"Hold still," Stiles says, hand clamping down on the back of Derek's neck to keep him from turning and it's laughable, really – the thought that that would be enough to hold him. Except it is. Because Stiles' fingers are gripping the nape of Derek's neck, pressure sure and hard and Derek- Derek can't fucking breathe.

Funny. It was supposed to be funny. Seriously, Derek had lost a bet and Erica had been in charge of the stakes which had been awesome because Erica is the bomb at coming up with hilarious embarrassing shit and- This is all Erica's fault.

It's times like this Derek wishes he has facebook. This seems like the sort of shit that's supposed to be socially networked.

The thing is, Derek’s really, really hot. Like, insane levels of attraction. What with the leather and the cheekbones and the stubble and the ass — oh god, that ass — Stiles can’t really be blamed, at all for freaking bragging. Now if only his college friends actually believed Derek existed.

Stiles starts bringing drumsticks to Pack gatherings, sitting himself on the edge of the group to tap out maddening rhythms on his knees as the werewolves train. The first time he’d pulled them out, spinning one stick in a showy twirl between his fingers, Derek had actually staggered a little, missed a basic move, and ended up on his back blinking up at fucking Jackson, of all people.