Prompted myself with: “I just want a neighborhood AU where Stiles is the bro-iest bro to ever bro and Derek pines after him anyway.”
I’m trying to get better about moving my twitterfics over to a more readable format without overthinking them, so we’ll see how that goes. (Also on AO3)
Derek’s house is a couple doors down from what he’s pretty sure is a frat house-wannabe. He’d drop the qualifier—as an undergrad, he’d unfortunately lived close enough to frat row to recognize the distinctive loud parties, music thumping late into the night, a stream of girls constantly flowing in and out the doors, bros drunkenly crooning along to badly-tuned guitars—but as far as he can tell, all of the guys are at least a few years out of college.
Resisting the urge to call the cops with a noise complaint takes some effort. Derek doesn’t particularly want to be that guy, though; he still has to live in this neighborhood. And a part of him, much as he doesn’t want to admit it, simply wishes he’d been invited. It’s not that it sounds like fun, exactly. Derek didn’t enjoy those types of parties when he was in college, and he’s not nearly old enough yet for the nostalgia to kick in. It’s just that…well, it would be nice to be included.
He carefully doesn’t think about the fact that the shift from outright irritation to a sort of wistful longing happened around the time that he saw one particular guy hanging around in front of the house, surrounded by his friends.
Derek does not find frat bros attractive. He never has. He never will. A certain long-limbed guy with an infectious laugh and warm brown eyes won’t change that.
He finds other ways to channel his frustration, some more productive than others. On nights when he takes his trash to the curb, he makes his way down to the overstuffed bins haphazardly jumbled in front of the pseudo-frat house. Under cover of darkness, shielded by the noise pouring through the brightly-lit windows, he sorts through the upper layers of his neighbors’ trash, separating stacks of greasy pizza boxes from sticky piles of beer cans.
It’s primarily to be a good citizen. Every house in the neighborhood has separate recycling bins—they’re even color coded, making it incredibly easy to put the correct materials in the appropriate spot. Derek’s just doing his part for the environment, since his obnoxious neighbors refuse to take a few extra seconds out of their day. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he’s sticking his fingers in strangers’ trash. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t count as trespassing if he’s not actually going into the yard, and he’s not stealing anything. Just…moving things around a little.
The other reason’s one he doesn’t like to dwell on. The rational side of his brain recognizes that the guys in this house don’t even know him, so why would they invite him over? This isn’t like high school, when he was the nerd people intentionally ignored. They’re living their lives, he’s living his, and it’s perfectly natural for them to not intersect.
But one night, as Derek slaps the lid of the recycling bin shut, wishing he’d brought a roll of paper towels or maybe even some wet wipes, he looks up and finds one of the bros standing on the front porch, watching him.
Derek freezes in place. He can’t immediately identify the person; from the street, all he can see is a tall, athletic figure backlit by the open front door. He’s expecting to be chased off the property, probably cussed out in the process, but the guy comes down the steps and lifts the lid of the recycling bin, dropping his empty beer can inside.
“Thanks for doing that, bro,” he says. “The guys don’t spend a lotta time thinking about the environment.”
It’s not just a bro. It’s the bro. The one Derek hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. His first time speaking to Derek, and it’s because he caught Derek rummaging around in his garbage late at night.
“You’re uh, you’re welcome,” Derek says.
Fortunately, the guy doesn’t seem to care about getting an explanation. He introduces himself instead: Stiles. Of course his name would be equally intriguing, Derek thinks, annoyed with himself for even caring about this interaction.
Derek gives his name in turn, wondering if he should point out his house to make his presence here seem less weird, but Stiles doesn’t seem inclined to linger in the cold. He heads back inside, giving Derek a brief, friendly wave before shutting the door again.
The bar is
crowded and Stiles asks himself, not for the first time, why is he
still there. The drinks are fine and the music too, but he’s not in
the mood for this kind of place. He’s been looking for a relationship
not to just get laid, except that to Lydia
that doesn’t mean anything.
Oh
well, he drinks the rest of his beer and sighs. This is better than
watching CSI reruns, at least.
“You
look so lonely.” This guys says, leaning against the bar next to
him. Stiles looks up and rolls his eyes. Nice kicks, kid.
“And
you look underage.” Stiles says. “Go home before I call the cops.”
The
guy all but runs to the exit and Stiles muffles a laugh, asks for
another beer. Sneaking into bars are so much fun when you’re
eighteen and everything is new.
He
takes his phone out of his pocket to check the hour and realizes Lydia has
texted him three times. ’Don’t
be mad’, the
first text says, followed by ’but
I talked to a friend about you and he’s there’.
Stiles rolls his eyes, he just can’t win with her. ‘BE
NICE!!’
the last text says.
“Be
nice.” Stiles mutters to himself and starts thinking about ordering
something stronger than a beer. The last time Lydia tried to set him
up, he spent three hours with a lawyer that couldn’t stop bragging
about himself and when Stiles dumped him at the end of the night, the
guy answered with ‘Oh thank God, I didn’t wanna come but Lydia
blackmailed me’.
They
didn’t talk for a month after that.
So,
yeah. Thanks but no thanks, Lydia. He’d much rather stay at the bar
alone and pretending not to stare at the hot guy sitting on a table
with two equally hot friends. Black hair, blue eyes, leather jacket.
Hell, Stiles might be looking for a relationship, but he wouldn’t say
no to a one-night stand with a guy like that.
He’s only human.
Sighing,
he looks at the waitress. “Whiskey, please.” She smirks
understandingly and sets the glass in front of him. Plan B, then.
Let’s get drunk. He takes the glass and turns to sneak another glance
at the hot guy, shakes his head when he realizes the guy is not there
anymore.
Plan
C. Let’s get really
drunk.
“You
don’t like this place, huh?” Someone says. Stiles turns around,
prepared to send the guy back to his place, and finds himself staring right
into hot guy’s eyes. Hot guy’s green eyes,
not blue.
Even
better. He swallows the whiskey and shrugs. “Am I that obvious?”
Hot guy
smiles. “You haven’t got up since you got here.”
Stiles
blinks, feels his heart pounding. “You’ve been watching me?”
Hot guy’s
smile falters and he ducks his head, the tip of his ears going pink. Oh my God,
Stiles thinks. How is he even real? “Well, yeah.” He answers and
swallows visibly. “You looked interesting.”
Hey, sweetheart. The depression/insomnia combo is horrible. I don’t know if it will work for you but earlier this year I stumbled upon ASMR videos. I know some people find them weird but they really helped me when it came to getting to sleep. In the mean time, I hope this little fic does something to help.
Stiles thought being able to sleep after the Nogitsune had been the universe’s way of balancing out the good and bad in his life: get possessed by a psychotic Japanese fox but sleep like a baby every night after. As it turned out, being able to sleep after a spirit uses your body to murder a bunch of people came down to the fact Stiles hadn’t had a break since finding Laura Hale’s body that night in the woods.
He believed joining the academy would be a fresh start, and in many ways it was. He just didn’t count on the fact that now he didn’t have pure evil trying to kill him at every waking moment that his brain would finally find time to process it. Stiles had always been a fan of ignoring his problems until they eventually, just, go away; watching his friends die, looking down at his own body and knowing it wasn’t really his but the cardboard cutout left behind by the Nogitsune, the memory of watching Derek almost –
He assumed – stupidly – that he had been successful in that particular endeavour. As long as he had his pillow, he was fine. You’re going to be fine. That was what the faceless people of the internet said.Stiles didn’t think “fine” was ever going to be an option for him but he guessed hope was a nice sentiment.
“Insomnia,” Scott said, repeating the word back to him. Stiles could practically hear the concern, loud and clear, ringing through the phone. It instantly made him feel worse. Heaving a sigh, he scrubbed a tired hand down his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have called.
“Yes, insomnia.”
Scott was quiet for several seconds. “Do you have your pillow?” he asked.
“Yes,” Stiles answered. He was currently clutching it to his chest, sprawled out on his bedroom floor. It was 3am, the floor was hard, and if he didn’t get some sleep soon he was going to start crying; the kind of crying he hadn’t done since he was a kid and his mom took ill.
“What about drugs?” Scott suggested. “I could ask my mom-”
“No drugs, Scott.”
“But-”
“I said no drugs, Scott.”
The line went quiet again and Stiles felt his eyes begin to sting. This was a mistake.
“Sorry, man, I have to go.”
He hung up before Scott could respond, deciding he could feel guilty about it later.
~
At the academy, he was on auto-pilot. Luckily, Stiles had come up with some of his best plans during the last four years on little-to-no sleep, so it wasn’t overly obvious to his fellow agents-in-training that he needed several cups on coffee just to get through the day.
It was obvious to someone though. Someone who clearly thought it was their sworn duty to haul Stiles over their shoulder in the middle of his third run to the coffee shop that day and deposit him in the back of their car.
Stiles wanted to protest – he should protest, call for help, maybe? – but he had had his eyes closed when the stranger grabbed him, had been drooling on a statue, leaning against it for moral support, as he had waited for his order.
Plus, the stranger’s arms felt nice.
In the back of his mind, Stiles couldn’t decide if thinking a stranger’s arms felt nice during a potential kidnapping – fuck, please don’t let it be a supernatural kidnapping – was because of his sleep deprived state or if that was just the way he was wired now.
It was only when a door opened and a familiar pair of eyebrows slid into the driver’s seat did Stiles begin to laugh. Hysterically.
“Of course,” he said, shaking his head and pressing his lips against the cool leather interior. Familiar hands strapped him into the his seat. “Of course it’s you, big guy.”
Derek just gave a slight huff and muttered something Stiles couldn’t hear, but it sounded an awful lot like, yeah, I missed you, too.
Stiles laughed again. It was crazy, what your mind came up with when it wasn’t functioning properly.
“I’m yours, Derek,” Stiles said as he straddled Derek, pressing him back
against the mattress. Derek went without a fight, letting Stiles guide
him where he wished. “And you’re mine.”
Heya guys! Long time no see edit! This is for the lovely Beth, who keeps writing the hottest stuff ever like…man, I can not get over these fics ok???
imma be real with you. i am a sinner, a dirty soul, i am trash, and dp means something else ENTIRELY on my books. I was mild confused tbh. I’m a horrible person omg
i’mMA BE REAL WITH YOU TOO, THE ONLY “DP” I KNEW WAS THE PORN “DP” AND I WAS LIKE “wait. but- wait. wHA???? *whispers* how do they know what type of fanfic I read????” (Our dirty sinning souls need to stop thinking dirty sinning thoughts or else we’ll get into trouble later)
am I now thinking of a fic where Derek sends Stiles something about his DP and Stiles FREAKS THE FUCK OUT BECAUSE HOW THE FUCK DEREK KNOWS ABOUT THIS HOW TH E FU CK HOW HE TOLD NO ONE. NO. ONE. NOT EVEN SCOTT, WOW WOW OW ABORT ABORT ABORT DEREK KNOWS ABOUT STILES DP FETISH… except derek is 100% not talking about DP, he’s talking about idk Stiles’ display picture on his twitter or something and awkwardness ensues. (also porn)
*pterodactyl screeches in appreciation and support*
Derek is browsing his twitter account, the one Erica made him a couple of month ago so he’d have a way to keep in touch with the pack without having to talk to them directly (because she knows him, okay) when he sees Stiles’ latest tweet. He automatically clicks the heart under it, because Stiles’ tweets are always funny and sarcastic — just like the human himself — and they usually make him laugh. There’s a couple of new pictures, linked from his instagram and he considers liking them too.
« Way to be creepy, Derek ! » a voice sounding a lot like Erica’s says in his head and the alpha grunts, opening the message app instead : not-Erica is right, Derek can’t keep liking Stiles’ pictures and tweets all the time, he’s starting to look desperate. And it’s the last thing he needs, the entire pack knowing about his feelings for the human.
He settles for a text instead, just a couple of words and an emoji at the end — because Stiles loves these way too much.
Looking good on your DP 😉
He doesn’t get an answer but it’s okay, Stiles is pretty busy with midterms at the moment.
Stiles did not hesitate outside Derek’s door. He hesitated in the parking lot, far enough away that Derek wouldn’t be able to hear his heartbeat and know that he was there for ten minutes before actually coming in. After those ten minutes were up, he took a deep breath and forced himself out of the Jeep.
He barged into Derek’s loft without bothering to knock, just like he usually did, and Derek didn’t even bother looking up from his book. It was something in French, it looked like, which was just not fair because how dare Derek be both ridiculously attractive and also fluently multilingual?
Sties did not let himself be distracted by the hot professor look Derek had going on with the French book and the steaming mug of tea and the argyle sweater, all laid out on the leather couch and soaked in sunbeams from the large wall of windows.
“Derek, my main man, I have a proposition for you.”
Derek looked up then, but only to raise an eyebrow at him. When Stiles didn’t break under the force of his judgment and go scurrying back from whence he came, Derek reluctantly closed his book and set it aside.
“I’m pretty sure Scott is your main man,” he said lightly. “And what proposition is this?”
“How would you like to help me stick it to some bigots?”
Both Derek’s eyebrows went up this time and Stiles mentally patted himself on the back for making him look so surprised. Getting any expression out of Derek Hale that wasn’t judgy or unimpressed was an accomplishment and Stiles kept a running tally of how many times he managed it.
“What kind of bigots?” Derek asked with caution that was both insulting and also probably warranted considering some of Stiles’ past shenanigans. “And stick it to them how exactly?”
Stiles took another deep breath and hoped his erratic heartbeat wasn’t giving him away. He was not going to let his awkwardness and inability to control his autonomic functions around Derek ruin his plan, not when the plan was so wonderfully petty and promised to be so very satisfying.
“Okay, so…” Stiles clapped his hands together and then held them out to the side, barely restraining the urge to do jazz hands. “I don’t know if you heard, but I came out at school a few weeks ago,” he said. “One seriously bisexual dude, right here, newly out and proud.”
“Oh,” Derek said, his beautiful face—a face worthy of a sexuality crisis, not that Stiles was ever, ever going to tell him about that—not really looking any more or less surprised than before the big revelation. “I hadn’t heard,” he said. “But that’s good. The out and proud part, I mean,” he added quickly. “Not the bigots, which are unfortunate but do make more sense with some context.”
“Yeah. Overall, it’s been fine,” Stiles said, tucking his hands into his pockets so he didn’t do something stupid like make finger guns. He had a tendency to make finger guns at inappropriate moments. “You know, most people really don’t care. But some people are just naturally douchebags.”
“Are they giving you trouble?” Derek asked, a frown creeping onto his face.
Stiles waved him off, then re-pocketed his hand.
“Keep the claws in, Sourwolf. I’m not getting shoved into lockers or anything. It’s just like…”
Stiles chewed on his lip, fighting back the wave of irritation that always accompanied his run-ins with the douchebags.
“Like, some of them insist that I’m actually gay and just too much of a coward to say it outright,” he said. “Others say I’m actually straight but can’t get a girl to sleep me, so I thought I’d try my hand at guys instead because I’m that undesirable and desperate to get laid. I’m just indecisive and greedy and afraid of commitment. That kind of bullshit.”
Derek was scowling outright now, hands fisted like he might actually pop his claws on Stiles’ behalf.
“That is bullshit,” he said heatedly. “But what do you want me to do about it? I’m assuming you’re not here to get me to tear their throats out.”
He looked like he might actually do it, though, if Stiles asked him to, and that warmed Stiles’ cold little heart.
“Uh, no,” Stiles said with a chuckle. “No, that seemed like a little much in the circumstances.”
“Then how am I supposed to help you get back at them?”
“By going to prom with me.”
Stiles was not surprised that this proclamation was met with silence.
“Prom,” Stiles repeated. “My senior prom. With me. As my date. Well, as one of my dates, actually.”
“Dates. Plural.”
“These assholes keep insisting that I have to ‘pick a side,’” Stiles said, air quotes and all. “They think I can’t like both women and men, or that neither women nor men could ever like me. I want to prove them wrong. I want to show up to prom with two dates, a boy and a girl, and rub it in all their faces that both my dates are hotter than any of theirs.”
Stiles ran a hand through his hair, his confidence in his brilliant plan waning ever so slightly in the face of Derek’s lack of reaction. He was just kind of staring. Maybe Stiles had finally come up with something so outlandish that he broke Derek. Or maybe Derek was going to clock him in the face and be horribly offended that Stiles was objectifying him or something.
“Erica already agreed to be my girl-date,” Stiles told him. “She’s actually really excited about it. A chance to flaunt her stuff and deliberately make a scene all night long? That’s right up her alley. And you…well, you are by far the most attractive guy I know, so I just thought…”
“You want me to go to senior prom with you, just to be your arm candy?” Derek asked slowly.
Stiles cringed.
“Uh, yeah, that sounds about right. But it’s for a good cause!”
There was another excruciatingly long beat of silence, and then Derek laughed. He laughed hard, head thrown back against the couch cushions, hands slapping against his knees, face scrunched up and shiny bunny teeth on full display. It was the kind of laugh that made Stiles’ heart skip a beat and he was very glad Derek was too preoccupied with his amusement to notice.
“Is this a good laugh or a bad laugh?” Stiles asked.
“Good laugh,” Derek choked out through continued chuckles, wiping at his streaming eyes.
“So does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Yeah,” Derek said, looking up at him with a smile that could stop wars. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Sounds like a good time to me. And, like you said, it’s definitely for a good cause.”
Stiles fist-pumped, already reveling in triumph at the thought of the looks that would be on those biphobic douchebags’ faces.
“I do have one condition, though.” Derek said.
“Anything, dude, you’re the best and I owe you, like, every favor on the planet.”
Derek’s smile widened, a gleam in his eye that made Stiles the tiniest bit hot under the collar.
Stiles goes camping with his friends in New Mexico after graduation where they befriend a biker gang led by Derek: a guy whom Stiles can’t decide if he will be either relieved or devastated to never see again once their week is up.
“You better hold on,” Derek advises. He turns his head slightly to the side, glancing at him over his shoulder. “I don’t want to get in trouble if you get hurt.”
“Good idea,” Stiles agrees, having to raise his voice in order to be heard over the loud engine. “My dad might press charges. Did I mention he’s the sheriff back home?”
shealwaysreads 