"You know, Der," Stiles says with feigned offense, practically skidding to a stop in the parking lot outside Derek's house, "I am hurt that you'd just automatically assume it was me." His poorly suppressed grin proudly announces his total lack of innocence.
Derek raises an unimpressed eyebrow and uncrosses his arms to gesture at the rear window of his car with an annoyed flick of his wrist.
Decorating the glass is a small army of stick people bearing a variety of accessories, one obnoxious figure for each member of the pack.
“Come on, big guy, I know you love the gas mileage or whatever, but you've gotta admit the hot soccer dad mobile isn't as sexy as the Camaro was. It needed a little something. So I bought you a present.” Stiles’ is beaming and casually leaning into Derek's space.
“And the stick with the tail that says ‘Dad’ under it? That's supposed to be me?” Derek is still pissed, his inflection incredulous, but Stiles can see a hint of amusement in the way his lips twitch and his eyebrows tilt out of a furrow.
Stiles’ grin grows even wider. “Well, obviously.” When Derek scowls, he adds “Come on, Der, if parent teacher conferences were still a thing in college, you know you're the one that would get called in when our little delinquents misbehaved.” Derek’s brow quirks at the use of ‘our’, but Stiles doesn’t seem to have noticed it. “And the pu- the kids all go to you for help with their cars, you help pay their tuition, you intimidate all of Isaac's potential dates. You're like, their wolf papa.”
Despite Stiles’ absolutely gleeful explanation, Derek remains unmoved. He darts another glance at the rear window and looks back at Stiles with a gleam in his eye that makes Stiles squirm.
“So, if I’m the pack dad, what does that make you?”
Stiles rubs at the back of his neck and shuffles his feet. “Me? I’m just the human.” It sounds like a question, but Derek ignores it.
“I mean, the kids, as you called them, go to you for life advice, and help with classes, and to complain about me. You all make cookies together, and when they need reassurance about non-werewolf stuff, you’re who they call first. That sounds like maybe you’re the pack mom, Stiles.” Derek is openly grinning now, Stiles’ discomfort making the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a laugh.
Stiles’ reaction is immediate and spectacular. “Hey!” he yells, full of indignation. “First of all, that is some gender stereotype bullshit you just said, Hale. Second, my cookies are amazing, and I don’t hear you complaining about them while you practically inhale them on movie night! And C, you should be so lucky!”
Derek’s smile has reached frankly unsettling proportions. “So, our little sticks aren’t holding hands because you want to raise three rambunctious werewolves together? Or do you just want to role-play?”
Stiles’ mouth opens to argue, but no words come out for a long moment. “Holding- we aren’t…Role-play! Wha-” he looks closer at the stick figures that span most of the rear window, and visibly deflates, muttering a seething “Goddammit, Erica.”
“I didn’t do that.” Stiles says lamely, gesturing vaguely at where the wolf-man and the police officer (Stiles projected a few years into the future for his stick) are most definitely attached at their tiny circular hands.
Derek takes a step closer, cocky smile melting into something softer as he gets closer to Stiles. “So, this wasn’t your completely obnoxious way of asking me out?”
“No! I would ne- wait. What?” Stiles’ eyes narrow in confusion and Derek tries and fails not to find it adorable.
They’re practically chest to chest now, and looking right into each other’s eyes, Stiles’ breath is coming slightly fast, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. Derek follows the movement deliberately, letting Stiles take in how Derek’s eyes trace along Stiles’ mouth. “Stiles,” Derek says softly, somehow managing to make it sound like a fond ‘Come on, don’t be stupid’. His eyebrows are raised encouragingly, urging Stiles’ brain to connect the dots.
Stiles’ eyes search Derek’s face, and when Derek settles a hand tentatively on Stiles’ hip, Stiles breathes out a soft “Oh” and smiles.
“Yeah, Stiles, ‘Oh’. Welcome to the conversation.”
Stiles shoves playfully at Derek’s shoulder, then decides to leave his hand there. “Derek?” he says seriously, “Do you want to hold hands with me?” Derek laughs and presses the sound of it into Stiles’ mouth. When they pull away several minutes later, both slightly dazed, a look of dawning realization crosses Stiles’ face. “And I am most definitely not going to call you ‘Daddy’ like, ever.”
This time, Derek’s laugh is too much to muffle with a kiss, but his eventual “Thank god” is mostly lost when Stiles pulls him closer.
*****
A/N: I could not for the life of me find a good stick figure family maker, so I will probably draw the rest of the pack if you all want to see what everyone else is accessorized with. What do you think?
Summary: Danny doesn’t have a crush on Stiles. No way.
Notes: Another one for @inell, who wanted Stiles/Danny and “be nice to your seat partner, they might just be your future spouse!” This is an AU where nothing supernatural happened in Beacon Hills. (On AO3)
Danny always hates the start of every school year. There’s a new schedule to learn, a new locker to find, and an influx of baby-faced freshman wandering around. There are also new teachers, new classes, and most importantly, new seating assignments.
He has to stifle a groan when he discovers that his desk-mate for English is none other than Stilinski. He’s weird and awkward, and only ever seems to hang out with his one dorky friend. Danny does not need him bringing down his reputation.
He also, Danny can’t help noticing, has long, long legs. He’s a little ashamed, but sometimes imagining those legs wrapped around his waist is the only thing that gets him through boring lacrosse practices.
Stiles might be undateable, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any positive attributes. Admittedly, his mouth is another key player in some of Danny’s daydreams.
He slides into his seat, and he’s just about to say something to Stiles, who’s sprawled out in his own chair, when the teacher begins to speak.
“Okay, everybody. I hope you’re in the right place. And be sure to be nice to your seat partner—they might just be your future spouse,” she says cheerfully.
Danny is just thinking about what an incredibly small-town outlook that is, when Stiles turns and actually winks at him.
Who the hell does he think he is?
*
Their English teacher, Ms. Morton, has them free-write in their notebooks every day, to get them “warmed up.” Danny thinks it’s kind of pointless, but it’s ten minutes of peace and quiet, so he goes with it.
He’s feeling a little low on inspiration, though, so he sneaks a peek over at what Stiles is writing. And he gets a bit distracted, because Stiles really does have nice hands. One of which is resting against his mouth as he scribbles in his journal.
His perfect, pink mouth, that he leaves hanging open so often.
Sometimes, Danny really regrets his keen observational skills.
He drags his gaze away, starts writing a story about meeting a handsome guy in a coffee shop, who has an intriguing line of freckles across one cheek.
*
He expected Lydia to be all over the new girl. What he didn’t expect was for Stiles’ goofy-puppy friend to be all over her, too.
Which means they all end up eating lunch together.
Awkwardly.
Somehow, when he’s trying not to watch Stiles drink his water obscenely, he gets roped into going bowling with everyone. It’s some kind of group date, and since they’re all paired up already, that leaves him with Stiles.
Great.
He’s about to say no, and bow out, but then he catches a glimpse of Stiles’ excited expression, and well. Danny’s not as nice as everyone thinks—it’s just that he usually keeps his thoughts to himself. And also, having an asshole friend like Jackson makes him look really great by comparison.
But he’s not a monster.
“Sure, I’ll be there,” he says. He pretends not to notice Stiles’ enthusiastic fist pump.
*
Jackson is, of course, taking the bowling way too seriously. Everything’s a competition with him, as Danny knows too well.
It is pretty entertaining, though. Because Scott is spending most of his time looking shyly at Allison, sending her these dopey little smiles, while Jackson just gets increasingly more aggressive.
And Lydia looks increasingly more put-upon.
What makes it even better, though, is Stiles. He keeps leaning in and making these snide little comments about how much sex Lydia is going to withhold, and for once he doesn’t sound like he’s in love with her.
Danny thought he had a good grasp of the nuance of sarcasm, having been friends with Jackson for so long.
But it turns out he was wrong.
Because Stiles—Stiles on another level.
He’s snappy and sharp and quick-witted, and god help him, he’s funny. Sometimes, Danny actually has to walk away, because he’s laughing so hard.
He always knew that Stiles was that weird kind of smart, with immaculate (if eclectic) book knowledge, and just enough street smarts to let him read people really well, sometimes nearly instantaneously.
And it’s actually pretty interesting, seeing the places Stiles’ mind will jump to, all the ideas he’ll connect, all the tangents he’ll go on. He finds himself listening intently, and realizes that, to his surprise, he’s actually enjoying himself.
*
Stiles might be fascinating, but he’s still a dork, Danny thinks consolingly to himself. There’s absolutely no reason for his tiny crush on Stiles to get any bigger. Not when he’s seen Stiles trip over his own feet three times today.
Except that Danny’s beginning to wonder if Stiles can read his mind. Because somehow he seems to have a direct line to exactly what Danny is into.
Stiles comes to school wearing a tight, short sleeve shirt, which reveals surprisingly muscular arms. Then, the next day, he shows up in a dark Henley that emphasizes the lean lines of his torso, and rides up enough for Danny to see a thin sliver of his hips.
He catches himself staring more than once.
And he keeps touching his face really often, dragging those long, beautiful fingers across his lips. It’s really distracting.
Danny thinks he’s doing okay, though, until the day Stiles wears jeans so form-fitted, they almost look painted on. They give him a perfect view of Stiles’ (rather nice) ass, and his muscular thighs. It kind of makes Danny want to put his hands all over Stiles, makes him wonder what it would be like to have Stiles pressed up against him, to be kissing him—
Yeah, Danny totally has this crush under control.
Totally.
*
The worst part is, Danny can’t stop thinking about Stiles. And not even in his usual, mildly judgmental way. No, he’s thinking about what Stiles would look like if he smiled. Not a smirk or a grin—a real, genuine smile. He finds himself wondering what Stiles is thinking, what Stiles is doing.
And he knows it’s bad, because even Jackson, who’s dealing with relationship issues with Lydia, has noticed how distracted he is. It’s awful.
He knows Stiles is only in the popular group by virtue of his best friend, who finally got brave enough to ask out Allison, but still… Stiles is looking less and less undateable these days.
Danny is finding that he actually wants to spend more time with Stiles. They only have one class and lacrosse practice together, and he’s really starting to regret that.
So when Stiles says, “Hey, we’re all going to the diner after school, you want to come?” Danny barely hesitates.
He begins to second-guess himself, though, when he shows up and Stiles is the only one there. Was this just one of his schemes?
But as he approaches the table, Stiles says, “Allison and Scott are running late, they’re busy. But they’ll be here soon.”
Danny raises his eyebrows, sits down across from Stiles. “Oh? And are Jackson and Lydia busy too?”
“I don’t want to know,” Stiles says, making a dramatically disgusted face. “I don’t think Jackson would eat diner food anyway, but Lydia said she’d be here.”
“All right,” Danny says, nodding. If their friends are having sex in the backseats of their cars, that’s not Stiles’ fault. “You know, it’s not that Jackson hates diners. It’s just that he can’t eat very much fried food—it hurts his stomach.”
“Really?” Stiles says, looking like he’s been given a gift. “Good to know,” he adds in a low mutter, and Danny has to work hard to keep the smile off his face.
They end up trying little ice cream samplers while they wait for the others, and Danny has a lot of fun. Stiles sends him a few lingering looks throughout the night, but he doesn’t do anything else. Doesn’t even hint that he’s interested.
Danny pretends that he’s not disappointed.
*
“Stiles, what the fuck,” Jackson says irritably, as Stiles parades past him eating French fries for the third time that day.
Danny just laughs.
*
Ms. Morton tells them they have to write a creative story, at least three pages long, with their desk partner. It’s due next week.
“Writing buddies!” Stiles says excitedly, raising his fist. Danny doesn’t even hesitate to bump it with his own.
Stiles invites him over to his house to work on the story. He sprawls across this bed, scribbling determinedly in a notebook as they discuss ideas.
Danny sits in Stiles’ desk chair, and spins himself idly when he can’t think of anything for the plot. He tips his head back, and stares up at the Stormtrooper poster on Stiles’ ceiling as he takes another turn.
“I think they should kiss now,” Stiles says abruptly.
“You said that three paragraphs ago,” Danny says, looking over. “What is up with you and kissing?”
“It’s just nice,” Stiles says dreamily. “And I think there should be more of it in our story.”
Danny doesn’t respond right away, too busy wondering who exactly Stiles has been kissing. “Fine,” he says eventually. “They can kiss.”
Stiles looks up then, and Danny kind of expects some line about how they should be kissing, too. But he just says, “Awesome,” and “Don’t worry, I’ll make it good.”
Danny nods, feeling strange. The Sheriff isn’t home, likely won’t be for hours, but Stiles hasn’t made any mention of it. Hasn’t invited Danny to sit on the bed next to him, hasn’t suggested doing something fun, instead of homework.
Nothing.
He’s not used to being alone with someone, not without there being any innuendo, or any implications of what’s going to happen. Hell, even Jackson has propositioned him for sex before. So it’s weird that Stiles hasn’t made a single move at all.
He’d never admit it, but he’d actually gone to Lydia, and asked her if Stiles might be into him.
“Stiles has a crush on half the school,” Lydia had said, not looking up from her essay. “But yes, I’m quite sure he’s interested in you.”
Danny hadn’t bothered to ask how she knew. There was no point.
And Stiles was not exactly known for subtlety, so the fact that he hasn’t made his interest obvious is freaking Danny out.
So is the realization that, if Stiles did ask him out, Danny might not say no.
*
Stiles isn’t making any moves, but other people definitely are.
The winter dance is in two weeks, and Danny has already witnessed three people ask Stiles to go with them. He’s turned each of them down, but that’s not the point.
Stiles has been sitting at the popular table for months, has been a lot less impulsive and reckless, has been letting his buzz cut grow out, and has actually been getting to play first line during lacrosse games.
He isn’t undateable anymore, and it’s obvious that more than just Danny have noticed.
It’s making him a little nervous.
Danny had honestly expected Stiles to be mildly shunned, as usual, from all social events. He’d been expecting to have time to decide if he wanted to take Stiles to the dance, and then scoop him up at the last minute, if needed.
But now…
Stiles could say yes to someone at any moment. Danny is out of time to decide—and honestly, he already has.
He wants to go with Stiles. He really, really does.
He watches Stiles stroll across the classroom to their shared desk, and decides he’s going to do something.
Soon.
*
Danny’s not a smooth as people think—usually he’s the one being asked out, so he doesn’t have a lot of experience with doing the asking himself.
Still, he tries to play it cool.
“Hey, Stiles,” he says, after lingering in the locker room until almost everyone is gone. Stiles is somehow still not fully dressed, and staring at the muscles of his bare back throws Danny off a little.
He has his shirt in his hands, Danny notices, but he still hasn’t put it on. And his athletic shorts are sitting rather low on his hips, so he has to work to keep his gaze fixed on Stiles’ face.
He considers asking something low-risk, like Are you going to the dance? or Have you said yes to anyone yet? Instead he comes right out and says, “Do you want to go to the dance with me?” It ends up sounding confident, and Danny breathes a little sigh of relief.
Stiles’ eyes narrow slightly, like he’s suspicious, but he just says, “Yeah, I do. You can pick me up at six.”
Danny quirks an eyebrow. “But the dance doesn’t start until seven-thirty.”
“I know,” Stiles says easily. “I figured we could go for burgers or something first.”
“Oh,” Danny says, and thinks like a date. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
And Stiles gives him a smile, just a little bit smug, like he knew exactly what Danny was thinking.
*
It doesn’t go like the movie cliché—Stiles answers the door instead of his dad, so he doesn’t get to come dramatically down the stairs.
Danny feels a little breathless anyway.
He keeps sneaking peeks on the drive to the diner, because Stiles looks better in a suit than he would have ever imagined. And when Stiles reaches over and fixes his tie, fingers gently brushing his neck, it sends a pleasant shiver through Danny.
He’s always liked the novelty of being incredibly overdressed in a casual place, and it’s amusing to think about how absurd they must look, ordering burgers and fries in their fancy clothes.
Stiles takes off his suit coat to eat, and seeing him there in just a thin dress shirt and tie is strangely appealing. Stiles slides his foot alongside Danny’s, a gentle pressure, but he’s concentrating too much on not getting food on his clothes to do anything else. Watching him lean over and take a careful, tiny bite of his burger is cute and amusing, so Danny doesn’t really mind.
And when he realizes Stiles is doing this because he wants to make sure he looks good for him, it sends a hot flush through Danny.
*
Despite his improved lacrosse playing, Stiles is still pretty clumsy. So Danny expected to have to coax him quite a bit, but he agrees to dance readily enough.
It’s a slow song, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to step into his arms, hands settling warmly on Danny’s shoulders. He’s not trying to pressure Stiles in any way, but Danny finds his gaze continually returning to Stiles’ mouth as they slowly dance together. He just can’t quite help himself.
Stiles is as observant at ever, of course, and he catches Danny at it right away. His lips quirk up, just a little, before he leans in and kisses him, soft and a little shy.
Danny feels himself sway into it as he tugs Stiles closer, pressing them together. Now he understands why Stiles likes kissing so much. One of Stiles’ hands slides over to cradle the back of his neck, thumb stroking the short hairs there. It makes Danny feel warm all over.
Stiles breaks the kiss before it gets too intense, and rests his cheek against Danny’s as they turn.
“I knew I couldn’t ask you out,” he says quietly into Danny’s ear. “I knew that if I tried, you’d shoot me down without even thinking about it.”
“What?” Danny says, pulling back a little so he can see Stiles’ face.
He gives Danny a lopsided smile. “I knew I somehow had to get you to ask me, instead.” He looks down. “I did everything I could think of. I convinced Ms. Morton to make us seat partners. I went to the jungle a lot, trying to figure out how to dress and how to act, so I could catch your attention. I even asked Lydia for advice. And it worked, but now I feel like I tricked you—”
“Stiles,” Danny says firmly, keeping his hold on Stiles when he tries to step back. “That was the real you at the bowling alley that night, wasn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, looking amused in spite of himself. “I couldn’t fake that level of sarcasm.”
Danny grins. “Well, that’s the Stiles I had a crush on, even though I wouldn’t admit it. And yeah, you dressing better, and acting calmer, and actually getting off the bench made it easier to ask you out. But I liked you before that, okay?”
Stiles nods, but he still doesn’t look quite convinced.
“I don’t feel tricked,” Danny says. “And honestly, I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. The dorky, awkward you.”
Stiles smiles so bright, Danny is pretty sure his heart skips a beat. And he can’t resist leaning in and kissing Stiles again.
And even when the music changes to a fast, upbeat song, they just stay in each other’s arms, slowly swaying together.
*
A few years later, when they’re nearly done with college, Stiles gets down on one knee. “Danny, will you marry me?” he asks, and then he fucking winks.
“Oh my god, Stiles,” Danny says, because he knows exactly what that is in reference to.
It’s still Thursday in a small part of the world, so here’s my contribution for day 6 ( How to Kiss a Boy - Stiles/male) of Shipping With Stiles Week 2017! Also, surprise - I wrote a non-Sterek fic! ;)
Bring a Wild Man Back Home | Stiles/Parrish | Explicit | 4k | Also on AO3
Stiles ran through the preserve, losing himself in the peacefulness of the early morning and the steady rhythm of his shoes pounding in the dirt. He was alone, on a seldom-used trail that was closed to the general public (and far away from the nemeton), and the weather couldn’t have been better. A smile flirted with the corners of his mouth as he thought back to his high school days, when he could barely run laps at lacrosse practice without upchucking or passing out. Oh, how he’d changed.
Without the same distractions that had plagued him through high school, Stiles had managed to get his bachelor's in computer science in three years, then stayed at GWU for another three years to get a master's in digital forensics.
Knowing he’d need to pass the FBI physical fitness test, but with no experience in any of the university’s D1 sports, Stiles had opted for club lacrosse and Brazilian jiu-jitsu instead, and he’d flirted his way through enough personal training sessions at the gym to learn what he needed to get fit. By the time he was ready to apply to the FBI, Stiles had been in the best shape of his life.
That, along with his impressive grades, his analytical mind, and the tentative affiliation he’d managed to forge with Scott’s dad, had helped Stiles make it through the FBI’s rigorous application and testing process. It had been rough, but he’d succeeded. Any time he’d even remotely considered giving up, Stiles had resorted to the memory of his dad openly weeping when Stiles had gotten his master's, hugging him fiercely, barely able to choke out an I’m so proud of you.
He’d managed to mostly avoid Beacon Hills while he was in college and at the academy. It felt good to get away, to start a new life somewhere else, in a place where he wasn’t haunted by the ghosts of high school past. He’d even gotten in touch with Derek, who’d given him the number of a supernatural-savvy therapist in Rosslyn. She’d practically worked miracles for Stiles, mentally preparing him for college and beyond, and had never asked for payment. (A few years later, Derek had admitted what Stiles always suspected - that he’d covered the cost of Stiles’ sessions.)
After being assigned to the San Francisco field office, though, Stiles had run out of excuses for avoiding Beacon Hills. His work with the cyber division kept him busy, as did getting himself set up in his new apartment and getting acquainted with the city, but he could only put off the visit for so long. He made his dad promise not to tell anyone he was coming back. He wanted to ease into it, see people from his past on his own terms.
It wasn’t that he was avoiding anyone, except that he was. He didn’t particularly want to see Scott or anyone else from the McCall pack, though he knew it would have to happen at some point. Scott would smell Derek on him. Okay, and Isaac. And Jackson and Cora. Then he’d have to admit that after reconnecting with Derek, they’d become close during Stiles’ early college years. The two of them had been able to persuade the rest of Derek’s ragtag pack to return from around the globe, and they’d solidified the bond that they should’ve had in the first place.
The five of them had lived together in DC for as long as Stiles was there, and then when Stiles got his post-Quantico assignment, they’d made the cross-country trek together. They lived in the same building (which Derek bought, because Derek), but in separate apartments, in Sausalito. After all, though both of them had matured, there was still no way Stiles would be able to share a place with Jackson. He shuddered at the thought, but couldn’t help grinning about how far all of them had come.
He was almost back to the parking area when he felt that familiar tingle at the nape of his neck, the one that developed during full moon outings with the rest of the Hale pack, the one that told him he was no longer alone in the woods. Stiles fought the instinctive urge to look back over his shoulder, not wanting to give in to the underlying paranoia that came with being back in the preserve. He wasn’t that kid anymore.
He struggled to keep his pace steady, having to remind himself that he wasn’t fleeing from anyone, and it wasn’t long until he started to hear footfalls behind him. By the time he could see his Jeep - a newer Wrangler he’d bought after arriving on the west coast - up ahead, the person behind him had almost caught up to him.
“Stiles?”
Stiles knew that voice. It was one he hadn’t heard in quite a few years, but he’d recognize it anywhere. He pulled up, slowing to a jog to let the other man catch up to him as they approached the parking area.
“Oh my god, it is you!”
With a nod, Stiles dropped back to a walk and glanced over at a stunned Jordan Parrish.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said as he started to pace the length of the parking area, letting his muscles cool down as he caught his breath. Beside him, Parrish did the same.
“I - I didn’t know you were back. The sheriff didn’t say anything.” Parrish barely sounded winded.
“I asked him not to tell anyone,” Stiles admitted. He turned and started back toward the end of the trail, not necessarily wanting to elaborate. Thankfully, Parrish was a quick study.
“I get it,” he said softly, still keeping pace with Stiles. “You want to do it on your own terms. I won’t say anything to anyone.” Stiles heard the unspoken promise in those words. I won’t tell Scott. He turned to find Parrish watching him as they walked, a look of sincerity on his face.
“Thanks, Parrish. I appreciate that.”
“It’s Jordan,” he replied with an easy smile. “We’re off the clock, and we’ve definitely known each other long enough to be on a first name basis.”
Stiles relaxed a little and offered a grin of his own. “Yeah, we have, haven’t we?” He turned again, this time to walk over to the far side of the parking area, where a shiny orange Tacoma sat next to his Wrangler. Stiles snorted as he grabbed a towel from his Jeep. “Nice truck. What do they call that shade of orange?”
Jordan let out a laugh, opening the passenger door to pull out a towel of his own, as well as a bottle of water and what looked like a light blanket. “Inferno.”
“Seriously?” Stiles huffed as he ran the towel over his face and neck.
“I swear. Drove by the dealership every damn day for four months with that thing calling to me before I finally caved and bought it.”
“It was meant to be, man.” Stiles reached back into the Jeep for his water bottle. He took a long pull from it before resting it against his cheek. The condensation felt heavenly against his overheated skin.
“I’m going to stretch out a little.” Jordan held up the blanket. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“Yeah, sure,” Stiles agreed. He followed Jordan back across the end of the trail to a small, flat clearing under the trees. Jordan shook out the blanket and spread it out before sitting down near the edge to take off his socks and shoes. Stiles followed suit, and he couldn’t help giving Jordan a once-over as they got situated at opposite sides of the blanket.
The years had definitely been kind to Jordan Parrish, who was probably about 34 years old, if Stiles was doing the math right. He looked a little more rugged than he had when Stiles left, with a few more laugh lines around his eyes, a forehead that was a bit higher, and some hints of silver in his morning stubble. Like Stiles, he was wearing mid-length running shorts and a tank top, and it was obvious he still worked out regularly.
Back in high school, Stiles hadn’t really thought of Jordan as anything other than his dad’s young deputy-turned-hellhound. And there was the whole thing with the Dread Doctors and the Wild Hunt and Stiles fucking vanishing. By the time it was all over, he wasn't thinking of anything outside of surviving and getting the hell out of Beacon Hills.
College had changed Stiles, though. He’d explored his bisexuality, he’d become more confident in himself, and he’d come to discover that he had a “type” when it came to men - well-built, reasonably muscular, great smile, someone who could be both beautiful and ruggedly handsome at the same time. And damn, but this older version of Jordan Parrish was hitting all of those buttons, hard.
“What?” Jordan asked as he spread his legs and started stretching, giving Stiles a knowing smirk.
And well, Stiles definitely wasn’t looking for a relationship in Beacon Hills, not by any means. Still, he wasn’t going to shy away from some flirting, especially when it looked like Jordan was more than okay with the attention.
“You look good.” Stiles held the eye contact and mirrored Jordan’s stretches.
“So do you. All that time away, and the training you put in...it looks good on you.” He smiled, and Stiles returned it.
As they cycled through various stretches, they fell into an easy conversation about Stiles’ training, both in college and at Quantico.
“I really haven’t had to use the defensive tactics outside of training,” Stiles said as they finished up. He reached for his water bottle and took a long drink. “I mean, I’m cyber, so most of my work is online.”
“You don’t look like you sit at a desk all day.” And okay, flirty Jordan was back. Stiles wiped some water from his upper lip with his thumb, and Jordan’s eyes followed the movement.
“I stay in shape. Still have standard physical evals.” He paused, debating with himself about how much to reveal. “And I have to keep up with the rest of the pack.”
To Stiles’ surprise, Jordan just nodded. “Derek’s pack.”
“How’d you know that?” The sheriff knew, but Stiles doubted he’d shared the information with anyone else.
“Derek and I have a mutual friend.” Jordan shifted so he was sitting closer to Stiles, pulling his knees up. “He put me in touch with someone who could help me with my control. I - I learned a lot about who I was and what I could do. Sharpened my skills.”
Stiles gaped at him, stunned. Derek hadn’t said a word to him about being in touch with anyone from Beacon Hills.
Jordan gave him a sheepish shrug, answering Stiles’ unspoken question. “I didn’t want him to tell anyone. I just - it took a long time for me to be okay with what I was. A really long time.” He glanced away, and Stiles got the feeling Jordan still wasn’t completely comfortable sharing his skin with a hellhound.
“You’ll get there,” Stiles said softly, nudging Jordan’s bare foot with his own. “It took me awhile to get over...everything.” The Nogitsune. The Dread Doctors. The Wild Hunt. “Derek helped me find someone, too. I mean, it’s not like you can just Google shrinks who know about the supernatural.”
Jordan huffed out a laugh. “And you ended up joining his pack.” When Stiles nodded, Jordan cocked his head at him. “I didn’t think he was an alpha anymore.”
“He wasn’t, or at least not the last time you saw him. It happened in South America.” Jordan’s eyes got a little wider, and Stiles hurried to clarify. “He didn’t have to kill another alpha or anything. He won’t tell anyone the whole story, but it had something to do with evolving and with the fact that he’d given up his alpha spark to save Cora’s life. I guess it was kind of like the true alpha thing, but…” He trailed off, trying to find a way to explain without mentioning Scott. “You know, for someone who actually deserved it.”
Jordan nodded. “He made a sacrifice worthy of a true alpha.”
“Exactly. And once the pack elders helped him work through everything from the past, he actually wanted to be an alpha again. He wanted to take responsibility for the people he’d turned, and for Cora.”
“And you.”
“And me.”
Thankfully, Jordan didn’t ask why Stiles was in Derek’s pack instead of Scott’s. He did ask about the pack, about how Derek and Isaac were doing, and about the two members he didn’t know - Cora and Jackson. Stiles told him about their move back to California and how they were settling in before following it up with the Cliffs Notes versions of Cora’s and Jackson’s stories. Jordan remembered learning about the kanima when he was trying to find out what he was, but he didn’t really know anything about Jackson.
“So it was Lydia’s love that brought him back to himself?”
“It was.” Stiles sighed, absently rubbing his thumb over the seam of his shorts. “I mean, compared to Jackson, you and I were just blips on Lydia’s radar.”
Jordan leaned into Stiles’ space, bumping their shoulders together. “So, was I ever a blip on your radar back then?”
Stiles considered the question a moment before shaking his head. “Gotta be honest, man. There was way too much shit going on in those days for me to even think about exploring the idea that I was bi. I didn’t even realize that was a thing until right before you showed up.”
Jordan gave him a long look, one corner of his mouth curled up in a small smile. “But you have explored it since then?”
“Oh, thoroughly,” Stiles said with a laugh. Jordan grinned back at him, and something in Stiles’ stomach clenched. He leaned a little closer, gaze still locked with Jordan’s. “So, since we’re asking...was I on your radar?”
“No,” Jordan answered, a little too quickly. At Stiles’ disbelieving look, Jordan shook his head. “Oh, come on! You were the underage son of my boss, who, oh by the way, was also the county sheriff.”
“Jordan.” Stiles fixed him with a pointed stare.
“What?”
“Jordan.”
“Shit.” Jordan ran a hand through his hair, still a little sweat damp. “Okay, I thought you were, uh, cute. You had - have - the most beautiful eyes. But you weren’t even out of high school.”
“Neither was Lydia.”
“Asshole,” Jordan laughed, giving Stiles a playful shove, and yeah, that was definitely a move if Stiles ever saw one. He leaned back into Jordan’s space.
“You know...I haven’t been underage in a really long time.”
Jordan’s eyes raked slowly up and down Stiles’ body, and his gaze darkened. “I can see that.” He hooked two fingers in the front of Stiles’ tank top and reeled him in slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away. Stiles pushed forward instead, closing the distance. The kiss was amazing, better than he expected, slow and deep and hungry, and he got lost in it. Lost in the feeling of Jordan’s hand slipping around to the back of his neck and the tongue pushing into his mouth.
One of his own hands went to Jordan’s hip and rolled him just far enough so Stiles could lean over him. Jordan groaned into his mouth and hooked a leg over one of Stiles’ to pull them even closer together. And yeah, if the manhandling wasn’t enough to get Stiles hard, the nudge of Jordan’s own half-hard cock against his thigh definitely did the trick.
“Oh, fuck,” Stiles breathed when they finally came up for air. Jordan was panting a little harder than he should have been, his head down, forehead nearly resting on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles brought a hand up to cup the back of Jordan’s neck, scratching lightly over the damp hair at his nape. “Hey, you okay?”
Jordan nodded and rolled his hips just enough to be convincing. He lifted his head and brought Stiles in for another kiss, shifting to line up their erections. Stiles moaned and thrust against him. He slipped a hand under Jordan’s shirt, only to find his skin feverishly hot. It startled him enough to pull away from Jordan’s mouth, and Jordan’s hips stuttered to a stop under his.
“Jordan,” Stiles started, breathing hard, “not that I want to stop, because I really don’t, but I have to ask…” He trailed off, letting the unspoken question hang in the heated air between them.
Jordan finally looked up at him, a bit of apprehension mixing with the desire in his green eyes. “I haven’t - not since before Afghanistan.”
Stiles gaped at him, even as his fingers glided over Jordan’s stomach in what he hoped was a comforting rhythm. “Really?”
“When I got back, I was just adjusting to being out of the Army. Then I got the job and moved here, and you know the rest.” He dropped a kiss at the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “I’m not sure what might happen, and I didn’t want to take a chance with someone who doesn’t know what I am.”
Stiles pulled him in for another kiss, the hand that was on Jordan’s stomach slipping between them to palm Jordan’s cock. Jordan cried out against Stiles’ lips, his own hand fisted in the back of Stiles’ shirt.
“I know what you are,” Stiles reminded him, still close enough that his lips brushed against Jordan’s. “How’s your control?”
“Perfect,” Jordan gasped, “in most situations. This...I - I’ll be okay. I won’t hurt you. As long as…” He trailed off, lust-darkened eyes drifting over Stiles’ face.
“As long as what?” Stiles toyed with the waistband of Jordan’s shorts.
“I, uh, get pretty overheated when I jerk off. How hot do you like it?”
Stiles couldn’t help chuckling at that, a low rumble that made Jordan’s eyes widen. “Try me and find out.”
Jordan’s green eyes flashed orange for just a second, and before Stiles realized it was happening, he was flat on his back on the blanket with Jordan straddling his hips. Jordan pushed his own shorts and briefs down below his balls and gave his hard cock a few long pulls, his gaze fixed on Stiles’ face. Stiles whined and, not to be outdone, shoved his shorts and underwear down to mid-thigh. Jordan’s eyes immediately went to Stiles’ erection, and a growl escaped from deep in his chest, just loud enough to remind both of them that he shared his body with a shapeshifter.
“You should probably take this off.” Stiles tugged at the hem of Jordan’s shirt, and he stripped it off in one smooth movement before leaning down over Stiles, holding himself up with one arm. It should have been awkward, but before Stiles really had a chance to think about it, he was thoroughly distracted by Jordan licking his own palm. “Fuck, that’s hotter than it should be.”
“Not yet,” Jordan breathed, wrapping his hand around both of their dicks, drawing a low moan out of Stiles. “But it will be soon.”
Stiles could only stare, mouth agape, as Jordan jacked them off. It felt amazing, a little too much friction at first, but god, it had been so long, and Stiles was leaking enough precome to slick the way pretty quickly. He shoved his shirt up to just below his chin to get it out of the way before things got inevitably messy.
Panting above him, Jordan squeezed his eyes shut. As soon as he did, Stiles started feeling the heat building everywhere - from the hand wrapped around them, from Jordan’s body above him, in the air that surrounded them. It was so much better than Stiles could have expected. Instead of making him too hot, the warmth enveloped him and spread through every muscle in his body. It was soothing and arousing at the same time, like nothing Stiles had felt before.
He slid a hand up into Jordan’s hair and tugged him down into a long, lusty kiss. When Jordan pulled away, he opened his eyes, and Stiles saw the beautiful natural green around his blown pupils instead of the orange he almost expected.
“Stiles,” Jordan moaned, his body going taut as he came unexpectedly, hot splashes hitting Stiles’ chest and stomach. His head hung down, and the arm that was holding all of his weight started to shake.
“Let me,” Stiles managed to choke out, moving his own hand down to wrap around their dicks so Jordan could hold himself up with both arms. As Stiles started to thrust into his own hand, Jordan leaned down low over Stiles’ chest and ran his tongue, hot and rough, over one of Stiles’ nipples. That was enough to push Stiles over the edge, and he came with a shout, his body going rigid under Jordan.
The warmth that still surrounded them lulled Stiles into a state of post-orgasmic bliss. He sank into it for several minutes, barely noticing when Jordan used his own discarded shirt to clean them off or when he shifted to lay down beside him, pulling Stiles’ shorts back up as far as he could.
“Stiles.” Jordan’s voice was a little rough, deeper than usual. Stiles groaned and shook his head. He still wasn’t sure what to make of what had just happened, but he knew he wanted to do it again, preferably more than once. “Stiles?”
“Hmm?”
“We can’t go to sleep here.”
Stiles sighed and opened his eyes to find Jordan’s stupidly beautiful face just inches from his. “I know.” He brushed his lips over Jordan’s and grinned at him. “Fuck, that was awesome.”
Jordan’s eyes lit up and he smiled back, open and maybe a little relieved. “I’m glad you thought so.”
Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him. “You mean you didn’t? Not for nothing, buddy, but I think your dick would beg to differ.”
“Oh my god, Stiles.” Jordan laughed softly against Stiles’ shoulder. “I - I was a little worried.” The hint of doubt in his voice was enough to bring Stiles the rest of the way around.
“Hey, you don’t need to be.” He traced Jordan’s jaw with his index finger. “Seriously, that was amazing. And if it’s okay with you, I’d really like to do it again sometime, hopefully soon. And preferably indoors.”
Jordan swallowed audibly, and there was a shine to his eyes for just a moment before he blinked it away. “Yeah. That's more than okay with me.” He pushed himself up, then helped Stiles sit up beside him.
Stiles leaned against him, hand resting on Jordan’s thigh. “First, though, I think I’m gonna need some food, and maybe a nap.”
“My place?” Jordan asked, giving Stiles’ fingers a squeeze. “I can make us pancakes, or bacon and eggs. I’m good at breakfast.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
After a few minutes of just sitting in comfortable silence, Jordan stood and pulled Stiles up with him. They got their things together pretty quickly, and Stiles couldn’t help reeling Jordan in for another deep kiss before they parted.
As Stiles followed Jordan’s truck out of the preserve, so many thoughts tumbled around in his head. He was still having a hard time believing just how good it had felt to be with Jordan, how safe he felt in that warmth. He wasn’t particularly looking for a long-term relationship, though, and he didn’t know if Jordan was either. He tried not to get too caught up in thoughts of the future.
For the time being, he was content with the idea of hooking up with Jordan, being that person who knew what Jordan was and was still willing to be intimate with him, giving him the reassurance he’d need for whatever his future held.
If that future included a relationship with Stiles, then Stiles would be okay with that, and they'd figure out the details when they got there. If not, well...at least they’d enjoy themselves - and each other - in the meantime.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore
♥
Rating: G, Word Count: 1468
♥
Fluff, Pining, Human AU, April Fools’ Day, POV Jackson
Jackson wants to cheer Stiles up after he's had several jokes played on him. He might make a fool of himself in the process, but it's totally worth it.
Jackson rolls the pebbles in his hand. The soft ticktick of the rocks is the only sound in the night. Well, that and the pounding of his heart, but he’s pretty sure only he can the latter. He checks his phone again. One more minute.
His hands twitch to his jacket pocket, where he put his car keys. It’s not too late to leave.
written for: for day 6 (Stiles/male) of Shipping With Stiles 2017 (hunters are totally law enforcement) and for the ‘Jordan Parrish’ square on my Rare Character Bingo Card!
summary: The one where on-duty phone sex is almost a thing, but a collapsing shelf gets in the way.
Jordan can count on one hand the number of times he’s worked a quiet night shift since moving to Beacon Hills.
Even in the dead of night, when the sky is black and the denizens of the town should be enjoying a deep sleep, there’s usually something happening in town, some form of chaos that has Jordan out of the station and into the streets. Sometimes, the chaos is supernatural in nature, like the time where a witch had decided that three o'clock in the morning was a great time to come out of the woods and start casting love spells on the town. Sometimes, the chaos is entirely human in nature, brought on strong emotions and easy access to weaponry.
(Jordan would rather take supernatural creatures over the latter any day.)
But sometimes, while they’re few and far between, Beacon Hills actually has a quiet night.
Those are the nights Jordan cherishes.
He has three hours left in his shift and, unless something catastrophic occurs between now and then, he plans on spending all of that time at his desk, right where he’s been perched since he arrived. The phones have been almost entirely silent, aside from some routine issues that were easily dealt with by deputies out in the field, and the bullpen is dim, lit only by half a dozen desk lamps scattered across the room. At the moment, he's the only one in the bullpen, although there are a few others scattered around the station, working on the backlog in the evidence room, grabbing a late meal or cup of coffee in the staff room, maybe even catching a nap in a storage closet.
He’s spent most of his time working on the mountain of paperwork sitting at the corner of his desk, only getting up to grab case files or another cup of coffee. He’s on his third, and the tower has shrunk down to more of a stack than anything, a stack that he might be able to complete by the time dawn (and the end of his shift) arrives.
Just as he reaches for the next form on the stack, the phone on the corner of his desk rings, the sound so unexpected that he actually jumps slightly before he grabs it.
“Beacon County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Parrish speaking.”
“Holy shit, you’re actually at your desk? I think this is a first.”
“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Jordan says, relaxing back into his chair now that he knows he won’t have to grab a notepad to scribble something down or run out the door. “What are you still doing up?”
“Can’t sleep,” Stiles replies with a frustrated groan. “Brain won’t shut up. Keeps reminding me that I have an exam in six hours. Well, four hours now. Guess it doesn’t matter that I literally spent all day studying with Lydia.”
“Guess not.” They’ve been through this enough times that Jordan knows there’s nothing he can suggest that will help; he’s pretty certain that Stiles has tried every possible remedy to silence his racing thoughts, aside from outright taking sleeping pills. Special teas, meditation, melatonin supplements; none of them have had any effect.
Talking doesn’t work either, not in the conventional way; Stiles still won’t be able to fall asleep once Jordan gets off the phone with him. But, at the very least, it’ll distract him for awhile and, as Stiles says, that’s almost as good.
“I should be able to talk for a bit,” Jordan says, pushing the paperwork away from him so that he isn’t distracted by it. “It’s been quiet here all night. I’m the only one in the bullpen right now.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Some of them are in the evidence room. Sleeping, maybe. Not that I blame them. I’d be sleeping too, if it weren’t for coffee.”
“In some alternate universe, we’re both asleep right now, together. But in your bed. Not in this piece of shit.”
“I offered to buy you a new one,” Jordan retorts. He’s only slept in Stiles’ bed a few times, when he was able to cash in some vacation days so that he could spend the weekend visiting him. On every occasion, he’d only be able to last one night on Stiles’ incredibly uncomfortable mattress, which was somehow simultaneously too soft and too firm; the rest of the weekend had been spent on an air mattress borrowed from Scott and jammed into the narrow space between Stiles’ bed frame and desk.
“You’re not buying me a new mattress,” Stiles replies, the eye roll obvious in his voice. “I’ll be home in two weeks, and I’ll figure something out by the end of the summer.”
“I’m sure you will,” Jordan replies, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.
(He’s still planning on getting Stiles a mattress at some point and having it delivered to his apartment; it’s just a matter of keeping it a secret.)
“Seriously though, prepare yourself for when I come back. I’m going to make my dad give you at least a week off. Maybe two. We’ve got too much to catch up on.”
“Do we?” Jordan teases. “You do realize I talk to you more than literally anyone else in the world. Except maybe your father.”
“Bypassing the potential weirdness of that answer for a minute,” Stiles replies, “that wasn’t exactly what I meant by catch up.”
“I know what you meant,” Jordan says, laughing quietly. “You’re not wrong. I miss you.” It’s been a month since the last time they saw each other, since Stiles was able to come home for a quick weekend, and while they’ve been able to fit in a few Skype conversations since then, that’s a poor substitution for actually being together, for being able to feel Stiles’ long fingers travelling down his body and tugging at his hair, for being able to hear Stiles gasping and moaning and cursing underneath (or on top of) him.
“I miss you too,” Stiles says. There’s a rustling from his end of his phone line, one that Jordan associates with Stiles collapsing back onto his bed and dropping the phone onto his pillow. For a few moments, aside from his soft breathing, he’s quiet, and Jordan can’t help but wonder if maybe their brief conversation has managed to quiet Stiles’ mind long enough for him to get some sleep.
When Stiles speaks again, that thought swiftly flies from Jordan's mind.
“You know, in another alternate universe, I’m probably bent over your desk right now.”
Jordan presses his mouth shut before any potentially embarrassing sounds can slip from it. Instinctively, he swivels in his chair so that he can take in the entirety of the bullpen, just to make sure that no one has come in while he’s been distracted. Thankfully, it’s still empty, so he spins back around, fingers tightening on the casing of his phone.
“We really can’t talk about this right now,” he murmurs, clearing his throat.
“What if you don’t have to talk?” Stiles replies. His voice is lower, but there’s no mistaking the tone for exhaustion; this is the voice that puts shivers up Jordan's spine, that makes warmth flush his body. “I can do all the talking. You can just sit there, let me know that you’re listening every so often. Would that work?”
Jordan could say no.
He knows that Stiles wouldn’t push the issue if he did; he’d probably just say goodnight and hang up so that he could jerk himself off. Parrish could go back to doing paperwork, drink some more stagnant coffee, go home after his shift and get himself off while imagining Stiles’ voice speaking in his ear.
Or he could say yes. The ending would be the same, but the memories that would be playing his mind while he brought himself to the edge would be fresher, picture perfect into his mind.
Before he can make a decision either way, a resounding crash comes from the direction of the evidence room. The phone clatters to Jordan's desk as he gets to his feet and yanks his service pistol from his hip holster, keeping the safety off for the time being but keeping his thumb near it.
“Clarke?” he yells, waiting for some kind of misshapen shadow, something not quite human, to appear in the doorway leading to the evidence room. “You alright?” For a few long seconds, no response comes, and Jordan inches his thumb closer to the safety.
Thankfully, before he has to flick it off, Clarke pokes her head around the corner.
“One of our shelves just collapsed,” she says, sounding like she’s just barely resisting the urge to slam her fist into the wall. “Can I get your help for a few minutes?”
“Yeah,” he answers, sliding his gun back into his holster with a grateful sigh. “I just have to finish something up. Be right there.” With a nod, she disappears back into the hallway, and Jordan drops back into his desk chair, grabbing the phone.
“Stiles?”
“Still here. Everything alright?” Stiles asks, the sentence split in half by a yawn.
“Yeah, it’s fine. One of the shelves in the evidence room collapsed. Clarke asked if I could help her with it.”
“Those shelves have needed replacing for years,” Stiles laughs. “I’ll let you go clean up the mess. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”
“Let me know when you’re done your exam,” Jordan says. He glances over his shoulder again, just to ensure that the bullpen is still empty before he continues. “And Stiles?”
“Yeah?”
“When you come home,” Jordan continues, “if you still want it, I’d be happy to bend you over my desk. So long as it's the one in my apartment.”
“You promise?” Stiles murmurs. He sounds tired, but that low undercurrent of desire is still present in his voice, and Jordan barely bites back a groan.
“Yeah,” he says, digging his fingers hard into his desk and resisting the urge to press his hand against the front of his pants. “I promise.”
For Shipping With Stiles Week! It was supposed to be for the “I Kissed a Girl” theme, but it’s rather late. I usually just write Sterek, but I thought I’d try my hand at a rare pair and my favorite female pairing with Stiles, Stiles/Erica! This is canon divergent during season two where Erica and Boyd go after after Gerard Argent.
Title: Apologies
Rating: G
Word Count: 1610
Warnings: Canon-typical injuries
Also at AO3.
**********
Erica sighed in relief as her house came into view. She and Boyd were exhausted. They had escaped the Argent house hours ago and the walk home had been a slow one as they had stuck to the shadows to avoid being seen.
“You going to be okay, Erica?” Boyd asked her quietly, looking over at her with concern.
“I’m alright,” she whispered back with her signature smirk. She hoped that her confidence looked convincing enough.
Boyd raised an eyebrow at her. He looked scarily like their alpha when he did that.
Erica rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, knowing that he had easily sensed her lie. “I just want to go home. You should get home yourself.”
Boyd nodded. “Stay safe, Erica.” Then he turned toward his own house and slipped back into the shadows.
Erica didn’t have her key on her, and she didn’t want to wake her parents, so she quietly slid open her bedroom window and climbed inside. She shook her head fondly as she realized that Boyd was not the only one who was mimicking Derek. She sank onto her soft bed with a moan of relief and closed her eyes.
Her mind quickly wandered from her alpha to another boy. Stiles. She hoped that he hadn‘t been too badly hurt. He’d been kidnapped by Gerard Argent, too. He had only been at the Argents for that night, but unlike herself and Boyd, he was still just a human teenager. He’d been beaten quite severely despite Gerard being an old and human himself. He’d been so brave, mouthing off to Gerard despite the danger to himself and untying herself and Boyd.
Erica had once told Stiles that she used to have the biggest crush on him, but her crush hadn’t just been in the past. She still had feelings for the talkative, flailing boy. But he had never really noticed her much before she’d become a werewolf because he’d practically worshipped Lydia Martin and had spent much of his energy pursuing her. He still did, though his running with the wolves cut down the time spent fawning over Lydia. Erica, however, had been pale, quiet, and had epileptic seizures, which many of her classmates had made fun of her for. They’d even posted a video of one of her seizures on the internet, which had been completely humiliating. Stiles had been one of the few who never made fun of her for her illness, and he’d stayed by her side during one seizure to make sure she would be okay. She would never forget that and would always be grateful to him.
The bite, when it took, cured all human illnesses, so she never had to worry about seizures from epilepsy ever again. She’d begun flaunting her beauty with bouncy curls, deep shades of lipstick, and sexy clothes. Boys had suddenly become interested in her, but she had shut them all down. She’d become mad at Stiles for ignoring her romantically all those years. She admitted to herself that she’d wanted revenge when Derek had asked her to keep Stiles away. She’d gone a little crazy with the power she now held and had hit Stiles with a piece of his own jeep. She still felt guilty about hurting him but she was too proud to actually apologize.
She decided then and there that she was going to go to the Stilinski house the next morning to check on Stiles and to apologize to him. And maybe she’d tell him she still liked him.
**********
The next day, Erica was standing on the Stilinski’s doorstep. She was glad that Stiles didn’t have werewolf senses because she’d been standing there already for five minutes, working up the nerve to knock. Only the jeep was in the driveway, so she knew that the Sheriff was most likely working and Stiles was home alone. She could sense Stiles’ heartbeat inside, awake and moving around the house.
Erica didn’t look like her usual self today. She looked more like she used to look before she’d gotten the bite from Derek. She felt it would be better to look more approachable instead of her intimidating man-eater persona that she was known for now at school. Her hair was slightly wavy, her natural style, and she only wore simple, natural-looking make-up. She was wearing a loose-fitting shirt and sweatpants, not her usual short skirts and low-cut blouses. She schooled her expression into something friendly and non-aggressive and knocked softly at the door.
She could sense Stiles’ heartbeat jumping through the roof at the sound, causing her to chuckle silently. A few moments later, he opened the door. He just stood there openmouthed, gawking at Erica.
She was sad to see that the bruise on Stiles’ cheek had gotten more colorful overnight. It looked like it was very painful. His split lip had crusted over where it had been bleeding the last time she’d seen him. There were several smaller bruises on his face and on his arms where his layers of shirts didn’t cover.
They just stood there for a minute before Erica couldn‘t help quirking one side of her mouth up into a small smirk. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked, verbally prodding Stiles.
Stiles jumped again as if he suddenly realized where they were standing. “Oh, yeah, yeah, come in!” he said breathlessly as he immediately stepped back to allow Erica to come in.
She entered the house wordlessly and sat down on the couch. She wrung her hands together, trying to think of what to say. She could feel the couch dip down next to her as Stiles sat down beside her.
“What is it, Erica?” he asked. “Are you okay?” He widened his eyes and started flailing his arms around. “I mean, I know you and Boyd heal and everything… Oh my God, Boyd! Did he get out okay too? I was worried about the two of you, you know!”
Erica shook her head fondly. Leave it to Stiles to worry about his pack more than himself. “He’s fine. We both are. I should be asking if you’re okay.” She lifted her hand to the large bruise on his cheek, touching it carefully. Despite her gentleness, Stiles still winced at her touch. “Oops, I’m sorry, Stiles!”
He shook his head, and gave her a half smile. “I don’t usually get beautiful girls touching me willingly.” He turned his head away and laughed, his shoulders slumped.
Erica reached forward and turned his chin back towards her. “Well, maybe one beautiful girl is happy to,” she said, then widened her eyes as she realized what she’d said. Well, that’s one way to let the cat out of the bag…
Stiles was staring at her again with that open mouth and Erica just wanted to kiss him even more senseless than he looked at that moment.
“I told you before that I had a crush on you, Stiles,” she said, deciding to lay all her cards on the table. “And I still do. You could do so much better than Lydia Martin! She doesn’t know what she’s missing! You deserve someone who sees you for the great guy that you actually are.”
“No, no, this is just a joke, right?” Stiles looked terrified, and this was not a reaction Erica was expecting at all. “This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to Stiles Stilinski! No, Stiles gets to get beat up by an old man and…”
Erica interrupted him by putting a finger to his lips. “Stiles, no! I really mean it!” she insisted. At Stiles’ doubtful look, she continued. “You care for your own with everything you have, and that’s just amazing. You got me and Boyd out of there. You really are my Batman. Your stupid flailing around is adorable. There are so many things I like about you. You have to believe me, you’re worth it.”
She took a deep breath. “And I’m so sorry about hurting you that time, with your jeep. I was mad at you for ignoring me for so long. Forgive me?” Her heart was pounding in her chest, waiting for Stiles’ response.
Stiles just looked at her with a smile. “I already forgave you, Erica,” he told her gently. “And I’m sorry, too. I was so busy trying to get Lydia to notice me that I didn’t notice you. When you got all wolfy… I saw how amazing you really are. Not just your gorgeous looks, but your whole self. And I was so stupid not to have noticed it before.”
Erica’s jaw dropped and she stared at him with awe. “You told the truth,” she breathed reverently. “Everything you said, it was all true.”
“Yup,” Stiles nodded. “So, Miss Erica Reyes,” he got off the couch and bowed to her dramatically, “would you forgive my stupidity and go on a date with me?”
Erica laughed, and her confident smirk grew on her face. “You bet I will!” She felt so giddy, she gently pecked him on the cheek.
Stiles grinned, then immediately winced when the movement pulled at the bruised skin. “Maybe we should wait until these heal first.” His unmarred cheek reddened.
Erica gently put her hand to his cheek again, causing his to jump once again. She concentrated on pulling his pain like Derek taught them to, and she could see the black veins traveling down from her hand touching his cheek.
Stiles grinned again without wincing this time. “You’re my hero, Catwoman!”
Erica turned her head away to hide her smile. She could tell that this was going to be the start of something wonderful.
“Uhm,” Scott mumbled under his breath, than gulped.
Audibly.
“Scotty?”
Which is weird, because whenever Scott read about protagonist’s in books gulping, he never understood why.
“Scott?” Kira looked worried; and beautiful. Biting her pink lips, and still wearing her team shorts, long socks, and shin guards.
“Scotty, are you still okay with this... whole thing?” Stiles asked, also beautiful and biting his bottom lip-
And looking worried.
Kira reluctantly stepped away Stiles, both growing pale, and reached back toward the bed where they had thrown their shirts.
“Whoa, wait!” Scott snapped out of his funk, immediately realizing why the two of them were suddenly so nervous. “I am still, totally, one hundred percent okay with this!”
“Than what’s with the claws?” Stiles wrung his jersey anxiously, “You’re not angry?”
Scott glanced down at his hand’s, and felt heat crawl fast up his face. “I-uhm, I- I haven’t lost control like that since sophomore year.”
“And this was... turned-on loss of control, not angry loss of control?” Kira slowly released her shirt. “Me ‘n Stiles kissing doesn’t bother you?”
“Thank God.” Stiles grabbed at Kira’s thin arms once more, and brought them both down onto Scott’s bed and pressed his mouth to her forehead, her cheek, and finally to her lips.
Scott could hear Stiles’ moan at the contact over his own; could hear Kira’s breath hitch at the touch of Stiles’ tongue, the wet slide into her mouth, their teeth clacking against each other and the sharp gasps of air shared between them.
Scott’s mouth became incredibly dry all over again.
“Well,” Stiles looked up from underneath Kira, mouth wet and so red, at Scott with a flushed chest and eyes full of WANT that nearly matched his girlfriend’s glowing stare. “Plannin’ on joining us anytime soon, Scotty?”
Today is the last day of Shipping With Stiles Week 2017! Thank you so much to everyone who participated and contributed more Stiles rare pair fics to our fandom. I’ll be creating a master post of all the fics posted this week so it’s easy to find everything.
If you posted something for SWS Week and we haven’t reblogged it, it’s because it didn’t show up in the tag, so please let me know! Submit it, send me an ask, a chat message, whatever works. I’ll get it reblogged as soon as I can.
If you haven’t had a chance to read through our great fics, please make sure to do so! Reblog, add comments, and let our authors know how much they’re appreciated for writing Stiles rare pairs.
