"Dude, what the hell?"

Stiles slams the door of his jeep, ignoring it bounce and swing open again.

The other driver does the same. And apparently Greek gods drive sports cars these days, because whoa.

Before he has time to do more than ogle, Tall, Dark and Handsome is striding up to him, and yes, he really is just as good looking up close. Holy shit. No flaws detected, even at close range.

Maybe he should get into car accidents more often?

"What the fuck were you doing, you idiot!"

OK, maybe not.

To cover, Stiles gapes at him.

"What was I doing? Dude, what the fuck were you doing? I had right of way!"

TDH bristles, like a leather clad hedgehog.

"No you didn't. Did you not see the No Entry sign? It's a one way system!'

Was it? Shit.

"Well, you don't have to be such a dick about it."

The guy laughs. It's an ugly sound.

"Are you kidding me? You almost wrecked by car!"

He marches round to the hood of his Camaro and flings his arm out in the most dramatic act of pointing Stiles has ever seen.

And, OK. There is a dent there. A small one.

"Come on, dude. That's tiny."

So, apparently, Stiles' mouth is on defensive, autopilot mode. Good to know. But, for real, his own jeep is so beat up, a mark like that would barely rate a mention.

Tall, Dark and Angry looks outraged. His mouth works for a second, like he doesn''t know what to say first.

"Don't call me 'dude'!" Is what he comes out with. Not what Stiles expected, and the guy seems to hear himself and scowls.

His eyebrows are thick and bushy, like angry, hairy little caterpillars, and much more distracting than they should be. Shit, when was the last time he took his Adderall?

But Stiles is jolted from his ponderings by TDA shoving him. He'd been talking, and Stiles tunes in just in time to hear: "... better have insurance!"

Here's the thing. Stiles has been bullied since school. Assholes like Jackson, shoving him around. High School Stiles probably would have rolled with it. But College Stiles is a whole new Beast.

"Dude!"

And he's shoving back with a level of daring that, in normal circumstances, would terrify him.

But Angry Dude is shoving back, and just like that they're in each other's faces, pushing back and forth, like the most hostile game of 'Row the Boat' ever.

And, OK. Now he can feel the hood of the Camaro pressing against the back of his legs and the hard line of Angry Dude's body against his front, and something swoops in his stomach, hot and unexpected.

Angry Dude freezes suddenly, still leaning into his space. Stiles can clearly see his nostrils flare as he inhales deeply.

God, is this the Suspension Bridge Effect? He'd read about it in Psych 101 last semester. Adrenaline enhances attraction etc etc?

Because it's sure as hell enhancing his attraction right now.

He goes to shove the guy again, except the motion turns into plucking at his jacket.

Leather. He had such a thing for guys in leather freshman year. He'd thought Dennis the Douchebag had cured it, but apparenty not. Stiles is standing so close he can smell it.

And, yup, he's leaning forward, totally without his brain's permission, dammit. But Angry Dude is mirroring him, and now his nose is level with the guy's collarbone and he's not wearing cologne, but he smells amazing anyway, musky and masculine and ohmigodohmigod I want in this guys's pants right now.

It's heady. Literally. Stiles actually feels a little light headed. So he rests his hands on the guy's chest, not even trying to push this time, and wow, the dude's got pecs. He can literally feel them there through the layers of material, and that's not even fair. Just how ripped is he?

He doesn't have long to marvel. The guy rumbles - rumbles! - deep in his chest, and he's pulling Stiles closer, gripping him first by the elbows, then one hand moves up to cup the back of Stiles' head and, okay, his brain has no idea what's happening, but luckily his body's taken this class before, because he's tipping his head and opening his mouth before the guy's lips even touch his.

Apparently, some distant corner of his brain notes, it's true what they say about Bad Boys. Because he's moaning and he's grinding and he's helpless, but it's so good.

He's pinned between the dude's solid weight and the hood of the Camaro, and its owner is going to have more than a dent to worry about any second now. He seems cool with it, if the way he's sucking on Stiles' tongue and grinding back is any indication.

God, good point. Why aren't they closer?

He leans back further, pulling the guy with him until they're practically lying on the hood of the car, like some kind of pin-up and - hell yeah, saving that mental image for later - and hooking a leg around his waist, and, you see, this is why he doesn't wear tight jeans.

Also, thank God and Coach Flinstock for all those years of high school Lacrosse. Keeps a guy limbre.

Hot Dude makes that rumbly noise of approval again and shifts, planting himself more firmly between Stiles' legs as his hands slips down to his waist to steady him as he presses closer. Their foreheads are resting against each other and his breath is hot against Stiles' cheek.

Stiles bucks up to meet him and, yeah, changing his mind, he hates his jeans, however loose they are. Way too thick.

What is with denim anyway? Oh, yeah. It was designed for cowboys. Huh. But not the time to be thinking about it. Except Hot Angry Dude would make a great cowboy.

Oh yeah.

Does that make Stiles the bull in this scenario? He thinks about making a joke about it, because seriously, who's riding who here?

But then HAD rolls his hips down with a particularly hard thrust, and Stiles can't - he just can't.

He whimpers, grappling for something to hold on to and going for the shoulders, thick, strong muscled shoulders he just wants to sink his teeth into. Curse that damn jacket! To think he liked it a second ago.

But, yes. Biting. Good idea. He goes for the mouth instead, letting his teeth catch on Hot Guy's lip - who makes a kind of growly noise and bucks approvingly - before sliding his tongue in, almost in time with the thrusts of their hips. They're totally pros at the full body tango.

Until one of them tip too far and then they're rolling.

"Shit!" Dude hisses. But he's got some ninja reflexes going on and saves them both from plunging over the edge of the Camaro and onto the concrete floor.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees on a shaky exhale, once the world stops spinning. "Thanks for the save, dude."

"Derek."

"Huh?"

The guy rolls his eyes. "I have a name. It's Derek."

"Oh, right. Well, I'm Stiles."

"Nice to meet you, Stiles."

He can't help snorting. Of course, Angry Eyebrows with the shoving and the grinding is secretly a dork. A really polite dork. At least when it comes to introductions.

Except for that first impression. Because, yikes.

Luckily, Stiles has no pride to speak of, and any lingering prejudice just got taken care of with their tongues.

Good job, twentyfirst century sexual norms.

Wait up, Angry Derek is still waiting for a response. Except now he looks more like Confused Derek.

"Right back attcha."

Derek's brow furrows, like he can't decide if that's the response he wanted.

Such a dork. Thank god.

"Well, d - Derek. This has been fun, but time and a place, you know? I mean, maybe I'm not one to talk. There was this time in the bathrooms at Jungle, and this other time in the supply closet in high school... And the less said about Starbucks the better. Just, don't listen to Scott if you ever, uh, meet him, because he'll totally exaggerate. Yeah. But, anyway. Uh. How about I give you my number, and we can pick this up some other time?"

Derek just stares at him blankly and Stiles' heart sinks.

"You know," he shrugs uncomfortably. "If you want."

This seems to jerk Derek out of whatever daze he was in.

"Yeah," he agrees, scrabbling in his pockets with flattering urgency. "Yeah, let's do that."

So they swap numbers, which is awesome, then insurance details, which is less awesome, but still less awkward than it should be. Mostly because the whole process involves a lot more brushing up against each other and giggling than strictly necessary. Which, by the way, is extra awesome. Who knew muscly, leather-clad dudes could giggle and blush like debutantes? Not Stiles. It might be the proudest moment of his life.

"Great!" Stiles beams down at the details safely stored in his phone with satisfaction. "Soooo, I'll call you?"

Derek nods. His smile is surprisingly shy and Stiles feels something melt inside him. God, Hot Like The Sun Shouty Guy from fifteen minutes ago is also a giant marshmallow? How did he get this lucky?

His eye land idly on his jeep, proudly displaying its newest dent.

Right. Via insurance wrangling and probably a new paint job.

But, still.

Totally worth it.

"Dude!" Loud, excitable Scott yells into his ear. Stiles winces and holds the phone away from his face.

"Yeah, Scott? Got news?"

Maybe he's finally popped the question. Unless he and Allison are planning to elope? That would be cool, as long as they bring Stiles along as witness. And Melissa. Chris Argent still has some kind of vendetta against Scott, which is totally insane, Scott's literally the sweetest guy in the world.

He complained to Dad about it once, but he'd just nodded wisely and said something like: "You'll understand someday."

Which, no. There's no way he'd trust himself to look after something as fragile as a baby. So the whole 'future grand kids' thing is totally redundant. Nice try, though. He'll just have to grandparent vicariously through Scott and Alison and their no doubt swarms of future progeny

Though, that's a thought. What would Dad think of Derek?

Derek who's older and whose wardrobe seems to consist soley of black and leather. Derek who, apparently, has a criminal record and a kickass tattoo, which, thank you very much, he'd let Stiles examine closely. With his tongue.

Yeah, Dad would totally go for the shotgun.

"Dude!" Scott repeats. "You're YouTube famous!"

Oh, god.

"Nooooo, Scott! Is it that video of me reciting Maya Angelou in my underwear? Because I can explain."

"What? No. What even - you know, never mind. Here, I'm sending you a link."

Stiles rolls over to the edge of the bed and digs around in the debris on the floor until he unearths his laptop. It's a mess, but he's only just got back for summer break. That's normal, right? He boots the laptop up, listening to Scott type away and vibrate with glee. Yes, he can hear the vibrations.

"There!" Scott declares, just as Stiles logs into his gmail.

And yup, there's a link to a buzzfeed article?
He clicks it and waits, scanning his brain for anything buzzfeed worthy he'd ever done. Top ten Epic Fails, maybe?

The page loads. Huh.

'YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE HOW THIS CAR ACCIDENT ENDED!" The headline screams.

Oh. No.

Holy shit.

But, alas, there they are.

Above the article there's a video of what looks like security footage. And there's the familiar parking complex and swinging into view is the Camaro and there's his jeep and, yup, Derek was right, he was totally in the wrong.

Dad must never see this.

And then the shoving starts and, right, violations of the highway code are the least of his worries. Because they're kissing like they're trying to maul each other, then Screen!Stiles, and it's recognisably him, is being bent backwards over the hood of the Camaro and Screen!Derek is pretty much climbing on top of him, like they're starring in car fetische porn. Which, given the nature of the internet, they kind of are.

Luckily, their tumble off the hood happens, and the video ends with them dusting each other off and exchanging numbers.

With a sense of impending doom he drags his eyes away from the video and down to the comments section.

It's mostly ranges from lol to lewd.

The car fetischists got on board within minutes of the video uploading. Of course.

But there, inevitably, it is.

GREENBERGER_KING: hey, I think I know that guy. We played high school lacrosse together!

Fucking Greenberg.

As if that wasn't incriminating enough, the comment is marked with REPLIES. A lot. Like everyone he'd ever been to high school with had weighed in.

"Sorry, dude. You're famous." Scott is saying sympathetically in his ear.

But Stiles is hardly listening. Because it's a small town, and isn't Greenberg a deputy now? God help the citizens of Beacon Hills.

"Dude, my dad," he whispers back, like his father is Voldemort and naming him will summon him up.

Apparently, the Wizarding World is Out There, because that's the moment he hears the front door slam and the tread of heavy boots and -

"Stiles!"

"Dude," he tells Scott very seriously. "You can have my collection of video games. Just think of me sometimes when you play them, OK?"

Scott's laughing as he hangs up, the traitor, but Stiles has no time to feel betrayed. Instead he shoves his laptop away and sits up straight, fixing a smile on his face just as his Dad appears, looming in the doorway.

"Heeeey, Dad. What's up?"

"What's up? Stiles! What is this?"

He's waving his phone, and even from the bed the grainy video is recognisable.

"Yeah, Dad, I was going to tell you about that. I totally didn't see the No Entry sign. But in my defence, they should really fix the lighting down there."

His Dad stares at him stonily for a second, like he can't believe what he's hearing, then breathes out harshly through his nose.

"Jesus, Stiles. I don't care about that. Just who is this guy?"

He gestures towards Screen!Derek, just as he swings a leg over Screen!Stiles, and both of them wince. Dad scrubs a hand over his face.

"I did not need to see that," he mutters.

"Dad, I know." Stiles agrees fervently. Dad shoots him a look.

"Don't think you can distract me. Answer the question. Who is he?"

"Uh, his name's Derek?" It comes out like a question. Dammit. He used to be so cool under interrogation. College has weakened his game.

Dad exhales loudly.

"Derek. As in the Derek you've been dating."

He forces himself to meet his Dad's eye. "That's the one."

They stare at each other.

"Well," Dad says eventually. "You'd better invite him over for dinner."

Stiles gapes, because what?

His Dad rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Stiles, stop looking at me like that. You're an adult, you can date whoever you want. But I want to meet him. So bring him over. Saturday."

The or else goes unsaid, so Stiles nods and manages a: "Sure, thanks, Dad."

His Dad nods stiffly, then retreats swiftly, like his escape route is under threat.

Stiles waits until the sound of his footsteps have faded, then dives for his phone.

Derek picks up on the third ring.

"Dude, have you seen it?" He demands, without any preamble.

Derek sighs, telling him everything.

"My sister won't shut up about it," he admits.

"My Dad saw it, Derek. My Dad. He was just in here, asking about you."

"Yeah?" Derek sounds calm, but they've known each other two whole weeks now. Stiles can definitely detect a tremor.

"Yeah, but it's OK. He wants you to come over. Dinner Saturday night."

"Is he going to be sharpening his knives?"

Good effort at humour in a time of crisis. This one's definitely a keeper. Stiles grins, despite himself, and presses the phone against his cheek, like it could somehow bring them closer together.

"No, Der, are you kidding? My Dad can't cook. Unless you count barbeque. Which I don't. Nah, I'll be cooking. I can't guarantee he won't feel the need to clean his gun, though."

"Gun?" There's the note of alarm.

"Yeah," he agrees casually. "My Dad's the Sheriff. Didn't I mention that?"

There's a pause, and Stiles holds his breathe. It's like a boyfriend litmus test, it never fails to get results.

"I remember him," Derek says eventually, and his voice sounds suddenly small and far away. "After the fire. He was very kind. To Laura and me. He was a Deputy then."

Where did this lump in his throat come from? Stiles swallows hard.

"That's my Dad," he agrees, as brightly as possible.

"Figures," Derek says in his ear. The tenderness in his voice makes Stiles' toes curl.

"Yeah?" He breathes back.

"Yeah. Figures his son would be a law breaking asshole."

Stiles laughs, loud and shocked. He can feel Derek's satisfaction, even over the phone.

"You - you dick! I - I can't believe you!"

"Well if the shoe fits..." There's a definite smirk there. The kind that makes his stomach twist. Curse that smug, sexy bastard.

"Bullshit! I'll have you know I am very law abiding. No points on my licence. None."

"If you say so."

"I do! I'll show you! Not that you're one to talk, Mr Breaking and Entering."

"What?"

"Shoes on the other foot now, huh? My Dad's the Sheriff, Derek. I know things."

"Oh," the laughter's gone, and Stiles immediately regrets it. "Oh. And you still...?"

"Of course," his voice is equally quiet, and when did this conversation get so intense? "I really like you."

He feels suddenly like an extra in Grease. Can just imagine twisting the chord of his telephone between his fingers as he frets over his boyfriend. He picks at the hem of his shirt instead.

"It was a long time ago," Derek says with despondent urgency, like it's too late, but he'll try anyway. "A... prank at the high school. We got off with a warning."

"Dude, it's fine. You would not believe the shit Scott and I got into growing up. It's honestly a miracle I don't have a rap sheet and not just because my Dad's the Sheriff."

"He's a good man," Derek says abruptly, and the confidence of it warms Stiles inside.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

There's a longer pause, but it's comfortable this time.

"So," he says, at last. "Still willing to brave the Stilinski household? There may be guns, but don't worry, dude. I'll protect you."

"I'm not worried," Derek replies easily. "Besides, I heal fast."

Stiles smirks. "Is that a euphemism? Because I'll say you do."

Derek chuckles, actually chuckles, warm and intimate.

"Goodnight, Stiles."

"Night."

"Oh, and Stiles?"

"Hmmmm?

"I really like you too."

And he hangs up. Like an asshole. Who just had to have the last word.

Stiles texts Scott immediately.

Dude, I think I'm in love.