Fic: Maybe I Missed You, Sterek
Rating: T
WC: 5339
Author’s Notes: For @bittensweetwolf for the @sterekglompfest! The prompt was: “Stiles returns to BH after years of training his magic. Derek can’t control himself any longer.” I modified it a little bit to give Derek more control, but hopefully his very obvious intentions fit in line with the prompt!
Thank you as always to my amazing betas and cheerleaders, @rhysiana and @mad-madam-m. I love you ladies bunches and appreciate you so, so much!
Also, I’m cuting it close, but it’s still technically the 27th in my time zone. LOL Sorry it took so long to post!
The first time Stiles sees Derek Hale in nearly five years, he’s on his hands and knees at the edge of the lake, covered primarily with a layer of slimy blue goo and secondarily with a layer of fine, gritty brown beach sand. Derek glares up at him irritably, but Stiles can’t be too upset about it. It was the snap of his fingers that had popped the lake monster’s three heads like over-full zits, blowing Derek backward and rolling him across the bank of sand. Stiles can’t imagine that Derek would actually be pleased with his present condition, nor with Stiles’ role in turning him into a gooey, entrail-covered sandsicle.
“Take a shower, big guy,” he says with a wink and an upward curl at the edge of his lips. “Or we won’t let you join us for my welcome-home party.”
Derek snarls, and Stiles takes that as his cue to leave.
The second time Stiles sees Derek, it’s at said welcome-home party. Derek took a shower, much to Stiles’ relief–or to his dismay, he’s not quite sure. Derek has always been devastatingly gorgeous, but cleaned up, dressed up, and confidenced up–it’s a word, okay?–he’s a menace. Stiles can’t help it that his gaze is continuously drawn back to the tight black tee, the way the sleeves mold to his biceps, the way the dip of the collar shows off a mouth-watering thatch of chest hair.
And Derek clearly knows it.
“Welcome home, Stiles,” he murmurs when they finally have an opportunity to be within earshot of each other. Or rather, when Derek has an opportunity to be within earshot of Stiles. Stiles doesn’t even have to be in the same zip code to be in earshot of Derek.
“After this afternoon, I wouldn’t think you’d be so quick to say that,” Stiles shoots back easily, but Derek’s implacable gaze doesn’t break. “You’ve had five years of peace and quiet and Stiles-free shenanigans. Or, well, likely no shenanigans at all.”
Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes in the way that Stiles hadn’t realized he missed, not until right this second. “My life wasn’t that boring without you, Stiles. It’s not like I sat at home knitting every night.”
Stiles lights up. “Oh, but I bet you learned! You did, didn’t you? You would, you’re exactly the type.”
Stiles swears that’s amusement in Derek’s voice, so he barrels ahead. “Yes, the type who knits, but also the type who looks like he’d kill kittens but instead knits them little sweaters.”
“Stiles. I do not knit sweaters for kittens.“
Even Derek, stoic Derek, can’t bite back a smile at that. It’s tiny, but Stiles smells victory. “I don’t knit sweaters for anybody, Stiles.” The smile shifts, becomes a little darker, a little more wicked. “I kept my hands busy in other ways.”
Hello, boner. “Thinking about me the whole time, right?”
Derek’s smile goes sharper, his eyes hot. “Maybe.”
Stiles’ jaw drops, but before he can come up with a suitable response, Derek winks and slips past him, out the door.
“Damn it,” Stiles swears, frustrated. “That was not how this night was supposed to go.”
Read the rest on AO3!
