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Stiles is gonna die. This is it, this is the end, farewell cruel world. Except, how cruel can the world be when it creates a person that looks like… that?
The person in question is in the same gas station Stiles is, paying for gas while Stiles is perusing the magazines. Or, rather, pretending to peruse the magazines so he can covertly ogle the object of his attraction.
The guy is tall, or at least he looks it. Without those big work boots on he’s probably about Stiles’ height, but he just cuts such a noticeable figure that it’s hard to tell. He’s broad, showing off strong, hairy forearms under the rolled up sleeves of his plaid button-up, and Stiles only dares a quick look at the pert ass in the dark jeans. Any more than that and he’s gonna have a situation the likes of which he hasn’t had since he was a teenager, where a brisk breeze could get him going.
But the pièce de résistance, without question, is the beard. It’s lush, full, all kinds of words that signify something glorious and soft that Stiles wants to rub his entire body against. There’s the tiniest smidge of gray breaking up the black, and it’s not hurting the image at all. Plus, the guy can’t be that old. He’s got a full mane of black hair and not that many wrinkles that Stiles can see. Not that it would matter, Stiles would still want to be all up in this man’s business if he was a senior citizen. The heart – or whatever is talking right now – wants what it wants.
Actually, the only real problem that Stiles can find is that from now on there’s a very real risk he’s gonna pop a boner over Paul Bunyan from sheer association.
Paul Bunyan – that’s his name in Stiles’ head now, there’s no helping it – finishes paying and leaves without a second look. Stiles spends another minute behind the magazine rack just breathing himself down, because jeez. People like Paul Bunyan shouldn’t be allowed out in public. It’s a health hazard, clearly.
The kid behind the counter gives Stiles a narrow-eyed look, probably suspecting him of stealing or something, so Stiles pulls himself together, pays for his gas and the handful of snacks he’s been clutching in his sweaty hand for about ten minutes now, and wobbles to his car. Paul Bunyan is long gone, and good thing, too. Stiles’ blood pressure can’t handle much more of this.
The whole point of Stiles being here in this sleepy little town is to get his stress levels down, because he needs to start looking out for himself. He’s been working way too hard the past few years, and if he’s ever gonna write another book he needs to find his chill. He’s not lacking in ideas, far from it. On the contrary, he needs to lock himself away for a while to breathe, and decide which one of his many ideas is worth making into a whole book, and he can’t do that if he constantly lets Lydia drag him to book signings, cons and networking parties. He’s not that good at relaxing, it’s a severe personality problem.
He’s staying at a motel. Technically. Though, if he’s being honest, it’s more a glorified campsite with a few tiny cabins attached, squatting small and quaint between the copious trees. There are pine needles all over his doormat, a fuck ton of mosquitoes at sundown, and the cabins are so far apart he can just barely make out the lights in his neighbor’s window at night.
It’s perfect.
Or, it would be, except for how he suddenly starts seeing Paul Bunyan everywhere. It feels like every time he makes the trip to the small town Paul Bunyan is there. Getting gas for a sensible station wagon at the gas station, buying apples or pasta in the small grocery store, chatting with the staff at the diner or – on one memorable occasion – goofing around with some kids outside the church, letting them dangle from his biceps in a way that gives Stiles the most conflicted boner of his life. He’s pretty sure he should not be sporting a boner this huge when there are kids and a church involved.
But it’s damn near impossible not to, because Paul Bunyan presses all of Stiles’ buttons, and it’s come to the point where he postpones trips to town for as long as possible, because he likes his blood pressure low, thank you. He’s too gay for this, clearly. Especially considering how he’s technically bi, but that becomes increasingly difficult to even remember when faced with something like Paul Bunyan every few days. Stiles’ dreams are full of strong arms, shiny black hair and beard scratching against his skin. It’s bordering on obsessive, and Stiles needs to re-establish his equilibrium somehow.
The problem is that the only thing he can think of that might achieve that is… getting it out of his system. So after a few weeks of increasing frustration and copious jerking off that seems to do absolutely nothing, Stiles resolves to ask Paul Bunyan out for drinks and a one night stand next time he pops up in town again.
Which is of course the moment he disappears into thin air. Before, it was like Stiles could barely turn around without finding Paul Bunyan somewhere nearby, but now? He’s nowhere to be found. And Stiles doesn’t even have a name to go on, so it looks like the problem solved itself. Sort of.
“Typical,” Stiles huffs to himself as he deliberates between the strawberry or raspberry jam. Whatever else people have to say about tiny, secluded towns, there’s almost always some kind of delicious local produce to be had. He ends up getting one of each, and the cashier smiles kindly at him as he pays.
“Are you coming to the Annual Forest Service Fundraiser tomorrow?” she asks, and Stiles is honestly taken aback. Because – while he’s clearly a tourist – his ratty jeans and faded graphic tees don’t really give off the impression that he has money. He does, sure, but he doesn’t usually get invited to fundraisers unless he’s dressed to impress.
“Uhhh,” he says, and the cashier takes pity on him, thank god.
“Nothing fancy. It’s mostly just a reason for the whole town to get together and get drunk, and the kids do a little show every year. It’s cute, and there’s usually punch. And you look like you could use a night out,” she adds, and Stiles isn’t sure he should be offended. But then something occurs to him.
“Wait… the whole town?”
She shrugs. “More or less. All the shops close at noon, fair warning.”
Stiles thanks her and says he’ll wait and see, but he’s already made up his mind. If the whole town is gonna be there? Then so is Paul Bunyan. And there’s gonna be booze. Stiles might get this little problem out of his system in a single night. It’s beautiful in its efficiency.
So he goes home, gets a good night’s sleep, and spends the morning cleaning up the small cabin, just in case things pan out and they go to his place. He showers and shaves, finds some nicer jeans that also happen to be a little tight on him, fixes his hair, and goes off to get laid.
It’s not hard to find where it’s happening. The town is dead, and the only people moving are all going in the same direction, so Stiles follows them.
As it turns out, it’s not so much a fundraiser as it’s a farmer’s market on the edge of the woods, with a small stage at one end where a few rugged dudes are currently playing guitar. A sign advertises a middle school play on forest safety later, which is apparently the same topic every year, judging from how worn the sign is, and there’s a small collection box nearby. Proceeds go to nature conservation and various forest services. Stiles dumps in a few bills before he forgets, and goes to check out the booths.
He’s poking through some bowls of nuts, unsure whether they’re edible or meant for decoration, when someone steps up on stage and announces that the play is about to start. Everyone starts milling in that direction, and Stiles only follows them to be polite, but he’s barely taken two steps when he stops dead. Because coming onto the stage with a gaggle of middle-schoolers around him… is Paul Bunyan.
They do the play, and Stiles doesn’t take in even a second of it, because he’s too busy watching Paul Bunyan moving around, swinging a cardboard ax – which is clearly made by the kids – and at one point possibly singing a song. It’s hard to tell whether he’s actually singing or just mouthing along, because the kids are very enthusiastic, but, either way, he’s smiling and flexing and steadily giving Stiles an aneurysm.
It’s all so clear now. Stiles is in way over his head, and he was a fool to think this is simple in any way. Damn his overconfidence. Rather than an easy-to-snag lonely hermit, he’s obviously dealing with a beloved townsman, and that’s a whole different ballgame. One he’s utterly unprepared for, and he’s never been so disappointed and conflicted in his life.
The play concludes to polite applause, and all the kids scatter, leaving Paul Bunyan on the stage to clean up the debris and remind the spectators to please donate in a ridiculously soft voice. Stiles stuffs another few bills into the box, mostly so he can pretend he’s stuffing them into Paul Bunyan’s pants.
Then Stiles heads for the nearest booze and starts getting hammered, because there’s no way he’s gonna be able to hook up with someone who’s not only hot and good with kids, but also clearly an upstanding member of society. Stiles can pull some hot people, definitely, but they need to be at least marginally an asshole, or Stiles is just gonna feel bad. And if Paul Bunyan really is as much of an upstanding member of society as Stiles thinks, he might just make a whole town hate him for loving and leaving one of their own for selfish, dick-related reasons. Stiles likes it here, he might wanna come back at some point. He’s too young to be banned from somewhere.
So it’s time to drink and forget. Maybe if Stiles kills enough brain cells he’ll forget Paul Bunyan all together.
- - -
Much, much later, the guy behind the rickety outdoor bar cuts him off. “Look, man, I hear ya, but I can’t sell you anymore. It’s an hour to the nearest emergency room, so no one’s getting their stomach pumped tonight, okay?”
Stiles whines and lays his head down on the sticky bar surface. “But you don’t understand. I need to forget his beard. I mean… his beard. Who has a beard like that? It’s rude.”
“Whatever you say, man,” the guy says and then goes away, leaving Stiles to his misery.
“Have a beer, forget the beard,” Stiles says to himself and snickers against his empty glass until there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder.
“Hey. Uh… are you okay? Boyd was getting a little worried about serving you,” a soothing voice says from somewhere behind him, and Stiles sighs over how nice it is.
“It’s the beeeard,” Stiles whines, because, surely, someone who sounds this kind will understand Stiles’ plight. “The beard!”
“Uhm,” the voice says. “Sure. If you say so. But Boyd wasn’t sure you’d be able to get home. Did you drive here?”
It takes a massive amount of effort, but Stiles finally manages to dredge up some brain cells that haven’t been completely pickled. “Oh. Uh. Yes? Yes, I’m pretty sure.”
“And you’re here alone?”
Stiles sighs loudly. “Wasn’t planning on it, but yes.”
“Do you need a lift? To wherever you’re staying?”
Quite frankly, Stiles doesn’t have the level of consciousness needed for this conversation, so he just shrugs.
“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” the voice says, and before Stiles’ boozy brain can catch up, his arm is draped over strong shoulders as he’s heaved to his feet. The world tilts a lot, but whoever is holding him up is nice enough to give Stiles a few seconds to try and find his footing before dragging him towards the makeshift parking lot.
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Nope. Too drunk for that many syllables. Just call me Stiles,” he tells the sky, because his head is frankly too heavy to hold up.
“Alright, Stiles. I don’t suppose you can tell me where you live?” the kind voice says, and Stiles snorts.
“That’s where you’d be wrong, my friend! Because I know where I live! New York, New Yoooork,” he sings terribly, trailing off into snickers.
“I am not driving you to New York.”
Stiles is dumped rather gently into the comfy seat of a car, and even buckled in, before his eyes manage to focus properly. Just in time for him to look over and see Paul Bunyan get into the driver’s seat.
“Beard,” Stiles whispers, abruptly less drunk, though still not entirely sober. But it’s definitely a sobering experience to suddenly find himself in the very same station wagon he’s been vaguely jealous of for getting to cup Paul Bunyan’s glorious ass on a regular basis.
Paul Bunyan notices him staring as he starts the car. “Hey. You in there?”
“Where else would I be?” Stiles asks stupidly, and Paul Bunyan snorts.
“No idea. Maybe instead you could tell me where you’re going?”
“Hopefully to another bestseller list.”
Paul Bunyan outright laughs this time, and Stiles stares at his beautiful, open mouthed joy, awed at how someone can look so gorgeous. “Well. Good luck with that. But I meant to ask if you could tell me where you’re staying in town? You’re obviously not from here, so if all else fails I can ask both places if they know you. But it would be quicker if you could tell me.”
“Oh. Uh. Pine… something,” Stiles mutters, the name slipping through his grasp like water.
“Pine Grove, alright. Remember the number?”
“Yes!” Stiles cries happily, because finally there’s a question he can answer. “Four! There’s a big, pink four on my door!”
“Well done,” Paul Bunyan says, and Stiles can’t decide if he’s being mocked or not. He probably is. “I’m sure Evelyn will be more than happy to make Malia give you a lift to your car tomorrow. She just got her license, she could use the practice.”
Those names mean absolutely nothing to Stiles, currently, but they probably will in the morning.
It’s not the longest drive in the world, but Stiles still has plenty of time to quietly freak the fuck out, and he reaches his breaking point before they even make the turn down the lumpy forest path to his cabin.
“I was gonna ask you out,” he blurts, and Paul Bunyan gives a small start.
“What?”
“I was gonna ask you out because you’re really hot and I’m super into the beard and the whole… Paul Bunyan aesthetic. I was gonna ask you back to my place for, like… a one-night stand and maybe breakfast. But I couldn’t.”
Paul Bunyan turns slightly, and sends him a surprised look. “Why not?”
“Because you’re obviously too good for one-night stands.”
“Obviously?”
“Yeah, I mean… good with kids, doing charity shit, driving a sensible car with good mileage? I’m pretty sure if I fucked and dumped a town hero the peasants would come after me with torches and pitchforks.”
There’s a choked sound, and Paul Bunyan looks like he’s trying really hard not to break down laughing, pinching his lips together behind the beard.
Stiles is pretty sure that if he was less drunk he’d be dying of mortification right now. But that’s a problem for tomorrow-Stiles.
They come to a stop before there’s any reply, and Stiles is pretty much prepared to just drag himself inside and then soak in his embarrassment tomorrow. But Paul Bunyan kills the engine and then turns in his seat to look directly at Stiles.
“Look. You’re very drunk right now. But I’m gonna leave you my number, and if you remember anything at all by tomorrow, how about you give me a call, and we can talk about it?”
“Oh, god,” Stiles whimpers, because what is even happening.
“If you need to puke, please open the door,” Paul Bunyan says hurriedly, and Stiles shakes his head slowly.
“No, uh. No. No, I just… this is just the worst dilemma of my life, because this is exactly what I wanted, but now I don’t want it, but I kinda do want it, and I just don’t have enough brain cells for this right now.”
“Or communication skills,” Paul Bunyan says with a grin. “So why don’t you call me tomorrow,” he adds, and then digs a receipt and what looks suspiciously like a crayon out of his pocket. He writes down his number, pauses, and then adds a little more underneath before leaning in to stuff it into the breast pocket of Stiles’ button down. “Call me,” he repeats, and then gently kicks Stiles out of his car, and waits until he’s inside before driving away.
“Fuck… me,” Stiles groans, and bangs his head against the door a few times before dragging himself to bed.
- - -
Paul Bunyan’s name is Derek. It says so right underneath his phone number, and Stiles spends a long stretch of time the next morning just cradling the wrinkled receipt and staring at the name through the throbbing in his eyeballs. Because this hangover is so bad it’s not enough for his brain to throb, no, his whole head is hammering along like roadworks.
All things considered he’d probably just toss the receipt in the trash and forget all about his lumberjack fantasies, if not for the tiny little addition under the name and number.
I happen to like one night stands.
Stiles would be vaguely turned on if not for the fact that it’s written in blue crayon.
Who is he kidding, he is actually kinda turned on. And with the headache he’s currently dealing with that’s saying something.
Evelyn, the lady he’s renting his cabin from, is more than happy to send her scowling daughter Malia in their pickup truck to give Stiles a lift to his car.
“Derek’s okay,” is what Malia’s elaborate answer is when Stiles cautiously asks about him, but seeing as Malia seems busy grinding the pickup’s gears to dust at every gear change, Stiles mostly just sits quietly and tries not to puke. Not so much from the hangover, though that does play a part, but more from his conflicted feelings about Derek. Because, regardless of his opinion on one night stands, he’s still just a really good person. Someone who hosts fundraisers and plays with kids and drives drunk-ass strangers home just to be a good guy. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with good guys. Because Stiles isn’t a good guy. He can pretend to be for a while if he has to, but he’s also bitter, cynical, too honest, judgy, and obsessive if he lets himself get attached to anything or anyone.
However, Derek did say call me, so Stiles isn’t gonna leave him hanging. But, even so, Stiles might just leave it at coffee or something, because this is one notch he’s pretty sure he won’t feel good about having on his metaphorical bedpost.
So when he’s back at his cabin, showered and just caffeinated enough to be coherent he gives Derek a call. Might as well get it over with.
Derek offers to buy him coffee and pastry at the local diner, and Stiles is still way too hungover to refuse. So he joins what seems like half the town, all crammed into the diner’s small space, and finds a corner to wait for Derek in.
When he arrives a few minutes later it only confirms what Stiles already knows. Everyone greets Derek warmly, like a true small town hero, chatting to him or shaking his hand or pinching his cheek. Yeah, it’s not gonna happen. Stiles is gonna get himself kicked outta town for ruining this golden boy. Sad, too, because even though Derek is out of the lumberjack outfit for the first time, his casual clothes are even worse for Stiles’ libido. Tight black jeans, dark blue Henley and black leather jacket. As if Derek is some kind of heady mix of bad boy and boy scout. With a dash of hermit, because beard. Stiles still wants that beard all over his body.
“Hi,” Derek says breathlessly when he finally manages to weave himself through the masses, and Stiles is helpless against that bunny-toothed smile.
“Hey. Kinda crowded in here.”
“Yeah, always is after the fundraiser. We could get something to go?” Derek asks, and Stiles would take it as a dirty suggestion if it wasn’t also just practical.
“Sure. Your place or mine?” Stiles asks, because he can’t help but run with it, no matter how innocent it is.
But maybe it’s not as innocent as Stiles assumes, because Derek gives him a heated look. “Yours. We’ll take your car. I walked here.”
“From where?” Stiles croaks as he finally manages to shake himself out of the sudden arousal.
“I live just down the street.”
“Why not go to yours, then?”
“Thin walls,” Derek says, and while his voice sounds fairly casual, his eyes are doing a slow crawl down Stiles’ body, and oh boy. He’s in so much trouble. But he’s also weak with shady morals, so he lets Derek buy him coffee and pastry, and, while he’d like to think they’re going to Stiles’ place just to consume them, he’s not kidding himself.
True enough, he’s barely wolfed down the last bite of his Danish before Derek has him backed up against a wall, and sweet merciful deities, Stiles isn’t strong enough for this.
“Rude… so fucking rude,” Stiles pants against Derek’s shoulder.
“Hm?”
“I was… trying to be the bigger person, here.”
“Oh, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Derek purrs in his ear and then cups Stiles through his jeans.
“Gnuh. Not what I meant, asshole. I was gonna turn you down, but then you have to go and be all… fuck.”
Derek huffs as he drags his bearded cheek across Stiles’ skin. “At some point you should maybe make up your mind. You’re very hot and cold,” he adds, but also doesn’t slow down in the least.
All Stiles can do is whimper and cling to Derek, because while he might be a steak and potatoes small town boy he sure as hell knows how to push all of Stiles’ buttons.
“Who taught you, oh my god,” he blurts at one point, and Derek’s hot laugh in his ear is enough to turn his legs to goop.
“Every gay bar in New York. Also, college.”
“Rude,” Stiles wheezes, and then kinda forgets for a good long while what coherence even is.
- - -
It’s hours later when Stiles finally remembers what Derek said. “Wait… New York?”
Derek frowns at him, which makes sense because the last conversation they had was mostly just urging to go faster or harder.
“Excuse me?”
“You said… every gay bar in New York.”
“… yes?”
“…I live in New York.”
“So you said.”
Stiles flails, which means he nearly elbows Derek in the face, because cuddling is a thing that’s happening. Naked cuddling. It’s amazing.
“I thought you were, like… small town native!”
“I am.”
Stiles flails again, and he’s not sure what his face is doing, but it must look ridiculous, because Derek makes a shitty job at hiding his laughter again.
“Explain!” Stiles finally manages, and it’s a little embarrassing how quickly he calms as Derek rubs his shoulder in a soothing motion.
“It’s not that weird. Left town for college, spent a few years living in New York, a few more years elsewhere, and then I moved back here about a year ago.”
Stiles can feel his jaw go slack. “No way. They all treat you like-”
“Ugh, I know,” Derek says on a groan. “I think most people in this town are stuck in the Nixon era. They almost threw a damn parade like I’d been to war when I moved back.”
“So… I was right,” Stiles realizes. “Definitely torches and pitchforks.”
“It’s possible,” Derek admits. “But I think the detail you’re forgetting here is… I don’t actually care what they think. About you or me.”
“You’re gonna care when they put salt in your coffee instead of sugar.”
Derek shrugs. “I have a coffee machine at home.”
“You know what I mean, dickhead,” Stiles snaps, and pokes his nearest bicep. “To live in a small town like this you gotta, you know… assimilate.”
“I think you mean let myself be assimilated. And, also, this is rural America, not Star Trek.”
“I dunno, Evelyn does give off a Borg vibe.”
“True.”
Stiles is about to expand on that when he realizes what just happened. “Dude… dude, you’re a Star Trek nerd!”
Derek grins at him. “Yes. Also Star Wars. I don’t discriminate.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles squeals quietly. “Paul Bunyan is a nerd.”
“…excuse me?”
“That’s, uh… that’s what I called you in my head,” Stiles explains awkwardly. “Because I only ever saw you in the plaid shirt and work boots combo, and while we’re on the subject, thanks, asshole, for giving me a weird Paul Bunyan fetish to work through.”
Derek bursts out laughing, and keeps going to a point where he has to pinch the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut to make it stop. “Oh god, that’s ridiculous.” He turns his watering eyes to Stiles. “You’re ridiculous.”
Stiles would complain, but Derek follows it up with a smoldering kiss, so he kinda forgets.
- - -
“I’m not actually a lumberjack, you know. Those don’t even really exist anymore,” Derek murmurs later, while he’s nuzzling their noses together all sweetly, making Stiles waver a little bit in his conviction that doing this with Derek is a horrible idea. Because right now it feels like the best idea.
“Way to ruin my fantasy, dude.”
Derek laughs softly, his breath wafting across Stiles’ ear and making him shiver. “I have been known to chop down a tree or two in my time, though. And there was maybe a year and a half in my twenties where I worked in logging.”
“… oh god, please tell me there are pictures.”
“I wore a green jumpsuit and hardhat to work, Stiles. Not plaid and an ax.”
“I don’t care, I need pictures, chop chop.”
The look Derek gives him is completely and gloriously flat. “You’re hilarious.”
“I am, actually. Three major national newspapers declared my last book witty.”
Derek’s face goes adorably wide-eyed and curious. “What, really? What do you write?”
“All kinds of stuff. Some fantasy and sci-fi, a historical novel, a western, and also a buttload of erotic novellas.”
“A buttload,” Derek says dryly. “Never miss a chance, huh?”
“Nope!” Stiles says gleefully, because he wouldn’t be him if he did.
“Do I know any of these books?”
“Maybe? Starship Conduct Handbook is probably the most well-known, but I guess High Moon got good reviews too?”
Derek stares at him. “You’re S. Cage?”
“Yeah! Or, rather, that’s my pseudonym. My agent-slash-dungeonkeeper Lydia pressured me because she says no one would buy books by someone who has basically the same first and last name. Not sure I agree with her, but she’s the one making me a ton of money, so I feel like I should listen to her,” Stiles rambles, while Derek stares some more.
“I’m… actually kind of a fan,” Derek says awkwardly. “I have all your books.”
“Dude, really?!” Stiles cries, grinning widely. “Well, that settles it, now you have to invite me over to your place so I can sign them all.”
“That… would be nice,” Derek says slowly, and Stiles decides to follow Derek’s example and change the weird mood by way of sex. By the time Stiles is done with him, Derek seems to have completely forgotten his fanboy moment.
“So what do you do, Mr. I’m-Not-Actually-A-Lumberjack?” Stiles asks from his comfy resting place on Derek’s chest.
“Park ranger,” Derek rumbles, eyes drooping, which makes Stiles feel incredibly smug, because if Derek is telling the truth, then Stiles just wore out a park ranger, while still sporting something of a hangover. Screw it, he’s gonna put this notch on his bedpost after all, if nothing else just to remember in his old age what a stud he used to be.
“Really?”
“Yeah. The woods around here are mostly protected wildlife areas.”
“So, what, you got a Smokey the Bear costume tucked away somewhere?”
“… no,” Derek says, but he looks suspiciously shifty, and Stiles is definitely gonna look into that at a later date. “No, I mostly do conservation stuff and yell at hikers for littering, and sometimes have to get a gun license or two revoked.”
“Thrilling.”
Derek shrugs sleepily. “Not really. But I like the outdoors.”
“I’ll bet you do, wolf man,” Stiles says, and gives Derek’s beard a gentle tug.
Derek retaliates by playfully snapping his teeth at Stiles, and then they’re off again.
Worn out, right.
“That’s it,” Stiles gasps sometime around lunch. “I’m officially broken. Not even your beard can get me going again today. Sorry, the sex shop is closed.”
“Nah. You just need a power bar or something,” Derek says pleasantly, but his eyes are also completely shut, so Stiles is calling bullshit.
“I need food, is what I need. And a nap.”
“Alright,” Derek agrees, but then doesn’t move at all. But neither does Stiles, so whatever. “Does it count as a one night stand if it happens during the day?” Derek muses sleepily, and Stiles shrugs.
“Who cares. Speaking of which, don’t you have work today?”
“No. The day after the fundraiser is like a local holiday around here.”
“Neat. Then you can buy me lunch.”
“You can buy me lunch, since you’re a celeb and all.”
Stiles lets out a really ugly snort that makes him happy he already got to bone his Paul Bunyan, because odds of getting laid after making a noise like that are abysmal. “First of all, no. Second: even if I was a celeb – which I’m not – that wouldn’t necessarily make me rich. And third… I forgot what point I was making. It’s the hunger, Derek. I’m wasting away. Leave me,” Stiles moans dramatically, and Derek snickers.
“You didn’t actually deny that you’re rich,” Derek points out, and Stiles frowns.
“I was gonna deny it, but I guess that depends on your definition of rich.”
“Can you afford to take me to lunch?”
“… yes.”
“That’s all I need to know.”
Stiles groans, because he can see where this is going. He’s gonna have to move. Ugh. “You just want me for my money, don’t you?”
“No. Your ass.”
They both end up wheezing with laughter, and somehow that’s enough for Stiles to drag himself out of bed and drive them both back to the diner again.
- - -
They have lunch. And then dinner at Derek’s tiny apartment. And then breakfast the next morning before Derek rushes off to work, definitely late, because he spends as long as he possibly can kissing Stiles until he feels completely wrecked. He has to lean against his car for ten minutes just catching his breath before managing the drive back to the cabin.
Stiles expects that to be it. Whatever it was, it’s gotta be out of his system now. Thoroughly out, considering he can’t remember if he’s ever had this much sex in the span of one day and night. He spends the day just resting up after all the drinking and fucking, and he’s just pondering what to eat for dinner when his phone pings with a message from Derek. He’s asking if Stiles would like to share a hearty meal of greasy hamburgers and fries that Derek may or may not already have bought, and which he might or might not be bringing to Stiles this very moment.
He should say no. He should definitely say no. It was a one time thing, and Stiles is not looking for a relationship right now. And he also really should be trying to start his next book, he can’t afford to get distracted by Derek any more than he has already been.
For about five minutes he exists in a blissful universe where it seems like a likely option for him to say no. Then he replies, and his message may or may not involve a marriage proposal.
He’s so fucked.
He’s fucked – literally and figuratively – that night. And the night after that. And a whole week after that. Stiles thought he was obsessive, but he’s got nothing on Derek’s apparent determination to leave him a drooling mess every single goddamn night.
Eventually he calls Lydia in a mild panic.
“Lyds, I have a beard problem.”
She snorts at him through the phone. “Stiles it’s way, way too late to cram your gay ass back into the closet, and I also don’t think a girlfriend will help your book sales at all considering how much gay sex you write.”
“No, gah, not that kind of beard problem.”
“I told you to use moisturizer to avoid those little shaving nicks-”
“No! Lyds, listen to me. I saw a beard, I wanted it, and now I can’t let it go!”
“… you lost me.”
He explains as fast as he can, which ends up involving quite a lengthy ramble about just how luscious Derek’s beard actually is, and how good it feels against his thighs.
“Well, there’s ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back,” she snarks, and Stiles takes the phone away from his ear just to glare at it.
“Lydia, please, I need help!”
“With what? Just date the guy, what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem?! Gee, where do I start?!”
“Usually by asking someone out, but you seem to have that part covered.”
Stiles takes a deep breath and looks to the heavens for help that doesn’t come, and then launches into it. “Ignoring for a second that he’s made of sunshine and puppydogs, and that I will most definitely ruin him beyond repair with my cynical ways, he also lives in Buttfuck California, which is not even in the same state as New York, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t.”
“I also haven’t written a single word since I got here because all I can think of is that beard and – increasingly – the guy growing it!”
“Stiles, you’re blowing this completely out of-”
“Furthermore! I don’t want a relationship! In case you’ve blissfully forgotten that too, I suck at them! Big time!”
“I’m gonna stop you right there.”
“But-”
“No, shut up. My turn. First of all, unless he’s the hairiest teenager on the planet, I’m assuming Mr. Beard is an adult, which means that any corrupting you might perform upon his person is his choice to risk. Second, relationships can be long distance, and I can tell you with some authority that it makes the reunion sex amazing.”
Stiles wants to argue, but she does have a point. He hates when she has a point.
“Third, our relationship sucked because your heterosexuality could fit in a thimble, and I loved my career more than you. And also, if you don’t want a relationship, then why are you calling me instead of breaking up with your beard right now?”
“But-”
“Fourth, why are you even worried about writing? You’re not supposed to be writing! You’re supposed to decide what to write! There’s no deadline! Hell, with me as your agent, you don’t even have to write another book! It would make my life easier if you did, but you could do book tours and lectures for the rest of your life and still make a decent living. I literally have no idea what you’re freaking out about.”
“Ugh, Lyds, I have a process-”
“I know, but, again, no deadline! You could easily take six months off and fuck yourself and your bearded boytoy stupid before even glancing at a keyboard again! In fact, I highly recommend it! You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard.”
“Glass houses, Ms. Workaholic.”
“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. And I do relax. I just don’t call you to freak out about it.”
Stiles pouts to himself. “You’re being very mean, and not at all helpful.”
“That’s what you get for ruining my spa day. I should have been in the mud bath by now.”
“Ew, mud bath? Seriously? Don’t you get mud all up in your-”
“I’m hanging up now. Suck it up and be an adult about your love life. Don’t call me again unless you have a real problem.”
And then she does hang up, leaving Stiles to stare incredulously at the phone for a full minute.
“Rude,” he mutters, and then has a good long sulk before admitting to himself that she made a lot of good points. It’s possible that he needs to add overly dramatic to his list of personal flaws.
Derek doesn’t seem to be in any rush to define what they’re doing either, and Stiles can’t decide if it’s more of a relief or a worry.
Most of the time, though, he’s too busy just recovering from all the orgasms.
“Holy shit,” he wheezes after a particularly spectacular one. “You’re gonna ruin all other sex for me,” he complains, and Derek grins at him from where he’s still sitting on Stiles’ dick.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Ugh, the smugness is harshing my vibe, quit it.”
Derek swivels his hips, making Stiles hiss and gasp from overstimulation. “Mmmno, I don’t think I will.”
“Asshole,” Stiles grits, and forcefully rolls them over so he can free himself and punish Derek. “You are so mean to me, I dunno why I put up with you,” Stiles grumbles, but softens his words with a quick kiss before collapsing on top of Derek.
“I dunno either,” Derek mutters, and something about his voice makes Stiles raise his head suddenly.
“You’re not joking.”
“No? I’m well aware this isn’t gonna last,” Derek says, his magnificent eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. “You said it yourself. You wanted to turn me down. I’m still not sure why, but whatever. You live in New York, and you have a life there, and I’m not dumb enough to think you’ll stick around. So I guess I’m just… taking what I can get.”
“… are you telling me that sex five times a day isn’t actually your natural state? Thank fuck, I need a vacation! At this point I’d kill for a movie night and snuggling!” Stiles cries, and Derek blinks at him.
“You mean… you want to spend time with me? Without, uh… without the sex? I thought this whole thing was just to get the Paul Bunyan fetish out of your system or something?”
Stiles is about to yell at him, but snaps his mouth shut, because it suddenly occurs to him what he said and what it means. He does want to spend time with Derek, and they are way beyond the point of casual fuckbuddies. And this is, of course, news to Derek, who’s obviously been laboring under the assumption that Stiles was just in it for the rugged woodsman kink. Which… he kinda was.
Hell of a time to have revelations.
But while Stiles Stilinski is many things, coward is not one of them. He once read one of his steamiest gay sex scenes aloud to a crowd that included actual royalty, so he’s not about to let something as simple as feelings defeat him.
“Right, okay, I didn’t plan on ever having a conversation like this with my dick out, but fuck it, here we go.”
Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t argue, so Stiles trucks right on.
“Yes, so, initially, I was, indeed, in it for the beard. Or, like, the whole lumberjack aesthetic. I admit that. But… along the way… some, uh… feelings-type things did kinda pop up on the brief occasions you weren’t fucking my brains out.”
“Feelings-type things?” Derek asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Oh, shut up, I had to call Lydia because I was freaking out. You were supposed to be a one or maybe two night stand! But you’re just…” he makes helpless hand gestures at Derek’s whole form.
“Irresistible?”
“That too,” Stiles agrees with a frustrated sigh. “You weren’t supposed to get under my skin like this.”
Derek frowns. “Is that… a good or a bad thing?”
“I literally have no clue, it only just came to me in the last five minutes. I’m slow on the uptake sometimes, I’m perfectly happy to admit it.”
There’s a weirdly tense moment where they just share looks, Derek’s eyes darting around Stiles’ face is if looking for clues to what’s going on. Stiles wishes he could offer answers in that regard, but he’s clearly got some shit to work through.
“Anywho,” Stiles says when things start to feel awkward, “Lydia pointed out some things to me that I should probably take a closer look at. Like my personal delusion that I should be writing when I really don’t have to, and why I say I don’t want a relationship when somehow I’m now in one.”
This makes Derek’s face go all soft and hopeful, and Stiles has to suppress the urge to bite his fist or something, because that shit is adorable.
“With me?” he asks so sweetly Stiles is honestly torn between shaking him or kissing him stupid.
“Yes, with you, oh my god, doofus,” he rants, and bonks his forehead against Derek’s chest.
“Just checking,” Derek rumbles, and then makes Stiles’ head bounce with his laughter.
Stiles groans into the nice chest hair. “I hate you and everything you are.”
“No, you don’t.”
He really doesn’t.
- - -
Stiles gets his movie night and his snuggling. Derek eases up on the orgasms a little bit, to a point where Stiles can actually get to know him for more than how good the dick is. It’s frankly a relief to find out that Derek is completely hostile and unreasonable if he gets too hungry, and that he’s anal retentive about his apartment to the point of ridiculousness. He farts in bed, he still won’t come clean about the Smokey the Bear costume, and – though he loves his job – paperwork leaves him in a foul mood, every time, without fail.
“You are such a control freak,” Stiles blurts when Derek moves the framed picture of his humongous family half an inch to the left after Stiles picked it up to look at it. Derek looks stricken, but not for long, because Stiles is just so overjoyed that Derek is a real person with flaws that he needs to have a celebratory fuck right this second.
Nothing gets written, and no matter what Lydia says it takes Stiles a long time to come to terms with the idea that maybe he doesn’t have to push himself so hard. Derek has the patience of a saint through more than a few freak-outs, and only gets upset when Stiles talks about going back to New York. It’s only ever talk, though. And, even if it was serious, Stiles is just a complete and total sucker for Derek’s sad face, so he’s not going anywhere.
He does make some progress with his brief Paul Bunyan fetish, because Derek’s normal work clothes are a lot more about khakis than flannels, seeing as the woodsman get-up was only for the play. Stiles can’t decide if he’s more sad or relieved about this fact, but considering he can now see lumberjacks in ads again without instantly going half-chub he’s leaning towards relief.
There’s no change when he sees Derek himself, though. No matter what he’s wearing he still just races Stiles’ motor something fierce, and his teenage self would despair over still having this problem, if not for all the sex it gets him. Because somehow Stiles races Derek’s motor right back, and not just because he’s something of a fanboy – a fact which still gives Stiles a petty thrill every time it comes up – but also apparently just… for being himself.
That does take some getting used to.
The good news about Stiles’ Derek-shaped predicament is that instead of the torch-wielding mob he expected, Stiles now gets cookies from old ladies and discounts from all the stores. He meets most of Derek’s enormous family, because many of them still live in the area, and, while they’re all terrifying, they’re also totally Stiles’ kind of people. Laura especially is his new best friend and partner in crime.
Derek laments this new horror of his life, but Stiles is onto him. There’s no hiding how pleased he is that Stiles gets along with his family.
Just as well, because Lydia calls after a few more months, asking bluntly if he’s ever coming back, because she’s got a friend looking for an apartment in case Stiles is thinking of selling his. He wasn’t before, but he is now, and before he knows it he’s asking around the sleepy town for housing options.
In the middle of all of that, he maybe kinda sorta forgets to tell Derek.
The door to the cabin slams open without warning, and Stiles jumps so hard he almost tips his laptop to the floor.
“Hey,” he says carefully when he sees Derek in the doorway, looking almost as shell shocked as Stiles feels. “What are you doing here? I thought you had work until four?”
Derek doesn’t do anything rational like closing the door behind him or answering the question. “You’re staying?” he asks instead, hushed like he’s afraid of making it untrue if he says it too loud.
“Uhhhh,” Stiles says stupidly, because that’s the moment it occurs to him what he forgot. “Well. I was thinking about it, yeah. Lydia has a friend who wants to buy my apartment, and… well, I’m pretty happy here, so. Why not?”
There’s a moment of heavy tension before Derek rushes inside, makes his way to Stiles in three long steps, and just sweeps him into a kiss so frantic and full of relief that Stiles feels abruptly like an asshole for somehow forgetting to tell Derek about his thoughts.
“Move in with me,” Derek says, though, before he can feel too bad.
Stiles snorts. “Derek, your apartment is tiny, you barely have room for yourself and a hamster-”
“No, I mean… I bought a house. Years ago, on the other side of town. But it was too huge to live in on my own, so…” he trails off, going uncertain, and while Stiles is definitely a little slow on the uptake sometimes, he’s not about to let that look stay on Derek’s face a second longer.
“Show me,” he insists, and drags Derek towards the door. Derek follows helplessly, and by the end of the day Lydia is making arrangements for selling Stiles’ apartment, and Stiles is wandering around Derek’s massive house and shamelessly planning where he wants all his stuff. Derek just follows behind him like a besotted puppy, agreeing with everything, and he seriously needs to stop, or it’s gonna go to Stiles’ head some day soon.
“This is great! If you tick me off there’s like five rooms I can sulk in, it’s perfect!” Stiles gushes, and Derek apparently takes that in a much more romantic way than Stiles intended, because before he knows it there’s mutual handjobs happening against the back door.
“You should have just told me that sulking gets you going. Seriously, I can sulk on command, this is awesome,” Stiles gasps, still clinging to Derek’s shoulders because Stiles’ knees are currently jelly.
“Idiot,” Derek huffs into his ear. “It’s because you’d stay. Even angry, you’d stay. Not leave.”
“Oh. Okay, well,” Stiles says slowly, but then realizes he doesn’t know where he was going with that, and huffs to himself. “No, you know what, I think it’s too late for that. Despite my best efforts I can’t seem to let go of you.”
Derek’s eyes damn near sparkle, and, as if it wasn’t enough of a Hallmark moment, he then says: “Lucky me.”
Paul Bunyan can go suck an egg.
End.