Turning eighteen was supposed to be awesome.
Turning eighteen was going to mean, like, buying cigarettes and porn, right? Nevermind that Stiles had never smoked a day in his life, and no one had bought porn since the internet became a thing. Still, it was the principle of it. Of Being eighteen. An adult—legally. In the eyes of his great nation, Stiles would be completely and totally responsible for himself.
(Well, unless he got himself, like, maimed or something, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six, in which case his dad’s insurance would be responsible for him. But Stiles isn’t in tenth grade anymore, so the likelihood of that happening is, like, way low. So, yeah.)
Stiles had had plans for turning eighteen since the day he turned fourteen. They had been nebulous things back then—vague ideas of “I’m going to get so drunk,” back when he was still acting like he totally loved the way beer tasted and “I’m going to be a man,” before he realized that fighting monsters would become his day job and age him even harder than his mom’s death.
Sometime around his sixteenth birthday, eighteen had become a deadline for losing his virginity. No-fuckin’-way was Stiles Stilinski going to be an eighteen-year-old virgin.
(“You know what happens to eighteen-year-old virgins, Scott? They become forty-year-old virgins! I swear to God, dude, I am not becoming Steve Carell!”)
The problem with being sixteen and perpetually horny, for Stiles at least, was that he was also in love. Love and sex, back then, existed on separate planes. So, like, yeah. Lydia had—she was—okay, everyone with eyes knows it’s impossible to not lust after Lydia Martin.
But Stiles wasn’t that guy, okay? He loved Lydia. He fantasized more about holding her purse while she shopped than anything else. His love between eight in the morning and eleven-thirty at night had been pure. He felt guilty rubbing one out thinking about Lydia, okay, and he refused to be held accountable for anything that happened in his dreams.
So, he’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place of sorts: wanting to lose his virginity ASAP but only wanting to sleep with the girl who was least likely to notice him in a town full of perfectly nice other, non-Lydia Martin girls.
And in walked Derek.
Let’s be clear here: Derek Hale was a piece of shit.
(Derek Hale is still sometimes a piece of shit in a lot of ways, but—you know what? Just hold that thought for a sec. We’ll get there.)
You know how some people just bug you? They’re like fuckin’ splinters because they push under your skin and you can’t pull them out so you just keep picking and scraping at them, and other people try to talk to you about, like, relevant shit, right? But all you can focus on is the fucking splinter in your finger and how fuckin’ annoying and unwelcome it is because goddammit it’s a splinter!
Derek Hale was the splinter. Stiles’s splinter. This is a metaphor.
And the more Stiles picked at Derek, the deeper he fuckin’ went.
Scott once sat down at the lunch table and said, “Stiles, I need your help,” and at the same time Stiles said, without any sort of Derek-prompt necessary, “How big of an asshole was Derek being last night? What a prick, right?”
But the good thing about Derek being Stiles’s splinter?
Stiles never felt guilty jerking off thinking about his thighs.
(Because have you seen how Derek fits in those jeans? Stiles has several proposed laws drafted and ready to be sent to his state representatives on the detriments of allowing Derek Hale to wear Levi’s.)
Stuff with Derek didn’t stay tense and awful and unwelcome for long, though. Because, you know, underneath the manpain and the scowling and the, yeah, violent tendencies that dictated Derek’s life the first two months Stiles really knew him, Derek was kind of awesome.
He liked to roll his eyes with his whole head, for one thing, and, yeah, he was pretty, but he had a tendency to be a little shit pretty regularly. And, well, if Stiles has ever had a type other than “hot and sarcastic,” he’s never known it.
Plus, sometimes Derek would do these things— be a little shit, you know? And it’d be hilarious, but only to Stiles. Like the two of them alone were sitting in on this great joke, so they’d laugh to themselves or maybe share a smirk and move along, but these moments? They felt like something.
And at some point, Stiles kind of figured, “Hey, maybe I’m his splinter, too?” There wasn’t really a way to confirm this theory, so he sorta sat on it for a while, brought himself off to the idea that Derek was—maybe—bringing himself off to thoughts of Stiles. It was, like, the Circle of Spank Bank for a solid four months there. Chaffing abounded.
Two weeks ago, Isaac showed up at school, clapped Scott on the back and slid into the seat behind him, then gave Stiles a long once-over.
“Okay, creepy much?” Stiles had demanded, squirming under the scrutiny.
In his airily douchey manner, Isaac had said, “I don’t see the appeal.”
“Hey!” Stiles had gone in for the defense before—“Wait. Hold on. Rewind that shit for a second. Are you saying that someone does see the appeal? As in, someone you know? We know? I know?”
And Isaac had smiled, just smiled.
Which, like, fucking ace, right? The only common denominator Stiles could see between himself and Isaac was Derek (and Scott, but—no. Not since a weird month and a half in seventh grade after Stiles got hard while wrestling with Scott, anyway, when he’d been at an age where a well-shaped LEGO could set him off).
(Also Boyd, but Boyd didn’t fuckin’ like Stiles. Had never fuckin’ liked Stiles. Would, likely, never fuckin’ like Stiles.)
It felt like a green light. Possibly a yield to oncoming traffic sign. But Stiles was an optimist, so he saw this as the green light to his sexual fantasies becoming reality. And it was awesome.
There were things to consider, though, before Stiles could make his move on his splinter-turned-(ughhowdidthishappenokayItotallyknowhowthishappenedthankyouLevi’sbutstillugh)-crush Derek Hale.
Things like the fact that he was seventeen.
For a week and a half longer.
Ten days, then the Circle of Spank Bank would evolve into the Circle of Mutual Orgasms. In this, Stiles was confident.
He wrote a song. It went: I’m going to have sex, I’m going to have sex, I’m going to have sex with Derek Hale.
He sang it a lot. He gave it a drum beat. It was catchy as hell.
Scott got it stuck in his head once and it was just a bad situation for everyone involved (namely: Allison, Stiles, and—oh, God—Harris).
Three days ago, Stiles was supposed to arrive on Derek Hale’s doorstep and announce that he was an adult and thus legally sex-able. He saw no flaw in this plan; he expected to be devirginized in all of the best ways. He had plans for the spiral staircase in that apartment, okay. Detailed plans.
But, six days ago, Stiles’s father had derailed all of Stiles’s trains of thoughts on the subject (and there were a lot of these, okay).
He sat Stiles down and said, “Stiles, you’ll be eighteen in three days.”
And Stiles had said, “I know,” with all the excitement and joy capable of a seventeen year old on the cusp of manhood.
And his dad had said, “It’s time for you to start taking on some responsibility, I think.”
And Stiles had said, “Is this about me forgetting trash day again? Because I’m still, like, super sorry about that.”
And his dad had shook his head and said. “I’m talking about money, Stiles. Car insurance? Cell phone bills? Now that you’re eighteen, I think it’s time that these things became your responsibility.”
Stiles gave him a blank look; turning eighteen was supposed to be awesome. Getting a job did not sound awesome.
“That being said, I took the liberty of looking around town, and, through a few of my connections, I managed to get you a job.”
Really, in retrospect, the McDonald’s visor on the table should have sent up, like, a dozen red flags as soon as Stiles walked in. But Stiles, in a cloud of I’m going to have sex, I’m going to have sex, I’m going to have sex with Derek Hale, had completely missed it.
So, this is how Stiles started working at McDonald’s five days ago. Working so much, in fact, that his new job effectively shut down his quest to get his VCard swiped.
Leaving him, Stiles Stilinski, a fuckin’ eighteen-year-old virgin after all.