had to have been a better way.
He couldn’t think of one in the moment. But he still had a million things to say.
“Will you come back?”
Derek blinked. He actually looked a little surprised for a moment and his tense position wavered. Stiles studied the man.
“Would you come back to Beacon Hills with me?”
The silence that stretched on for a long moment after Stiles asked that question seemed like a lot longer than a few seconds. He hadn’t realized before, but Stiles was so desperate to hear anything but a no. He wanted, no, he needed to hear something that resulted in Derek dragging his little werewolf ass back to Beacon Hills in the passenger seat of Stiles’s car.
He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Derek’s hands had fallen back down to his sides at some point and honestly, Stiles wanted nothing more than to close that small space now between them.
He didn’t, though. He stayed rooted to the spot and Derek stayed quiet.
“Derek?”
“I’ve already left once, Stiles.”
Stiles blinked. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that answer, and it did nothing more than raise a thousand more questions. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The man looked physically constipated now and frustration rose in Stiles’s throat again. For so long, so long, he’d imagined what it would be like to see Derek Hale again. He’d imagined the things he’d say and the points he’d make.
Every single reason that Derek should have come back and every single reason why he should stay.
Stiles was slowly realizing he desperately wanted to be one of those reasons.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, stepping forward. And there it was, that little space between them closed. “I don’t understand you, Derek! I’ve remembered that night like it’s been on replay ever since you left. Since the last thing I saw was blue— and blue is so damn pretty, you know that? So it’s not fair that it’s all I get to remember! Who cares if you've already left once? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because if I came back, I don’t think I could leave again!”
Stiles faltered in his anger. He stared at the man, mind spinning. “What?”
Derek glared, stayed silent for a moment, and then fixed his gaze on the wall beyond Stiles's shoulder. When he spoke again, his words almost seemed to be gritted out. “I left once and it was hard enough. If I went back to Beacon Hills, I couldn't leave again.” Derek hesitated for a moment, then met Stiles's gaze again. His expression was softer this time. “And I can’t stay, Stiles.”
There it was. The words that Stiles hadn’t been so terrified to hear.
The man glanced down at the floor for a long moment before taking a deep breath, shoulders tensing again as he raised his eyes once more. “Do you still have it?”
Stiles didn’t say a word. He didn’t really have any at the moment.
“Stiles? The jacket?”
The jacket. God, the jacket. The one Stiles never wore. He finally came back to himself and nodded, and something flickered across Derek’s face that he couldn’t quite place.
“Good.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Good.”
He’d been wanting to say so much for so long— and most of it had just been said— that he kind of felt empty, now. Stiles had told himself since Derek left that when he saw the man again, he’d get everything off his chest that had been keeping him up at night. And he’d done that.
Hadn’t he?
It still hadn’t really changed one thing.
They were supposed to leave the next morning, but Stiles wasn’t sure he could stay in the room for a minute longer before bursting. And there was a good chance that in bursting, more would be said that he really didn’t mean, and Derek probably didn’t want to hear.
“I’m starving,” Stiles said, stepping back. Derek gave him a startled look and Stiles tried to ignore it. “I’m going to go pick up some food.”
“I’ll come—”
“No,” Stiles said, cutting the man off. He instantly regretted how sharp the one word sounded and tried to play it off with a small grin. “Your furry ass is still a wanted fugitive, remember, Sourwolf? I’ll grab burgers or something. Gotta preference?”
Derek looked at him for a long moment before answering, “No onions.”
Stiles managed a laugh. “Not an onion guy. Got it.”
Derek stepped aside as Stiles ducked around him. And he could feel the man staring into his back. Stiles tried to ignore it, but he still ended up glancing back before stepping out of the room, meeting the man’s eyes for the briefest of seconds.
There wasn’t a hint of blue in them.
Stiles swallowed and left.
(maybe the special thing about derek hale was that he could take stiles apart with one glance)
+ i.
It was funny, Stiles thought. It was absolutely hilarious.
How hard he had to be lying when he told himself watching Derek Hale leave again wouldn’t hurt one bit, that is.
Stiles was pretty sure that since he did it once, he could do it again. He tried to tell himself that the first time was like a practice round and he’d survived that, hadn’t he? Eventually, Stiles had started to move on. Eventually, he’d been able to move the man into the back of his mind.
Derek didn’t talk a lot as they drove. He’d left his car off an abandoned road a couple of cities over before the FBI had caught his trail and apparently preferred going on the run on foot instead of driving. Which totally made sense.
Though, Stiles supposed he was literally a man who ran around the forest shirtless, so…
“Stiles.”
Stiles snapped back to reality and slowed down as Derek pointed him over to the side of the road. He blinked, unsure of how long he’d been lost in his own head. Because Stiles was pretty sure the last time he’d been paying attention, they’d been in the city.
Sure enough, though, there was a black Camaro parked off the side of the road. Stiles automatically felt his chest tighten and the sight hit him hard, along with the reality that this was it.
This was the part where Derek left him again.
The man didn’t say anything as he climbed out of the car and Stiles found himself doing the same. He wondered silently if it was going to be anything like last time. Would it be quick and quiet? Maybe he’d shake the man’s hand— except no, that was stupid. And Stiles couldn’t hug him because they didn’t do that.
Would he just stand and do nothing, then?
Stiles watched as Derek started to pull his duffle bag from the back of the jeep, only to pause. The man’s eyes were fixed on a plastic bag half-stuffed half under the back seat and Stiles blinked in confusion as he pulled it out.
Then his heart stopped as he remembered what it was.
Derek pulled his leather jacket out of the bag and studied it for a moment, before turning back toward Stiles. There was confusion written all across the man’s face and Stiles wondered faintly if he could recognize that it hadn’t been worn once.
“Stiles?”
“I, uh, told you I still had it.”
Derek glanced down at the jacket again before giving Stiles another confused look. “It doesn’t smell anything like you.”
Stiles shrugged. Derek frowned.
“You never wore it?”
“I mean, leather's not really my style, you know? I’m all about the plaid jackets and graphic t-shirts, big guy.”
And Derek almost looked… hurt by that. But what was Stiles supposed to say? That back home, he would sometimes open up his closet just to look at the jacket and remember Derek Hale? That he was terrified, downright terrified that he’d wear it one day and something bad would happen. Maybe he'd tear a hole in a pocket, or spill a drink down the front, or the leather would scuff or fade.
Or even worse, that the smell of pine and aftershave would be replaced by curly fries and cheap cologne.
“Stiles, I don’t—”
“Just put it back, Derek.”
Derek gave him another quiet look and Stiles could barely meet his eyes. But the man nodded all the same, folding the jacket back into the bag and placing it back in the car.
Stiles kind of hated himself.
He trailed a few steps after Derek as the man moved around the jeep, bag in hand, heading toward the Camaro. And maybe this would be it. Just like last time— silent, emotionless, and quick.
Just like last time.
And... what had been that irrational fear that had plagued Stiles after the last goodbye? Something about changing the man's mind. Something along the lines of; maybe Derek would have stayed if Stiles had told him too. Maybe letting him leave had been the biggest mistake he’d ever made. One that all those months ago, he’d been so sure could never be reversed.
Derek had always listened to him when it mattered, hadn't he? Stiles wondered how much of this, now, he mattered.
What was so special about Derek Hale?
Stiles slowed to a stop as a sudden thought hit. One that nearly sent him reeling, the realization hitting like a brick as both question and answer whirled over and over again through his mind.
He was pretty sure he was in love with the man.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Stiles said, voice barely a whisper. Because he was in love with Derek Hale. He was so fucking in love with Derek Hale and if the man left again, Stiles might never forgive himself.
Something about Stiles stopping must have caught Derek's attention because the man gave him a confused look over his shoulder. And Stiles just stared at him for a long moment, heart thudding against his chest, before moving forward.
God, he hoped he wouldn’t live to regret this.
“You’re not leaving,” Stiles said. “Not again.”
Derek’s face did a few strange things. One after another, as if Stiles's words were in another language and complete gibberish. But then, just like back at the hotel room, his expression settled into something akin to sadness. This time, though, Stiles only felt his resolve strengthen.
The moment he was close enough, he grabbed Derek's duffle bag and pulled it out of his hand, dropping it into the dirt behind him.
“You’re not leaving, asshole. Do you understand that?”
“Stiles—”
“No, no! Derek, I need you, do you understand that? I need you to be around, I need you to stay, I need you to not leave me. But you have to know that, don’t you? You know I need you. You know I need you and you know I can’t let go. Remember?”
There was a flicker of blue behind the man’s eyes. Stiles was pretty sure his heart was about to beat out of his chest.
“I’m telling you to stay,” he said, quieter this time. “Because you’re special to me, Derek Hale.”
Stiles wondered if he’d known that back when Scott had asked "w hat’s so special about Derek Hale?" and the first word that had formed on his tongue was everything. Everything, nothing, and the entirely of the man standing in front of him, a shocked expression on his face.
When Stiles looked at him, he saw blue. And blue was so fucking pretty.
“Derek, will you sta—”
Stiles didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before there were hands cupping his face and soft lips pressed against his own.
Three years ago, if someone had told him that he’d become so damn attached to Derek Hale, Stiles would have laughed. Because he’d always remember how Derek used to scare the shit out of him. With the fangs, the glowing eyes, and the growls that made him shiver. Stiles probably would have laughed, right?
Derek Hale scared the shit out of him.
He also smelled exactly like his leather jacket; pine, aftershave, and the faintest hint of mint. Stiles was surprised he didn’t do something stupid like squeak and ruin the entire thing. But at one moment, Derek was kissing him and Stiles was freezing up in surprise. And then at another, he was kissing the man back, hard and hungry, so desperate for something he hadn’t let himself realize until a second ago.
Derek kissed him soft, Stiles pressed forward for more, and all he could think was this.
This was special. This was right and new; a memory beyond that night of standing on his front porch, catching the sight of sad eyes before they were gone for months.
This.
(and everything around them was blue)
~ ~
I've been so busy with midterms, I actually didn't plan on doing any part of SterekWeek... but then my brain said “too bad”. So, here we are, Day 2: Quotes! Late, yes, but still here! I hope you all enjoyed <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“So,” Stiles starts, trying for casual, “do you want me to ask if it hurt or would you like to ask me first?”
The guy huffs a laugh as he shakes his head, filled to the brim with good-natured exasperation. Stiles smiles, feeling a little bubbly on the inside, fizzing like cherry cola. “Alright, me first then. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven,” he takes in the costume, making his best guess, “or are generic horror zombies impervious to pain?”
Mystery Man leans down, the swing halting with a creak. His elbows come to rest on his knees while he curls over toward Stiles. “So close,” he clicks his tongue. “Werewolf.”
Stiles is sitting in the backyard. He isn’t sure whose backyard, a friend of a friend of a friend, but it’s nice - trimmed hedges and colorful flowers and a neatly-shorn lawn. It looks like the picture-perfect ones that are printed - all pixelated and blurry - on the boxes that inflatable pools are sold in. He runs his fingers through the grass, feeling the cool prickle of it. For just a moment, he imagines that there is an old family dog buried out here somewhere. That has to be the one fault: a picket fence and a sprinkler system and poor old Rex beneath the green green grass. Probably a golden retriever. Suburban rich people always have golden retrievers.
Time is indiscernible, it’s not nighttime, not really, but the sun is on the other side of the world by now. The party lights keep rotating and beaming through the windows, coloring everything outside in flashes of color - neon purple and orange and green. There’s a haze shifting around him, a thin gray fog that is sheer enough to be almost nonexistent but impermeable all the same, like if he reached out to touch it his hand may very well be met with rigidity, stopped mid-air rather than slicing the entire way through.
The porch light is on, coating everything in a not-quite-opaque yellowed white that’s aided by the streetlamps dotted along the road on the opposite side. None of them flicker or are crooked from careless drivers, not like the ones on the street holding Stiles’ childhood home. He is sitting criss-cross in a mesh top with a ribcage printed across the front, probably not at all close to the position of the actual bones. It does little to shield him from the damp cling of night-heat, an almost uncomfortable warmth pooling under his shirtsleeves, streaming toward the dips at the base of his spine. A bead of sweat dribbles down his temple and lands on his pantleg, milky white from the paint on his face. It took him so goddamn long to paint the skull over his skin, an unsteady hand and a dollar-store cream stick leaving shaky pale streaks until he looked more thing than man. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
He’s drunk. For the past fifteen minutes he has been trying to deny it, stumbled outside for the sobering remedy of fresh air only to stagger a little too hard and fall on his ass. He’s been in the same spot since, too prideful - even while shitfaced - to act like this isn’t exactly where he intended to be. Sighing, he leans until his back is pressed to the lawn, a little wet, misted from the neighbor’s sprinklers. Staring up at the sky, he notes there aren’t really any stars, just a hazy black-blue vastness. It’s fitting. He turns his head to survey the other people out here with him. There are two girls on the porch steps, one of them is pale-white and barefoot, clothes all ripped up and dirty, a neon yellow toe-tag on her left foot. It’s clever and Stiles feels a small smile tug at his lips. The girl next to her has a vampire cape and plastic teeth. It’s cute, if a little on the safe side. But he’s got no room to talk. A bit farther back, rocking slowly on the porch swing, is a guy who’s far too hot to be at some college kid’s D-list party.
Stiles thinks it may be too off-the-cuff to sit next to him, a little too on the wrong side of personal, so he plops himself down in the space by the porch’s support beams, maybe a foot away from Hot Guy’s legs.
He sends Stiles a questioning glance, all scowling lips and furrowed eyebrows crowning emerald eyes. Yep, Stiles thinks. Just yep.
“So,” Stiles starts, trying for casual, “do you want me to ask if it hurt or would you like to ask me first?”
The guy huffs a laugh as he shakes his head, filled to the brim with good-natured exasperation. Stiles smiles, feeling a little bubbly on the inside, fizzing like cherry cola. “Alright, me first then. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven,” he takes in the costume, making his best guess, “or are generic horror zombies impervious to pain?”
Mystery Man leans down, the swing halting with a creak. His elbows come to rest on his knees while he curls over toward Stiles. “So close,” he clicks his tongue. “Werewolf.”
Stiles snaps his fingers in defeat. “Ah, man. That would have been my next guess!” Stiles rubs his palm against the rough wood beneath him. “How about best two out of three?”
“How about you are very drunk?”
“How about,” Stiles leans in conspiratorially, “you are very, very handsome.”
“I would say the same but,” Werewolf says, gesturing to Stiles, “I’m not quite sure who you are under all of that.”
Stiles thinks that’s what Halloween is about, shifting and morphing until all that anyone sees is kaleidoscopic face paint, a plastic party cup that pulses color beneath the blacklight, a bass-boosted mood ring coated in the smell of rum and body-shot lime wedges. Halloween is about everyone looking at you and no one remembering anyway.
“Is that so bad, Mister Wolf Man?”
“I guess not,” the man hums, leaning back, the porch swing squeaking beneath him, “it just means we’ll have to see each other again. Maybe.” It’s careful flirting, planting the idea but not actively watering it. Pushing the buttons on someone he may never see after tonight. Toeing the line but not quite crossing. It’s Halloween, Stiles figures he is allowed to engage in harmless flirting with a werewolf in a beanie. For once, Stiles is a bit at a loss for what to say in response, feeling just a little like he has been picked up and shaken around, boiling hot wax sloshing around in a cheap lava lamp.
“Derek,” the guy says after too many beats of silence.
“What?” Stiles croaks.
“My name is Derek.”
Derek. It seems fitting. A strong name for a strong man, all trimmed stubble and angles and the hard planes of his abdomen peeking from the tears in his shirt.
“I’m Stiles,” he offers in return, flushing at how Derek cocks his head. “It’s shorthand for Stilinski, which is my last name. If I told you my real first name it’d probably spook you, and not in a fun Halloween way. Trust me.” Working up the courage, he shrugs, sighing out, “Besides, that’s leaning toward second date material, anyway. Better discussed over dinner and whatnot.”
“You think so?”
Stiles nods gravely, pulling his face down solemnly. “I do.”
Derek laughs and Stiles tries not to puff up with pride, forcing his heart to stop clawing at the bone cage surrounding it, that residual itch from being the blabbermouth loser in high school finally scratched by some guy he just met at a no-name’s costume party.
After a moment, Stiles jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the lawn. “How many golden retrievers do you think are buried in the yard?”
Derek turns and squints beyond the flashing lights, as if seriously considering it. “I’d say at least three. But not all from the same family. And maybe a guinea pig. Young rich children always want guinea pigs.”
Stiles laughs, a real one, neck craned back as he feels it heat his chest. “And a goldfish, too, no doubt.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Clearing his throat, Stiles raises his eyebrows, trying to think of what to talk about when Derek says, “Do you talk about dead animals with or every guy you meet at parties?”
Stiles shakes his head, saying sagely, “No, just the ones I like.”
Derek gives him this smile, then, this disarming and completely unfair sort of thing. He has teeth like a child, when they are still too small and everyone always coos and says they’ll grow into them. It’s endearing and Stiles gets a little lost in it.
“How would you feel about going out sometime?” Derek asks, completely at ease.
“I feel like that’s the start of a bad joke,” Stiles teases, “a skeleton and a werewolf walk into a Dave and Buster’s…”
The scoff of disbelief Derek releases is worth its weight in gold. “What are you, twelve?”
Stiles holds a hand up to silence him. “I have a Power Card with tens of thousands of tickets on it, thank you very much.”
“Of course you do.”
“Hey, that card has gotten me into so many pants.”
Derek smiles and huffs sure under his breath while Stiles reiterates, “So many pants,” grinning too big for his face. He can feel the paint cracking along the lines of his smile.
“Were they satisfied?”
Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “Wanna find out?”
Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles tries not to feel too pleased with himself. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he curses, squirming until he finally has it in his hand.
Scotty: locked out of dorm again
Scotty: am drunk
Scotty: …,,.very
“One of your Dave and Buster’s trysts? Ticket prize conquests?”
Sighing, Stiles pushes himself up, stretching out the stiffness. “Well, that’s my cue,” he drawls, leaving it hanging because he isn’t sure if he should ask Derek to walk him to the front of whoever’s house this is. The campus is only about a fifteen minute walk, twenty to get to the building that Stiles’ dorm is in.
But, when Stiles steps away, Derek levers himself up, indicating for Stiles to walk ahead of him. Opening the back door, they are smacked with a sensory overload: too many lights, too many people, too much noise, too much alcohol. Weaving through, Stiles has to squeeze between the crowd, and suddenly a warm palm slips within his own, calloused fingers slotting into place. His heart pounds an erratic rhythm as he wills his hand not to turn clammy and gross beneath the press of his nerves.
When they finally breach the front door, Stiles holds his phone to Derek, who drops the link of their hands. “I would like to have your number.”
Derek smirks and takes it from Stiles, inputting his information. “What, you wanna give me a call when they finally dig up Fido?”
Stiles nods. “And half the cast of G-Force, too.”
Handing the phone back, Stiles sees that he’s sent a text to himself, a series of completely indecipherable emojis. Derek raises an eyebrow. “Only half?”
“I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt.”
For a second, they just look at each other, and Stile gets it. What the songs sing about and the poets write about and the high school kids glorify movies about. Yeah, he gets it, meeting someone and thinking you might love them. If not now, then later.
“Can I kiss you?” he blurts, feeling himself flush red and becoming unspeakably grateful that it’s coated in white paint.
“You’re drunk,” Derek insists, brows quirked.
“What,” he grouses, “you’ve never been drunk and wanted to kiss someone until they couldn’t breathe?”
“I have,” Derek refutes, staring into Stiles. Then Stiles has Derek’s hand moulded along his ribcage like an open-palmed branding iron, molten hot fingertips pressing through the mesh as he licks into Stiles’ mouth, tongue tracing the seam in his palate in a way that tingles. It’s over too soon and when Derek pulls away, Stiles chases, kept back by a halting hand on his chest. “Save some for when I see your Power Card,” Derek murmurs and Stiles makes himself step back so he doesn’t attempt to combine the two of them into one being.
“Is that a euphemism?” Derek just grins and Stiles sighs dramatically. “Fine,” he relents, no bite in his tone, “but you don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I have a feeling it won’t be so bad,” he assures, grinning. “Go let your roommate in.”
“Go dig up the back yard,” Stiles calls back, consciously forcing each foot to step in front of the other. When he gets down the street, far enough that he can’t see the house anymore, his phone buzzes.
(530) 748-3396: Try not to run into any other generic horror zombies posing as werewolves.
He sends back a blurry photo of his middle finger, feeling like maybe the sky’s not so starless after all.
