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The last thing Stiles Stilinski thought he’d be doing in his senior year of high school was standing shirtless in his bedroom, holding his phone at arm’s length, trying to figure out how the hell people managed to look sexy in pictures.
Senior year was supposed to be lacrosse, college applications, maybe some parties, maybe even losing his virginity. Instead, it was still monsters, still late-night patrols, still balancing schoolwork with the supernatural insanity that came with being part of Derek Hale’s pack.
And Derek—God, Derek—was the problem.
Eighteen years old and Stiles was still stuck in the same loop he’d been in since sophomore year: desperately, humiliatingly, painfully attracted to his Alpha. Everyone knew it. His friends, his dad (probably), Derek himself. Arousal scent wasn’t something Stiles could hide no matter how many showers he took or how much deodorant he drowned himself in.
And the worst part? Derek never called him out on it. Never acknowledged it, never teased, never gave a single damn indication it bothered him. Which was somehow worse. Because if it didn’t bother Derek, then maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe Stiles wasn’t even on his radar.
So Stiles decided: screw it. If Derek wasn’t noticing, he’d make him notice.
Which was how he ended up here, standing in front of his mirror with his phone raised, trying to make what Instagram thirst traps called a “pout.” What came out looked more like a constipated duck. He tried flexing his bicep. It looked like he had a cramp. He tried pulling at his shirt collar. It looked like he was choking. He tried leaning on the wall, face broody, lips parted—he sneezed.
“Jesus Christ, this is tragic,” he muttered, scrolling through the mess of photos. Not a single one was even remotely sexy.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. He dialed a number.
"Help."
Lydia Martin answered sharp, as if she’d been waiting for battle. “Is there a new threat, Stiles?”
Their new friendship was strange in its own way.
They had history, whether it was one-sided or not on Stiles’ part, it still lingered. He’d carried a crush on her for ten whole years. Then one day, he caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man with green eyes, and suddenly Lydia was no longer the center of the equation.
(It wasn’t that easy, of course. Moving on never is. But Stiles realized his gaze drifted to Derek more often than it ever landed on Lydia. Even when she hugged him, it never sparked the same chaos in his chest as when Derek simply walked past.)
So in the end, discovering he had a thing for men, and letting go of Lydia, turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened for their friendship.
Which is why he could do this.
“No… but there is a crisis.”
A pause. “Define crisis.”
“I need help.”
Another pause, then a sharp inhale of realization. “This is about Derek, isn’t it?”
“I never said that!”
“You didn’t have to.” Her sigh was pure exasperation. “Come over.”
When he got there, he noticed how Lydia's room was the perfect picturing taking room ever made. Which makes sense, obviously. Lydia’s room was a shrine to controlled power—mirrors, soft lighting, and the kind of wardrobe Stiles couldn’t name without a Vogue glossary.
Stiles felt like he’d walked into a masterclass for seduction, which, apparently, he had. She tossed her hair and crossed her arms, all while explaining in detail the art that goes into being intoxicating.
And that’s how Stiles ended up sitting beside Lydia, both of them pouting into her webcam. She demonstrated angles and lighting, rolling her eyes every time his lips twitched into a laugh.
“No,” she scolded. “Not goofy. Flirty. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t do flirty,” Stiles muttered, trying again. He sucked his lips together, tilted his head, and… looked like a duck.
Lydia sighed, leaning close, their faces almost pressed together in the frame. “Better. At least Derek will get the idea.”
She snapped the first picture.
"Next!"
They walked over to her full length mirror, beginning her second class. She shoved him in front of it like he was her latest science experiment.
She started showing him how to sexy pose for mirror pictures, and as he copied her movements, Stiles found himself thinking.
Freshman-year Stiles would’ve absolutely seized at this moment. It was crazy how far they’d come. Because right now, there wasn’t even a flicker of attraction toward Lydia. Sure, she was gorgeous, undeniably so, but all he saw now was an amazing friend.
Then her voice brought him back in, "Sexy, Stiles. Not septic.” She snapped her fingers. “Phone up. Chin down. Tilt. Now pout. Less duck, more smolder. Pretend you’re about to kiss him but you’re making him wait.”
Stiles swallowed, parted his lips, lowered his lashes.
Lydia tilted her head, lips quirking. “Better. You’re so trainable. Maybe I should start courses."
He laughed.
Within minutes she had him stripped down to jeans, leaning against her wall, one hand tugging just enough at his waistband to make the picture illegal in five states. His hair was a mess, his mouth red from biting his own lip, and—God help him—he actually looked hot.
“Perfect,” Lydia said, taking the phone from his trembling hands.
She typed before he could stop her. “Caption: wish you were here. Send.”
“Lydia—!” Bloop. It was actually sent and delivered now.
Too late. It was done.
Stiles freezes.
He somehow knew to run home, knowing Derek would immediately make his way there.
He couldn't help but think how lucky he was that his father had a night shift. Because no matter how this ends up, good or bad, he really doesn't want his dad to know what he did.
He made his way home.
Stiles was still pacing his room when he heard the faint scrape of claws against glass. His head whipped toward the window just as it slid open, and his heart nearly punched a hole through his ribcage.
Derek Hale pulled himself inside like sin given muscle and leather, his broad frame filling the room, his eyes burning with something Stiles couldn’t name but felt all the way down his spine.
“Uh—hi?” Stiles croaked, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched. “You know there’s a door, right?”
Derek didn’t answer. He closed the window with a decisive snap and turned, nostrils flaring. His gaze swept the room once, sharp, calculating—then landed on Stiles, still shirtless, his phone clutched in his sweaty hand.
“Whose room were you in?” Derek asked, his voice low, dangerous.
Stiles blinked. “What?”
“The picture.” Derek took a step closer, the weight of his presence like gravity pressing Stiles against the mattress. “That wasn’t here. So whose room?”
“Oh, uh—Lydia’s,” Stiles admitted, heat rushing to his face. “She was just… helping me.”
Derek’s jaw flexed, muscle ticking. Another step closer. “Helping you with what? Seducing someone?”
Stiles swallowed. “I mean… yeah? Kinda?”
Derek’s eyes darkened, pupils wide, locked on him like prey. His voice dropped even lower. “Was I that someone?”
Stiles could barely breathe. The silence stretched, hot and heavy, and he realized Derek was holding himself back by sheer force of will, every line of his body coiled tight with restraint.
"I asked you a question, Stiles." He asked again. "Was that meant for me?"
Stiles shivered. “Yeah,” he whispered, his throat dry. “It was meant for you.”
Derek’s breath hitched, nostrils flaring again as if he couldn’t help scenting the truth of it. He closed the distance until he was standing right in front of Stiles, close enough that Stiles could feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the leather and pine clinging to his skin.
“You shouldn’t—” Derek started, voice rough.
“Shouldn’t what?” Stiles challenged, his voice shaky but his eyes steady. “Want you? Show you? Send you something that makes you finally look at me like this?”
Derek’s lips parted, his chest rising and falling like he was barely keeping himself together. He reached out, then stopped, fingers trembling an inch from Stiles’ jaw.
“I could hurt you,” Derek murmured. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Stiles’ pulse was a thunderstorm. “Try me.”
And before Derek could argue, Stiles surged up, pressing his mouth to Derek’s.
The kiss ignited like gasoline on fire. Derek groaned, low and primal, a sound that vibrated straight into Stiles’ bones. His restraint snapped, one hand fisting in Stiles’ hair, yanking his head back just enough to devour his mouth harder, hungrier. The other hand gripped Stiles’ waist, dragging him flush against his body, all heat and muscle and need.
Stiles gasped into the kiss, clinging to Derek’s shoulders, drowning in the sheer intensity of it. This wasn’t the cold, stoic Alpha he’d pined after. This was raw, feral want, directed at him.
Derek pulled back just enough to nip at Stiles’ bottom lip, his voice a growl against his mouth. “That pout… it’s mine now.”
Stiles shivered, his knees nearly giving out. “Then come take it.”
Derek kissed him again, rougher this time, pinning him back against the wall by the mirror. Stiles’ phone slipped from his hand, forgotten, as Derek’s body pressed into his, caging him in. Their mouths moved feverishly, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, until Stiles was panting, his lips swollen, his head spinning.
Derek’s hand slid up, fingers brushing Stiles’ jaw, thumb pressing into the soft corner of his mouth like he was claiming the pout from the picture all over again. He stared down at him, eyes glowing faintly, voice ragged.
“You don’t need to send me pictures,” Derek said, leaning in so close Stiles felt his breath on his skin. “I want the real thing. Every time.”
Stiles grinned through his swollen lips, tugging Derek down into another kiss. “Then you’d better keep showing up at my window.”
Derek growled against his mouth, his hand tightening in Stiles’ hair, and kissed him like he had no intention of stopping.
Derek didn’t just kiss him, he devoured him. Every time Stiles thought he could breathe, Derek tilted his head, caught his mouth again, and stole the air right out of him. It wasn’t violent, though; it was desperate, obsessive, like Derek had finally been given permission to touch something he’d wanted for far too long and now couldn’t stop.
Stiles’ back pressed into the mirror, his bare skin shivering against the cool glass. Derek’s hands were everywhere; one under his thighs, lifting him like he weighed nothing, the other anchored firm around his waist. Stiles clung to him, legs locked around Derek’s hips, fingers in his hair, letting himself drown in it.
The scary part wasn’t how much Derek wanted him. It was how much Derek knew. Every swipe of his tongue, every nip at his lip, every rough, unsteady exhale screamed that Derek understood exactly what Stiles had been hiding all this time. The years of crushes, the ache, the quiet love. And instead of pushing him away, Derek kissed him like he’d been waiting for Stiles to admit it.
Stiles tried to laugh, tried to break the intensity, because holy shit, this was Derek Hale kissing him against a mirror like something out of one of his dirtiest daydreams. The grin spread across his mouth, helpless and giddy.
Derek pulled back a fraction, saw it — and immediately started chasing it.
He pressed a quick, soft kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Then another to his cheek. Then one to his jaw. His lips trailed down to Stiles’ neck, brushing against his pulse, then back up, planting another peck right over Stiles’ grin, like he was trying to kiss it off his face.
Stiles laughed harder, breathless. “You’re ridiculous—”
Derek shushed him with another peck to his other cheek, then his nose, then his mouth again, softer this time. Over and over, relentless little smooches, until the grin finally broke under the weight of them and Stiles dragged him back in by the hair, mouth opening, pulling them back into something hot, wet, messy. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing.
Derek groaned into it, tightening his hold, pressing him so close Stiles could feel the hammer of his heartbeat. And even then, Derek kept sneaking in those smaller kisses between the hungry ones, like he couldn’t stop touching every inch of Stiles’ face with his mouth.
When Derek finally tore away for breath, he didn’t let go. His forehead pressed to Stiles’, his lips brushing the corner of his mouth with every ragged inhale.
“I’m taking you out,” Derek said, voice hoarse but steady. “Tomorrow. Be free.”
Stiles grinned again, lips kiss-bruised and swollen. And even as Derek dove right back in — kissing his grin, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth, refusing to stop — Stiles let his whole body sink into him.
For once, he loved a decision he made on impulse.