Soft Derek, Warm Stiles, No One is a Little Ball of Fur by tiedtogetherwithadagger
Rating: General
Word Count: 3799
Stiles is wiping down the counters and humming California Gurls to himself when the bell above the door chimes and Derek walks in. The next notes of the song get stuck in his throat and he freezes. Stiles shouldn’t be surprised, really. The rest of the pack have already been by to visit him, even Jackson. Of course, Boyd was the only person Stiles ended up giving a free drink to, much to their disappointment. So what if he had favorites? How could he not when Boyd was the one to get him ComiCon tickets?
Derek swaggers up to the counter Stiles is stationed behind, because that’s the only way Derek apparently knows how to walk. He’s wearing a maroon knitted sweater today that looks unfairly cozy. Stiles slaps his own hand down from reaching out and touching the fabric because that would be weird. Although slapping yourself might be weirder. Oh well.
Title: Torque to Size Ratio
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Sterek
Summary: The summer heat makes Stiles sweat. Unfortunately not only does it make him sweat, his shitty ancient building seems to sweat. Or at least, none of the doors seem to sit in the frames correctly. Most importantly, his front door. The front door to the house that just might hate him, and at this moment, won’t let him inside to the pure and beautiful air conditioning that is just waiting on the other side. Luckily, his neighbor is there to help him, again.
Tags: sterek, flirting, awkward Derek, oblivious Stiles, alternate universe–human
Notes: This prompt was posted by @pantydean on a sterek server I’m on but I sadly only have a this screen shot as a reference. Thanks for the prompt Crypto because it was the perfect inspiration for @comedicdrama‘s BIRTHDAY FIC!
Happy Birthday to my lovely Dessert Prince
<3 I hope you like these dorks falling in love.
p.s thanks to @tobythewise for jumping in and beta-ing for me <3 ily
Read on A03
“Mother fucking–shit–fuck.” Stiles, once again, runs his hands through his hair, pulling on the strands until his scalp tingles. With a frustrated growl, he kicks the base of the door and then hisses as pain shoots up his toes and into his ankle. “Mother fucker––”
“This is great.” Stiles stiffens at the voice, at that voice. Derek Hale’s voice, his frustrating, attractive neighbor. Frustrating, because the guy is perpetually grumpy, but also, like, super nice, and Stiles just doesn’t get how that even works. How does a person have constant R.B.F but still manage to be the most helpful? It’s really hard to get a read on Derek because of it. And attractive... because, well… Stiles isn’t blind and even if he was, he’s sure that he’d somehow instinctively know of Derek Hale’s Hotness™.
Slowly, Stiles turns around. Derek’s sprawled out along the stone front steps of his duplex like he’s posing for some kinda sexy summer heat photoshoot. He’s leaning back on his elbows, hips cocked forward, his long legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack sitting next to his wrist. And it’s in that moment that Stiles decides Derek should absolutely be wearing more, or significantly less than his sweat-stained white tank top and a pair of grease-stained, faded Levi’s. Boots… those scuffed work boots will be the death of Stiles.
“Being locked out together,” Derek clarifies when Stiles just stares at him.
“Yeah, great,” Stiles grumbles turning back to his door. “Except I’m not locked out.” To further illustrate his point he jerks his keys out of the lock. Well, he tries to anyway but just like the door, they’re stuck. Derek just shrugs, his long fingers stretching to grab the bottle next to him.
“Either way, we should hang out more.”
Stiles drops his forehead against the door groaning. He’d love to ‘hang out’ with Derek. He’d love to, just once, look competent and graceful in front of the guy. But that’s not his life, and Derek seems to show up every time Stiles is having a…. moment. Like now, like this moment where his shitty, ancient, prewar building is acting up, and just hates him! Scott doesn’t believe him, but Stiles is convinced the building is sentient and just… hates him! Scott’s never had trouble with the front door, he’s never tripped up the steps while holding three fresh, hot pizzas only to be caught by one, Derek Hale before he can drop the boxes. Those steps have it out for him, Stiles swears it. He’s never tripped up or down steps as much as he does with these.
Scotts doesn’t understand because the house loves him! He’s never gotten stuck half in half out of the ground floor window when the thing suddenly dropped on him. To be fair, Stiles probably shouldn’t have been going through the window to get to the laundry room but he was tired of fighting with the front door. And, just to make everything worse, of course, Derek-fucking-Hale shows up and rescues him. With his bulging biceps and wide palms, making the stupid stuck window slide up like its been freshly greased. Not like Stiles hadn’t been, valiantly, fighting with it for the last 20 minutes trying to buck it up off his spine, no, of course not. That’s the last time Stiles tries to use the window as a shortcut to the basement laundry room. Creepy dark stairs from then on out. Until they try to kill him too.
“You should kick it,” Derek says and Stiles rolls around on the front door, keeping his head connected to the ancient wood, he looks down his nose at Derek and Derek fucking smiles. It might be the first real smile Stiles has ever seen on the other man and he just doesn’t know how to feel about it.
Derek’s smile widens as he brings the bottle up to his lips and tilts his head back like he’s putting on a show, one clear, bright eye pinning Stiles back against the door as he drinks, slow, long drags of the whiskey. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as Derek’s Adam’s apple bobs with each hearty swallow. He’s got no idea what's going on but he likes it, he likes this side of Derek.
“Go on.” Derek breathes, as he puts the bottle back down. “Kick it, you should. Yeah, try, try a kick.”
“A kick?” Stiles' brain clicks online, slow and buzzing. Sweat’s dripping down his back, thick summer air wraps around his skin like a blanket, his mouth is dry and he licks his lips watching Derek track the motion. “K–kick it?”
Sweat drips slowly down the tendons of Derek’s neck and he seems to shine in the fading early evening sun. “Yeah,” he shrugs and then points at the door with the bottle “Kick it,” he says before bringing it back to his lips.
Kick it,” Stiles grumbles pulling himself from the door. “Fucking kick it,” he repeats to himself. Yeah, he thinks. It’s time to show this fucking house who’s boss. Flattening his hands against the door for stability, Stiles rears forward, pulls his knee towards his chest and donkey kicks the shit out of the door, twisting his hip and really putting everything he has down into his leg. The vibration of his foot connecting with the sold weight of the door thrums back up his leg and chatters his teeth. But other then that, nothing happens.
“That… Wow.” Stiles looks up, jaw tensed to try and stop his teeth from clacking, at Derek who's now leaning forward, forearms braced on his bent knees. His head’s cocked to the side and his brows are raised in what could be surprise, amusement or… Stiles doesn't even know, now his knee hurts.
“Yeah…” Stiles is ready with a dismissal when Derek laughs and it’s beautiful and Stiles hates him a little for keeping that sounds caged up inside of himself for so long.
“That was, wow,” Derek smiles and stands, the bottle dangling dangerously from his fingertips. He skips down the last few steps at the front of his building and practically float/jogs across the small street. Again, Stiles hates him, just a little bit, for the beautiful flex of his neck muscles as he checks for traffic, the roll of his shoulders as he hops up Stiles’ front steps and comes to stand just a little too close for Stiles’ sanity. “That… wow. More torque than I expected.” Derek grins and Stiles flushes from his feet to his hairline. He can feel it, the burn of heat on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the weather.
“You’ve got, uh...” Derek’s eyes drag over Stiles body, slowly and he licks his lips before meeting Stiles eye again. This can’t be happening. “A surprising, uh, torque to size ratio.”
“Uh…” Stiles is never at a loss for words, but right now, with Derek looking him over, with Derek leaning in, his wide palm landing on the door over Stiles' shoulder, bringing their chests so close together that if Stiles breathes too deeply they’d touch. Well, he’s got nothing. Stiles Stilinski has nothing. Nothing to say except a very elegant: “...uh... Y–yep”
Derek makes a soft noise in his throat before tilting his head towards the door, his palm slides up the wood and it really takes every ounce of his very limited self-control for Stiles not to turn his face and lick the sweat out of the bend of Derek’s elbow.
“Here,” Derek says, almost absently handing the bottle to Stiles, his whole body changing focus to the door behind Stiles.
It’s really a beautiful thing, Stiles thinks, as he takes the bottle from Derek and–what the hell–takes a drink. How Derek gives something his entire focus and how Stiles would like to have that focus on him, just for a little while.
He sighs around the mouth of the bottle, letting the very, very stuck door take his weight. He’s suddenly tired. Whether it's the heat or Derek, or the stupid house, who totally hates him, Stiles has no idea, but he’s done. Closing his eyes he tilts his head back against the door, the bottle halfway up to his lips again when Derek grunts, the house shakes and a very, very manly squawk erupts from Stiles' mouth.
Bracing for an impact that never comes Stiles’ flailing limbs grapple for the first thing they can find. His free hand grips a thick, sweat-slick neck as strong arms wrap around his back, and before he can get too far, Derek is hauling him back to his feet, pulling Stiles into his space as he grins.
“Careful there,” he says and Stiles can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Should have warned you I guess.” Derek goes on, glancing over Stiles' shoulder at the now gaping doorway. He tugs a little making Stiles shuffle forward, his wide, scorchingly hot palms brace the small of Stiles back. This cannot be happening.
“Nah…” Stiles manages “...we–we’re good.”
“Are we?” Derek asks looking at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, one of those thick murderous brows arching in a way Stiles has never seen before. It sends butterflies swooping in his stomach.
This is happening.
“Yeah, we are so good.” Stiles grins at Derek, and hoping he’s reading the entire situation right, takes a swing of the Jack before passing it back. He slides his hand up Derek’s chest to join his other cupping the back of Derek’s neck. Derek licks his lips, brings the bottle to his lips and then places it on the wide cement banister.
“Got anything else you need me to manhandle for you?” Derek asks, his hand returning to Stiles’ back only to slip lower and dip into Stiles’ back pockets.
“You–you...and me?” Stiles tilts his head, this cannot be happening, this cannot be fucking happening. Not with Derek-Fucking-Hale.
“If... you want?” Derek says, and its soft, shy, cautious, and Stiles realizes that Derek is worried about Stiles rejecting him.
“Me?” Stiles need to clarify because he’s pretty sure he’s kept his huge, massive, crush on Derek a secret. At least he’s tried to.
“Yeah, since that time with the pizza boxes.” Derek blushes, blowing out a breath and looking away. He shrugs his shoulder, trying for nonchalance but Stiles sees the way his jaw tenses. “Been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you, but you know….”
“Uh?” Stiles is trying not to laugh, the reality of the situation hitting him full force. He’s not this lucky. The steamy hot guy across the street doesn’t like him, it’s never him, except this time it is. Derek seems to be getting more embarrassed and frustrated as he tries to explain.
“You’re always stuck in things! Or late for something, or rushing. I… I’m not good at just, doing this….stuff…. out of the blue.”
All at once it clicks. “You’re not actually locked out of your house are you?”
“No,” Derek bites his bottom lip, the hands he has stuffed in Stiles back pockets twitch. “You’re two hours late coming home! I got nervous and … it was only supposed to be like one drink, something to give me courage, make me stay out here till you got home, but…”
“My class ran late.” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, cursing his TA responsibilities– not for the first time.
Derek clears his throat, nods, and to Stiles’ great horror starts to withdraw his hands from Stiles pockets.
“Right so…”
“You know,” Stiles grins, flinging an arm out, he grabs the bottle and gulps down the last few shots. “I think,” he says, wincing around the burn in his throat, “that the door to my bedroom….” Stiles steps backward through the front door, using the hold he has on Derek’s neck to tug him along. “Could use some man-handling...”
Derek’s smile returns full force. He steps in, pulling Stiles' hips against his own as they move out of the sweltering evening sun and into the confines of Stiles’, maybe not so haunted house.
Comment/kudos on AO3
Sterek Valentine Prompt: Stiles is the romantic one, he plans the dates and anniversaries, etc. Derek decides that for this Valentine's Day he's going to do something special but everything goes wrong/gets ruined, Stiles finds him pouting, possibly in the middle of a mess. Stiles comforts him, lots of fluff please :)
This was such a fun prompt! Also on ao3!
It was ruined. Everything was ruined.
Throughout their entire relationship, Stiles had been the romantic one despite his typically flippant, irreverent attitude especially when it came to love and romance. He was the one who planned all of their dates and anniversaries, the one who arranged surprise parties and holiday celebrations.
But with their first Valentine’s Day together quickly approaching, Derek decided to take the initiative and plan something himself. And, of course, everything had gone to shit.
There had been a mix up with the flowers he had ordered, a few days earlier placing an order for a bouquet of pink orchids and carnations in a bid to get away from cliché red roses. But the bouquet that arrived on his doorstep wasn’t what he ordered. Not at all.
It was a bouquet of stark white lilies. In all honesty, he wouldn’t have cared much about the order being messed up if the flowers were for anyone else, but white lilies were Stiles’ least favorite flower. He hated them.
They’d had white lilies at his mother’s funeral, the sickly sweet smell of pollen filling the Stilinski home for weeks following the funeral. Once upon a time, Stiles hadn’t really minded them but now all they did was remind him of death. Derek couldn’t very well give a bouquet of them to his boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.
He had immediately contacted the florist company he had ordered the flowers from, waiting on hold for upwards of twenty minutes before he actually got to talk to a real person. They informed him that they could rectify the mistake. But he wouldn’t get the correct bouquet until the next day, the company swamped with orders due to the holiday.
He contemplated simply ordering a new bouquet from another florist but everyone he called wasn’t accepting new orders, leaving him stuck with the wrong bouquet. Groaning, he dumped the flowers into the trash can, deciding that they just wouldn’t have any flowers. Flowers were overdone, anyway.
The box of chocolates he had gotten for Stiles was wrong, too. He had explicitly requested all peanut butter chocolates, Stiles’ absolute favorite, from a gourmet fine chocolate company but it had still gotten messed up.
Derek had snuck one of the candies, hoping Stiles wouldn’t mind that much or even notice, taking a bite out of the little chocolate only to find that it didn’t have a peanut butter filling. It had a strawberry center.
While normally that too would not have been very upsetting, Derek himself actually a huge fan of strawberries, there was one big problem. Because there was only one thing on the face of the earth that Stiles was allergic to ― strawberries.
Like the flower shop, the chocolate company offered to fix their mistake, the next business day of course. Popping another candy into his mouth, making a mental note that he would have to brush his teeth again before Stiles came over, Derek tossed the box of chocolates into the trash.
He consoled himself with the fact that chocolates were a little too cliché, almost as much as red roses. Besides, he didn’t imagine anaphylactic shock was all that romantic.
With both the flowers and the chocolates discarded, Derek had to think on his feet, racking his brain for some other way to show Stiles a great Valentine’s Day aside from mind-blowing sex. He finally settled on baking a red velvet cake which, while fitting the theme of the holiday, also happened to be Stiles’ flavor of cake. But that got ruined too.
The cake was burned to an ashen crisp in the oven, filling the loft’s kitchen with thick black smoke as Derek fumbled to throw the brick of charcoal that had once been a pan of cake batter into the sink, ignoring the burns the hot pan left on his hands. Coughing at the smoke that soon engulfed the entire loft, Derek grabbed a hand towel to wave by the smoke alarm that had blared to life with a piercing screech that physically hurt his ears.
He had managed to ruin everything. Stiles was going to arrive at the loft, see the damage he had done, and think that Derek was an awful boyfriend. And he would be right. Derek couldn’t even arrange something for Valentine’s Day without screwing it all up.
He buried his face in his hands, trying not to cry as the fire alarms continued their incessant shrieking, his ears ringing painfully. That was how Stiles found him fifteen minutes later when he let himself into the loft with the key Derek had given him for their two month anniversary.
“Der?” He asked cautiously as he slowly walked over to him, waving his hand around in front of his face to clear away some of the thick smoke, his eyes watering a bit as he crept further into the loft. Coughing into his fist, he tiptoed deeper into the kitchen to where Derek was standing, the werewolf not making any move to acknowledge him.
Worried something was horribly wrong, aside from the acrid smoke and smell of burnt chocolate cake, Stiles gingerly raised a hand to lay on Derek’s shoulder. He squeeze gently, dropping his backpack down onto the floor as he moved closer to his boyfriend, asking, “Babe? You okay?”
Derek just shook his head, sniffing, refusing to lift his head. Taking a quick look around the kitchen, Stiles nodded to himself, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of Derek’s head. Stroking his hand over Derek’s shoulder, he murmured, “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
He turned around and jogged over to the wall of windows, opening a row of them to help clear out some of the dark smoke that was filling the loft, breathing in a breath of fresh air as he did. Soon enough, the shrill scream of the smoke detectors faded away into nothingness, the alarms silenced by the lack of detectable, sparing both of them splitting headaches.
With the smoke dissipating, he returned to the kitchen to fetch Derek, curling a gentle hand around his boyfriend’s elbow to tow him out of the kitchen and lead him into the main room. He led Derek over to the couch, sitting him down on the comfy cushions as he took a seat beside him, rubbing his back,
“You okay, Der?” Stiles inquired again, keeping his voice low, resting his cheek on Derek’s shoulder as he rubbed circles into his boyfriend’s back through the thick fabric of his maroon Henley. He was willing to wait however long it took for Derek to say anything, content with just sitting there holding him for awhile.
“I ruined everything,” Derek mumbled with an embarrassed whine, voice muffled slightly by his hands. Hiccuping pitifully, he continued, “It’s Valentine’s Day and I ruined everything!”
“Hey, babe, you didn’t ruin anything,” Stiles soothed, laying a kiss on the broad curve of Derek’s shoulder, curling his arm around Derek’s waist. He was close to whining himself, hating to see his boyfriend so upset.
“Yes, I did!” Derek insisted desperately, snapping his head up while he gestured to the vacated kitchen, a whinge bleeding into his voice. Waving his hand around aimlessly, he went on, detailing, “I ruined everything, Stiles! I burned the cake, I got the wrong chocolates, there was a mix-up with the flowers… I ruined everything!”
Stiles cut him off with a quick peck on his lips, kissing the tip of Derek’s nose afterwards with a soft smile, running a hand through Derek’s hair. Shaking his head, he explained, “No, you didn’t. You didn’t ruin anything, Der.”
“But―”
Again Stiles cut him off with a kiss, shushing him gently as he placated, “I wasn’t finished. You didn’t ruin anything. Sure, things got a little messed up but so what? That describes ninety five percent of my life. And who needs flowers and chocolates, anyway? Because I sure don’t. Not when I have you. That’s all I need.”
“Yeah?” Derek sniffled, voice cracking with emotion as he blinked up at his boyfriend, a shaky smile teasing at the corners of his lips. Looping his arms around Stiles’ neck, he shifted a little closer, resting his cheek on Stiles’ chest, nuzzling into the soft fabric of his faded graphic t-shirt.
“Yeah,” Stiles hummed, combing his fingers through Derek’s silky hair and leaning back against the couch cushions, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Closing his eyes, he sighed contentedly and murmured, “What do you say we just cuddle on the couch for awhile?”
“Sounds perfect,” Derek mumbled sleepily. And it was. Stiles was right, who need flowers and chocolates? He had everything he needed right there.
For the past few years, Derek has been chasing the most intoxicating scent around Beacon County whenever there's a full moon. When he wakes up one morning half naked and hungry he seeks refuge in a bakery, where he's hit full force by the scent he's been chasing. A scent belonging to the cute baker named Stiles.
I prompted @comedicdrama to do a text post for some awkward!Derek hitting on Stiles in this little sun in the fun park setting:
Stiles and Scott are in the park playing frisbee. Scott throws it wide and it hits Derek in the back. Derek is sitting, minding his own business, on the rolling green lawns, hunched over a book. He's about to snap at whoever hit him but when Stiles sprints up next to him, flushed, and breathless, and beautiful, his anger melts away, along with his common sense and his ability to form a coherent sentence.
Turns out Drama is a genius at dialogue, and I snorted out loud more than once.
Derek: *pterodactyl screech*
Stiles: WTF… Are you okay?
Derek: Ye---yeah. I’m good. So good.
Stiles: Sorry about the frisbee.
Derek: It’s okay. You can throw whatever you want at my head.
Stiles: …what?
Derek: No, I mean, it’s okay. That you threw it. At me. You don’t throw hard, anyway.
Stiles: Excuse me, I am a champion Frisbee Golfer. How dare you.
Derek: I’m… With that aim, though?
Stiles: I’d like to see you do better.
Derek: Okay.
*Derek tosses the disc and it vanishes into the trees*
Stiles: Well, you got range, I’ll give you that.
Derek: Sorry. I’ll buy you another one.
Stiles: You don’t have to.
Derek: I insist. Give me your address, I’ll Amazon it to you right now.
Stiles: My… address? How about my name first? Hi, I’m Stiles.
Derek: De-- Derek.
Stiles: So, Derek, got a phone number? *wink*
Derek: Yeah, good idea! I’ll call you when the Frisbee is delivered.
Stiles: What? No. I’m--- How hard did you get hit?
“Someone taught me that the flowers are actually fairies and the petals are their hair. I think your dog killed a small village in my garden this morning.”
Derek didn’t know what to say. Or what to do.
His unfairly gorgeous neighbor, Stiles―the one who always forgot to close the blinds in his bedroom when he got dressed and sang off-key in the shower loud enough that Derek could hear him in his own bathroom every morning―was standing on his front porch looking utterly exasperated with a dark smudge of dirt high on his cheek and a mangled pale pink rose in his hand, roots and all.
