Okay, so...let's talk about Grindr. This little, unassuming app for your smartphone that Stiles may or may-not-have sought out for the sole reason of...research.

The app is a geo-based dating service, but it caters to a specific kind of people. Namely...guys.

Gay guys.

It's not like, Stiles is gay, he just has an insatiable curiosity and an unquenchable need to understand and learn about anything and everything regardless of its origin. So going on this app has nothing, nothing to do with the copious amounts of guy-on-guy porn that have slowly been integrated into his regularly visited 'Stiles Private Time' folder.

Nope. Nada. Nein. Never. No.

So, Stiles stares at his phone, watching the installation bar slowly fill with a guilty expression and a nervous demeanor. Thankfully, he's in his room and it's just about midnight. He hopes that means that there won't be any werewolf related issues tonight. Still, you can't ever be too careful, right? He's made sure to lock his door and his window. At one point, he was debating on nailing it shut, but he's sure if any of the mutts really wanted to get in, they'd just rip the whole window off with super strength or something. Plus, he's not sure how it'd look to his dad if he ever saw his son's window littered with nails.

Stiles shakes his head, ridding himself of his thoughts and looks down to his phone to see that the app is finished installing. He bites his bottom lip. It's not that he's afraid of the app, per se, but more so the fact of what it might mean if he does enjoy the app. Not that being into dudes is a bad thing. Stiles is totally into equal rights. Free love. Do what you want. But he'd be lying if he said that this wasn't some sort of sexuality crisis. For the longest time Stiles has only had eyes for the perfectly perfect Lydia Martin, but after Jackson's over-dramatic transformation into Wolfihood, Stiles has sorta unconsciously accepted that Lydia and he will probably never be a thing.

Even if Jackson hadn't turned into a Werewolf and stayed a freakish, lizard creature, Lydia had always loved that douchebag. Even when they had their falling out, Stiles remembered the feeling of hope so bright that it was practically shining out of his ass. Lydia was single. Jackson didn't want her. She was free game and all Stiles had to do was show her how amazing he was. Only, Lydia was so obviously not interested in him it was like being kicked in the gut and stabbed in the chest.

So yeah, Stiles has resigned to his fate of living a life without Miss Martin. Tish tosh. It's all in the past. On to bigger and better things. And as it so happens, bigger and better just might be a member of the male gender.

It's not that Stiles has never been curious. Sure, he's noticed guys' physiques. Tough muscles, masculine characteristics, dominating demeanors. Just look at Danny. Stiles might have a long subdued crush on the dude. He was so painfully attractive. His cocoa butter skin. His powerful body; strong corded arms thick with muscle and a chest so bulging with abs it's basically sinful. Then there was his shining smile, his deep brown eyes and his beautifully sculpted face. Stiles had asked the dude more than once if Danny thought that he was attractive to gay guys. Danny was always dismissive about it, but Stiles sorta liked to think that his own slightly lanky body and so awesomely awesome personality would be a total catch to some hunky gay dude.

But it wasn't until after Jackson's transformation and Lydia's confession of eternal love for said douchey-douchedouche that Stiles actually took off the blinders and looked around himself and yeah...checkin' out guys made Stiles feel all funny in the pants.

So here he is. After a week of slowly jerking off to more and more gay porn than straight, he's scoured the app marketplace for a gay dating app and this one was the most popular. So he tapped the download button and now he's staring at a yellow icon with a black symbol at its center. He taps the button and the app launches and he holds his breath. He's met with the loading screen, a message displayed below the apps icon.

Get Ready To Grindr

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. Gay dudes really don't beat around the bush, do they? Everything is so sexually suggestive. Not that Stiles is complaining. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't hoping to get nakedly acquainted with some willing participant of the same sex.

He's suddenly presented with a grid of pictures on rows of four. Each one with with a username. Stiles instantly notices that most of the guys are definitely into posting chest pics with a purposeful lack of face. The users are ordered based on distance from his current location. That's sorta handy.

Stiles scrolls down a bit, checking out what Beacon Hills has to offer. Most people he doesn't recognize. Not that he's meant to, seeing as how he's basically looking at a collage of abs. There are a select few of guys that have posted a pic of their face, but Stiles quickly deduces that those are the men that are either are a bit heavier in stature or older than forty.

Suddenly Stiles freezes. His eyes land on Danny's display picture and he nearly freaks. A little green dot in the corner of his grid picture shows that he's online, too. Stiles quickly clicks on his grid picture looking for some sort of option to block users. He's presented with a small profile bio and a larger picture of his classmate. Beside the bio is the block and favorite button. Stiles' finger hovers of the red 'X' meant to block, but abruptly stills. He remembers that he hasn't set up his own profile yet; devoid of a picture, username and profile info. Surely Danny wouldn't know the blank profile belonged to Stiles. So...he slowly lets his finger move away from the icon and he favorites Danny instead. Backing out of the profile to scour more hot abs.

He's about a hundred and ninety-four users in when a set of deliciously perfectly set of abs catch his eye. Stiles felt that there was something so eerily familiar about them. That is why he clicked on the profile before he could think better of it. The user name is a simple 'sw'. Lower-case and cryptic. The green orb on the profile tells Stiles that this set of abs is online and ready to mingle. He looks to the profile bio. It's one word: 'looking'.

Looking? What the hell is that suppos-Oh. Stiles' brain pieces it together fairly quickly.

Looking for some sexytimes.

Stiles is suddenly very much more aware and very, very much more interested in these tasty abs. Abs that are looking.

Stiles gulps, and clicks on the message icon, bringing up his keyboard to a simple chat screen, but then he freezes. What are you supposed to say to this? Stiles has never hooked up before. Hell, he hasn't even kissed anyone yet. Also, it was so painfully obvious he wasn't good with the whole flirting thing. Or at least, all his attempts in the past have ended pretty horribly.

After a few moments of debating with himself he decides that a simple greeting should suffice. It's proper. It's initiating. It gives way to conversations and conversations can lead to confessions of interest and confessions of interest could lead to perfectly chiseled abs pressed to his skinny, hormonal, teenage body. The thought has Stiles a little hard so hell yeah he types out three letters and presses 'send'.

Sup

That looks a little impersonal now that Stiles has sent it. But then again, aren't these things supposed to be completely impersonal? A simple 'Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sir' sort of dealings? Stiles shrugs to himself and waits for a reply. When one doesn't come within the following five minutes he becomes a little discouraged and then he's finding himself bored. So he leaves the chat and starts to fix up his profile.

He's pretty scarce about everything. Mostly because no one is supposed to know that Stiles is secretly into manmeat quite yet. His profile says he likes video games and comics and that's pretty much that all needs to be said. His username, however was a little bold. Bold as in horribly ironic. Maybe he should feel bad about it, but he really, really doesn't. Because it's actually really fucking hilarious given that his life circles around Werewolves. So yeah, Stiles has decided to go by 'Little Red' on this here gay scouting app.

Last thing he needed to do was add a picture. This part has Stiles feeling a little apprehensive. Mostly because he definitely can not upload anything with his face. Not yet, anyway. Not until he has sorted out whatever homo-bug bit him that has him slowly craving dick in all the wrong (right) places.

He remembers earlier when he was scrolling down through the many dudes of Beacon Hills that are getting busy with other dudes. How most had posted body pictures rather than faces. So...Stiles was debating on whether or not to do that. Before he knew it, he was in his bathroom across the hall. He was super ninja-like so as to not wake up his dad. He turned on the light and met his reflection; hand reaching to the door knob to lock it. He looked at himself for a moment, then shimmied out of his pajama bottoms then tore off his shirt. He frowned at himself. He definitely wasn't super built like the many other guys on the Grindr app. He was having a serious inferiority complex at the moment. He then remembered seeing many scrawny and lanky 'twink' guys posting pics of their slender bodies, too. Stiles wasn't oblivious to how gay stuff worked. He beat off to enough porn to know that there were a lot of more masculine gay dudes that were super into the whole 'twinky-slim-boy-next-door' body. The type of body that, to much of Stiles' dismay, he himself had. His body was tight, yes. But there wasn't any prominent, bulging muscles. Just a lean and slender build. His pale skin and random moles speckled across his flesh, though. That made him feel even more self conscious.

However, that didn't stop him from grabbing his phone, opening the camera app and snapping a picture of himself. He looked at the resulting image through the tiny screen of his phone and decided it was whatever. His mind lingered on the fact that he was wearing unusually tight red underwear, but it was only for the fleetest of moments. A part of him thought that it would be all the more fitting in some fucked up way. Little Red in his little red undies. Ha.

Ha. Ha.

Hahahaha.

Stiles cropped out his face and uploaded the picture as he made his way back to his room. He closed and locked the door quietly and plopped down on the bed. A few moments later his phone chimed with a notification. He opened Grindr and his eyes went wide. Apparently, fixing up a profile was a good idea. He had sixteen new messages from twelve dudes. But Stiles ignored all that. Because 'sw' was one of the people that had messaged him.

Stiles opened the chat, excitedly looking at the reply.

[SW: you looking?]

Oh fuck yes he's looking. Looking for those deliciously perfect abs all on his face. Stiles is replying before he knows what's good for him.

[Little Red: Sure.]

Maybe that could have been a bit more...he doesn't know. Enthusiastic sounding? In his mind he's screaming at the top of his lungs 'yes, yes take me now. taaaake meeee' but his fingers reply with a "sure"? What the fuck body. You seriously need to collaborate better. Stiles doesn't have time to further chastise himself, because Lickworthy Abs has responded.

[SW: Any other pics?]

That has Stiles freezing up again. He hasn't really had the need to take pics of himself in the kind of way he's assuming 'sw' is inquiring about. The most of himself he has is him doing awkwardly stupid and childish things that he still snickers at because yeah, that shit was funny.

Stiles bites at his bottom lip and begins to type his reply.

[Little Red: Yeah. You?]

A few seconds after its sent, 'sw' has sent him three pictures. The first was his abs again, looking so, super fucking perfect. Delicious. So, so delicious Stiles is salivating.

The other two have him gaping.

The second was taken in a mirror, the man's face is hidden by the phone and the flash that Stiles thinks was implemented on purpose to conceal his identity. But Stiles isn't paying much attention to his face, because while one hand is holding up the phone, the other is reaching down to hold on the massive...he repeats, massive outline in 'sw's sinfully tight, black briefs. There really isn't much of a reason to even be wearing them, Stiles thinks. He can see everything almost so clearly. And holy shit. That is the fucking Kraken. A mothafucking Anaconda.

Okay, okay. It's not freakishly huge, but still. If that were to go into the places Stiles wants them to go, he's almost positive that it was going to be an extremely painful process, 'cause that was porn worthy cocksize right there.

If the second picture had him gaping, the third had his mind on the verge of implosion.

The last picture is in the same bathroom, camera situated in the same manner, hiding 'sw's face, only...while his other hand is reaching down just like the seconds picture, there is a distinct lack of underwear and oh god Stiles is so painfully hard right now. 'sw's hand is covering himself, his hand's obscenely big fingers cupping and successfully hiding his dick. But dear sweet baby jeebus. Stiles' eyes are instantly drawn to the way his muscles are flexed. The dark patch of hair above his groin. The hair on his built and powerful thighs.

Oh fuck.

Stiles is so, so gay right now. He's so gay he doesn't even know what the fuck to do with himself.

The sound of another notification tugs Stiles out of his existential crisis. He scrolls down to see another message from 'sw'.

[SW: your turn]

Oh, um...right. Yeah. Stiles owes this guy some pictures. Equally sexual in nature, he suspects. Right? Stiles is short circuiting. He's never done this before. He doesn't know the rules of trading pictures and on top of that, his brain has just been fried to nothingness from the sheer amount of sexy that is 'sw'.

He absolves himself from his stupor and decides to ask. Because, despite the fact that he wants to look cool or whatever, he really, really doesn't want to send the wrong kind of pictures and make an ass of himself.

[Little Red: What kind of pics do you want? Like, do you want me to send you ones like the ones you sent me? Same poses? Same order?]

A minute passes and Stiles is thinking that maybe he ended up making an ass of himself anyways. The familiar notification sound has him rushing back to his conversation with 'sw'.

[SW: ass is what i want to see.]

Stiles...Stiles just sorta sits there for a moment to collect his thoughts, because apparently 'sw' wants to see his ass. An ass that 'sw' might want to plow into later and fuck yes. Yes yes yes.

Stiles is flailing off his bed and jogging for the bathroom as fast as he can.

He's locking the door and stripping until he's naked and staring at himself in the mirror again. He's half hard with thoughts of 'sw' and the pictures he got from him earlier. He turns to the side, observing the way his back curves in an almost graceful way before bowing back where it meets his bottom. Speaking of butts, Stiles has never really looked at his before and not to be too cocky, but he's thinking it kinda looks super fucking bangable. It's all plump and round from the copious amounts of fast food he seems to eat, but at the same time its firm and bubbly thanks to lacrosse and running around, flailing for his life in the woods during the shenanigans he and the pack get into.

All in all, it's a pretty nice ass.

Freakishly smooth, though. Stiles isn't quite sure why he doesn't have hair there. He doesn't trim or shave. He only keeps his man-bush in check. He shrugs, still sideways, he grabs for his phone and takes a shot; one hand cupping his now soft dick, hiding it. There needs to be some mystery.

If he curves his back a little more than necessary, thus jutting out his ass a little more obscenely, you can hardly blame him. He's trying to make a good impression.

The second, he turns all the way around, opposite to the mirror. He brings the phone up over his shoulder and shoots a couple pics, hoping the angle is right. He settles on one that captures the beauty of his ass to his impeccable standards.

The third picture he takes from high up. His hand covers his dick, the phone capturing his body at an angle that can only be described as the 'MySpace Pose'. He's shameless.

After he's satisfied, he sits on the edge of the tub. He crops out his face and sends them to 'sw'.

He feels nervous all of a sudden. Now that his horny-high has subsided and his brain is thinking more about what's actually happening than imagining himself being pounded into the mattress by 'sw's massive cock, he feels extremely exposed. He realizes now that 'sw' didn't even technically send him anything 'nude'. At least not in the way Stiles just sent him. He wonders if this makes him seem easy. Like some sort of sleezy, loose slut. Someone who easily gives away pictures of themselves in hopes that they'll end up in bed with a total stranger.

Which...isn't that what Stiles is doing?

Now Stiles feels super wrong and dirty. Seriously! What the hell is he doing on here? First he's just checking shit out and now an hour later he's swapping pics with the hottest body he's ever seen in the history of ever. In hopes that maybe, what? He'll be invited over for sex? Is this what Stiles is all about now? For the longest time Stiles had always imagined his first time being all magical and slow and passionate and sickly romantic. There weren't many times he imagined it being dirty and and impersonal. Not to say that those fantasies didn't exist. Those were usually the hottest, but that didn't change the fact that he was sappy and wanted his first time to mean something. A quick get-off with a total stranger isn't romantic or magical. But that's exactly what's happening here. He's setting himself up for...for...a hookup. A casual exchange of bodily fluids and pleasure.

The sound of 'sw' replying stole his attention.

[SW: fuck. i want to tear into that ass.]

Stiles is suddenly hard again. Screw morals.

[SW: you travel?]

Travel? Stiles thinks that maybe this guy is asking if he wants to come over. He hopes he's asking. Because yes. Yes, yes yes a million times yes Stiles wants to go over. So his fingers rush along the touchscreen, replying with:

[Little Red: Address?]

And that is how Stiles ended up here, in some sketchy part of town. Parking in front of some wrecked sort of apartment-community-looking thing. He takes a moment to let it all sink in; letting the realization of what is happening really wash over him. His palms are sweaty and his heart is pounding so loud it feels as if it's crashing against his head. He swallows and breathes out a shaky exhale.

"Alright, Stiles. This is it. You're gonna go in there and be sexy and this dude is gonna be all over you and it's gonna lead to touching, and maybe kissing and then nakedness and eventually...oh fuck. Holy shit this is happening. This is actually fucking happening."

Licking his lips and gathering the last remnants of his courage, he leaves his jeep and heads towards the the staircase that leads up to the apartment that belongs to 'sw'. However, standing before the door that separated him from a stranger all too willing to deflower his rose, he swallows hard and brings his hand to hover over the wooden surface. He lets it linger a moment, internally conflicted with his situation. But before his fist could even hit the door, it swings open and the sight he's met with literally has him gaping.

Derek is standing in the open entrance, and apparently allergic to proper attire since he's scowling in only a pair of gym shorts. Stiles chokes, mind suddenly feeling like its imploding, because no way. No fucking way this is the right address. No fucking way in fuck that this is the same stranger he was swapping pictures with just a half an hour before. Derek just huffs out an aggravated breath, looking dangerous levels of 'not-dealing-with-you-right-now'.

"Stiles" The Alpha grits out, "What the hell are you doing here and how do you know I live here?"

Stiles wants to respond, but he can't think. He literally can't breath right now and he pretty sure the universe hates him. It hates him so damn much and he's almost positive its laughing it's ass off. So fucking pleased that Stiles has inadvertently orchestrated a hook-up with Derek Fucking Hale. But he's a dumbass if he thinks that his mouth needs to utilize his brain to utter words. Before he can stop himself, he's gasping out:

"Holy fuck! You're SW?!"