halesass asked you:

Can I request: Stiles pines for Derek. Derek thinks he needs to get over Stiles bc misunderstanding of feelings. Derek has a date, Stiles helps him dress and pep talks him and //it hurts// but he wants Derek to be happy so he does it. Derek drives off to pick up his date and Stiles goes home to eat ice cream… where he finds Derek sitting on his bed, saying “I don’t wanna date some girl…” and then CONFESSIONS AND MAKE OUTS AND STUFF

This is a very specific prompt! I’ve been trying to figure out how to fill it, so I consulted my braintrust, who helped come up with the premise. By which I mean: blame Verity, at least a little bit, and Ashe, for Tie the Knot. It takes place in a ‘verse much like Teen Wolf’s, except that everyone knows about werewolves.

Which means, obviously, that there are werewolf dating shows.


Stiles is lying on the bed under a pile of sweaters. Cashmere and cotton and wool, navy and garnet and hunter green; he sweeps out a hand experimentally and knocks a black v-neck onto the floor, which is covered in jeans and socks and tee shirts, from before they decided that tee shirts were too casual.

"I don’t know, I’m thinking about tee shirts again," he says, just to be contrary. "Your biceps, you know?"

Derek is standing bare-chested in the middle of the room, fists clenched, frowning. He makes a noise like he doesn’t appreciate Stiles’ eleventh hour levity.

"I understand that among alphas your biceps are considered pretty run of the mill," Stiles says. "But they’re not, like, awful to look at or anything. I think they could be an asset. If not with Bachelorette number one then with audience members, or the viewing public. You never know who could be falling in love with your biceps, Derek.”

Derek throws a soft handful of tee shirts at Stiles’ prone form. “You stopped being useful hours ago,” he says. 

"I stopped being useful when you stopped listening to my suggestions."

"Tee shirts, Stiles."

"Just pick a fucking color, Derek.”

Stiles stares at the ceiling instead of staring at Derek, because they’ve known each other for almost five years now and he still hasn’t figured out how to look at Derek’s bare chest without leering. It’s just— solid. Firm. Well-cut. Anatomically interesting. Insanely fucking hot. Whatever.

So it takes him by surprise when Derek starts rooting through the sweater pile he’s covered himself in, fingers brushing against Stiles’ chest as he sorts and folds. He’s careful like he always is, plucking a red sleeve from Stiles’ forehead, pulling two nearly identical gray crewnecks that have twisted themselves around his legs. “Oh,” Derek says, smiling down when he’s done. “There you are.”

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Here I am." He lets himself wallow in his insane crush for exactly five seconds, which is five seconds too long, because it leads to him saying something stupid, like it always does. "Wear the blue one. It brings out your eyes."

"It brings out my eyes.

"It does!" Stiles says, sitting up abruptly, gathering shirts from the floor so that he can hide the flush on his face and the frantic, stupid beating of his heart. "I know what color your eyes are, okay, I refuse to think that’s weird."

When he looks up again, arms full of shirts that smell like Derek, like sweat and Old Spice and running around in the goddamn woods, he’s pulling the navy sweater over his head, running his hands self-consciously through his hair in the mirror.

"You look good," Stiles says. The tag is sticking up against the back of Derek’s neck; he draws in close and tucks it in, gentle and tender. There are a lot of ways that he wants to touch Derek, things he’ll never get to try. He’s good about it, mostly, about not letting Derek know, not letting himself get carried away. But just now he lets his hands linger, just for a minute, at the soft curve of his nape, running up to muss his carefully disheveled hair.

"Yeah?" Derek looks up from where he’s fiddling with the sweater’s hem and meets Stiles’ eyes in the mirror. 

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Bachelorette number one will be lucky to have you, dude, for sure. Knock ‘em dead, okay, or at least don’t make me ashamed to be from Beacon Hills." 

"I’ll try," Derek says wryly. "Thanks. For your help."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Sure, sure." He straightens his spine and throws back his shoulders, wills himself to turn away to the wreck they’ve made of the room, trying to get Derek dressed. "I’ll be watching at Scott’s. I’ll live text you reviews of your performance, so make sure your phone’s on silent."

"Mmmm," Derek says, distracted again, probably dreaming of the beta babe he’ll be meeting on national television tonight, the beautiful born-wolf babies they’ll have together, the triumphant rebuilding of the Hale pack, strong and sprawling once again.

"Later," Stiles calls over his shoulder. He takes the stairs two at a time and peels out of the driveway at speed.


The really awful thing is that it was his idea, kind of, or, anyway: he sent Derek the application as a joke. Are you a single Alpha werewolf with camera-ready good looks and a great personality? If you’re between the ages of 18 and 27  and available for filming in San Francisco, Tie the Knot wants YOU  on our show.

But then Derek filled it out and sent in a print of one of Allison’s portraits of him, from when she first decided that her calling was to be a werewolf rights activist, calling attention to prejudice through art. Whatever to her ideas but it’s a great portrait, and Derek has a great face, and he does need to rebuild his pack, he needs a mate, it’s probably good publicity, really. Stiles knows this

And yet. And yet his brain is and always has been a crazy place, a uselessly functional machine apparently designed to entertain elaborate fantasies about moonlit confessions and rain-soaked kisses, or at least Derek kind of looking at him, like he does every now and again, but for long enough that Stiles can figure out exactly what it means. 

He’s talked himself into feeling like absolute shit by the time he gets to Scott’s, which Scott has predicted, apparently, because he greets Stiles at the door with an open bottle of beer and wise words of comfort. “Sure he’s hot,” Scott says, ushering Stiles inside. “But he’s got a terrible personality and we both know it, so I think you’re actually going to be fine.”

"Who caaaares," Stiles says, slumping on the couch and drinking the beer, which is cold and delicious and perfect, because Scott is seriously the best. "He’ll fall in love with the makeup artist or the— sound girl, or the cop who gives him a ticket for speeding on the way, or whatever, someday he’s going to fall in love with someone. In the way that he has so far failed to fall in love with me."

"You have your whole own six pack in the fridge," Allison says, emerging from the kitchen. "I’m going to let you two commiserate until this thing actually airs in— what, like, four hours? Try not to get too worked up, okay."

"Fat fucking chance," Stiles says, wriggling around, getting comfortable.

"You’re kind of looking forward to getting drunk and pouting all night, though, aren’t you," Scott says soothingly. "You’ve always been such a drama queen, Stiles, seriously."

"You like it," Stiles points out. "My very own six pack, man, you love it." Scott punches him in the arm and doesn’t deny the obvious.


The drinking turns out to be kind of a mistake, because apparently Derek has decided to take his television debut as an opportunity to simultaneously explore his heretofore theoretical bisexuality, which means that he spends three rounds competing for the hearts of dudes and ladies, which is terrible, just extremely terrible, for Stiles’ own heart. It doesn’t help that he goes home without being matched to anyone. “You can sleep on the couch,” Allison says. “You definitely cannot drive yourself home.”

"I will call a cab and spend the night in my den of misery," Stiles announces carefully. "In my lonely single bed, where I will live and sleep and die."

"At least let me drive you," Scott says, already getting up to find his keys. "At least let me make sure you get back to your den of misery all right."


Stiles wakes up a little after midnight to someone knocking insistently on his door. He’s bleary-eyed but clear-headed, thanks to the half-gallon of water Scott poured down his throat before he left. (Okay and the quesadillas Allison made them for the road, those probably also made a significant difference in his evening.)

When he opens it up Derek is standing there, wild-eyed, the sleeves of the sweater rucked up to the elbows, and Stiles has the useless urge to tell him that his biceps may have been hidden but his forearms are really no slouch, either. (The quieter, corollary thought, is that he would happily just hang on there while Derek jerked himself off, watching the flex of muscle, feeling the work under his palms.)

"I have weird feelings about you," Derek says, which is… not what Stiles was hoping for, exactly, but also not an invitation to his shotgun wedding to a lighting guy from the set, either, so. 

"I have weird feelings about you, too," Stiles says, which is at least a hundred percent true."Want to come in and talk about them?"

"Weird sex feelings," Derek says, desperate, like Stiles has to understand. "I think about— you— okay, I think about you— touching you— all the time, Stiles, I was thinking about you tonight, on the drive, on the stage, about your hands and your eyes and um. Weird things. And it didn’t seem fair to them. Or to you. So I thought you should know. What was going on."

"Fair to me," Stiles squeaks, stuck, always, on the improbable part of a sentence. "Fair to me."

"Because you don’t feel that way," Derek says. "Because you—"

"I!" Stiles says, outraged. "I do so.”

"You do?”

"Of course I do.” Somehow this has become a face-off. Stiles had always kind of pictured there being less weird misunderstanding and more making out, if this ever happened, which, man, he never really thought this would happen.

"You sent me the application," Derek says helplessly. "You told me to get my ass on television and find myself a wife."

"You need to find someone to help you expand the pack."

"I don’t care," Derek says, finally, finally stepping forward, crowding Stiles up against the doorframe, which is super uncomfortable, actually, the sharp corners digging into his back and hips. He’ll find time to care about that in just a minute, when Derek isn’t looking stunning and serious and breathtakingly intense, cupping Stiles’ face in his hands, leaning in to breathe him in, which is just—werewolves, Jesus fucking Christ. "I want you."

They kiss against the doorframe for so long that Stiles ends up with a bruise in the shape of the molding, the next morning. It matches the hickies on his neck and chest and inner thighs and the dark circles under his eyes because he got no sleep, none whatsoever, and it all looks stupid especially matched up with the grin he can’t shake but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t even want to stop smiling, because he’s never been so happy before, to be tired and bruised up, to wear the marks of something on his skin.

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