Did I really need to write another fic right now? No, no I did not. Alas.
Please, have a great Sunday and enjoy some fluffy, napping Sterek.
“Movie night!” Stiles called out as he pushed past Derek into the apartment. “Aren’t you excited?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said dryly, holding the door for everyone else who came tromping in behind him. “I love having my apartment overrun with college kids.”
There was a little smile at the edge of his mouth, though, and Stiles wasn’t fooled. All of them had stayed fairly close by for college, meaning that they could continue the longstanding tradition of monthly movie nights at Derek’s loft, in the name of pack unity. And he knew Derek enjoyed it, no matter how much he pretended not to. “Okay, okay, what’re we watching tonight?”
“It was my turn to decide,” Kira reminded him, elbowing him in the stomach, and Stiles directed a mock bow in her direction.
“And what say you, milady?”
“Double feature: The Prestige and The Illusionist.”
Stiles nodded. “Movies about magicians from the mid-2000s, nice job sticking with a theme. Popcorn?”
“On it!” Scott called out from the kitchen.
Isaac was hooking up the DVD player, Erica was rummaging through the cabinets where Derek “hid” the candy, and Lydia was pulling the extra blankets out from the linen closet. By now, it was a pretty well-worn routine. They did like to switch up who sat where, though, and by the time Stiles made his way into the living room, the only spot left was on the couch next to Derek. He sprawled out, stealing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Derek’s lap and getting a smack on his hand for the trouble. The opening credits started to roll, and he yawned—he’d pulled an all-nighter two nights ago thanks to a gnarly economics exam and hadn’t yet fully recovered.
Stiles regained consciousness slowly, smacking his lips together and trying to nudge his eyes open. Holy shit, this was comfortable. In fact, preliminary assessments were indicating that this was probably the best nap he’d ever had. He was warm but not too warm, his muscles felt loose and relaxed, there was a very impressive bicep locked around his ch—wait, what?
(So I read a few fics from different people that talked about Stiles and Derek going gray, which started me thinking about my own gray hairs–yes, I found my first two last summer, and now I’m up to three–and so this ficlet happened. Plus, I feel like we could all use a bit of fluffy established relationship, yeah?)
“Derek, look!”
Derek blinked at the head of brown hair suddenly hovering in front of his face. “What am I looking at?”
“Look!” Stiles jabbed a finger at his head. “Do you see it?”
Derek reared back a little, trying to see just what it was that Stiles was so enthusiastically pointing at, but he still wasn’t sure.
And then, among the field of dark brown, he saw it: a lone gray strand twisting up toward the ceiling.
He ventured a guess, and prepared to comfort Stiles if the answer was affirmative. “You found your first gray hair?”
“Yes!” Stiles jerked his head back so Derek could see his grinning face. “Meet Bernard!”
Derek stared at him for a moment, because this was not the reaction he’d been expecting. “Bernard?” he repeated. “You named it?”
Stiles patted his hair. Or perhaps his gray hair, specifically; it was hard to tell. “Of course I named him. He’s my first one.”
So Stiles wasn’t going to have an I’m getting older freakout. Derek relaxed and pulled Stiles into his lap so he could kiss the corner of his mouth. “Mm, I like it. What are you going to name the next one?”
“Not sure.” Stiles nuzzled his beard. “Maybe Harvey. Or Hank.”
“Good choices.” Derek carded a hand through Stiles’s hair, rubbing his thumb over the spot where Bernard lay. “You’re handling this well.”
Stiles shrugged. “Well, I’m not going to tell my dad I’m getting gray hairs, because then he’ll have a heart attack, but…like, it’s the same reason I had a big birthday when I turned thirty last year, you know? For a long time I didn’t think I would make it this far. I didn’t think we would make it this far. And it’s a reminder that we are. Making it, that is.” He cupped Derek’s cheek and kissed him gently. “I’m going to celebrate every single one of these because it means I’m still around to get them.“
“Then I’ll be celebrating every single one with you,” Derek said.
He pulled Stiles back in to another kiss, a little deeper and longer. Their kisses were so familiar to him now, but he loved it, loved the way Stiles’s mouth moved against his, the way he could move here or nip there and Stiles would sigh and sink into him. He loved the way Stiles fit against him, the way Stiles arched his back when Derek scratched it, the way Stiles punctuated his kisses with little nips on Derek’s lips.
Stiles grinned and rested his forehead on Derek’s. “Gonna love you till my whole head is gray and I can’t remember anything but your name.”
Derek kissed him again, tasting all their days together and all the years they still had left. “Me too.”
Today is @coyotequeens‘s birthday, which means FILTH!! Only the dirtiest for my trash twin. ilu, bb, and I hope you enjoy this!
*
The bar is half empty when Stiles walks in, dripping wet—because of course it would rain on the most stressful day of the year. He’s just finished presenting his thesis for his master’s degree, which means months and months of work is done, but it still doesn’t feel over yet, despite having a paper that says he’s passed. So he figures the best way to deal with it, is to have a handful of drinks and find someone to take his mind off things.
But the rain has dampened his mood as well as his clothes and as he heaves himself onto a barstool, the bartender looks as though she understands. It really says something about the amount of time he spends at this place when she sets his usual IPA in front of him and nods.
“Am I that obvious?” he asks, pulling out his wallet to pay but she shakes her head.
“Compliments of that guy,” she tells him, nodding her head towards the end of the bar, where there’s only one man sitting, nursing his own beer. He doesn’t look up, but Stiles stares openly.
“Oh,” he says feeling slightly stupefied. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, which is a good point, but Stiles’ stomach flips at the thought of going over to thank the guy for it instead.
He’s attractive, to say the least, in a stubbly, pensive kind of way that Stiles is really into.
They spend one night together – a near decade-long dance of simmering, mildly violent flirtation finally sparking after a late night of research and whiskey, wolfsbane-laced for Derek, of course. The sex is intense and focused and the orgasms are multiple and mind-blowing, and afterwards they fall in a sweaty, come-slick heap onto Derek’s bed, both of them asleep almost instantly, limbs tangled. They wake in tandem a few hours later and, wordlessly, make love again, slow and sleepy, bodies woven effortlessly together, mouths swollen with kisses and unspoken declarations.
Stiles has to work early the next morning and they say goodbye at Derek’s door in the dawning light and kiss each other chastely and then they never speak of it because even though their bodies could tell each other how much they love one another, their words still fail and their fears still shackle.
A month goes by and then another, and there are more research nights where Stiles is always sure to leave at the same time as the others, and there are pack meetings and movie nights and a barbecue at the sheriff’s station, and they go along as if nothing happened.
And then one night Stiles is lying in bed, the insomnia pills he been prescribed no longer working, the weed not helping either, and it dawns on him that the best night’s sleep he’s had in years was in Derek’s bed, in Derek’s arms, and he wants nothing more than to sleep next to his sourwolf again.
And so the next time they all meet at the loft to research, he lingers when everyone else leaves, and awkwardly asks Derek if they can sleep together again.
“Sure,” Derek says, something akin to reluctance in his voice, and then, rushed, “but honestly Stiles if this is just about sex for you I don’t think I can – “
“Sex?” Stiles interrupts, thoughts and heart racing. “I just wanted to sleep in your bed…maybe cuddle…I think sleeping next to you helped me actually sleep, you know…wait, what do you mean, you don’t think you can if it’s just sex?”
And that’s when Stiles learns that Derek is utterly adorable when he blushes, when his eyes go extra-big and round. Stiles can see that he’s struggling to find the words and then he lets his body to the talking once again and he takes three long strides and kisses the frustration from Derek’s mouth, cradles his jaw and buries his fingers in his beard, downright unruly these days, speckled here and there with gray. They kiss until they’re both breathless, and when their mouths separate their foreheads fall together, and Derek’s eyes are the most beautiful they’ve ever been, greens and golds Stiles doesn’t even have words for but he knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to find them.
Derek speaks softly, thumbs stroking Stiles’ cheeks. “I mean that I want you sleeping next to me every night, sex or no sex, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Stiles smiles and kisses him, and they find their way to the bed again, and again the night after that, and the next one, and every night after that, forever and ever.
It’s not *quite* the same, but my first thought was of Savage Garden’s song “To the Moon and Back,” which includes the lyrics “I would fly you to the moon and back if you’ll be, if you’ll be my baby”, so….
Derek kind of hates it when Stiles sings all the old cheesy pop songs from the late 90s and early 00′s, but he loves listening to Stiles sing, moving with ease and grace (it surprises him, too, but adult Stiles is far more in control of his body than teenager Stiles was) through the rooms of their house. He belts out the energetic ones; croons along with the softer, more emotional ones; both hums and slaps out a drum beat on the countertop with the instrumentals. He’s happy when he sings, and Derek can’t get enough of watching him dance his way through the kitchen, the living room (ignoring the pack, who grumbles when he gets between the couch and the TV and blocks their view). Derek stands back, arms crossed over his chest but with an expression of affection softening his features as they track Stiles’ movements.
“I would fly you to the moon and back if you’ll be, if you’ll be my baby,” Stiles sings under his breath, gliding between the kitchen counter and the fridge as he gathers ingredients to make lunch. “Got a ticket for a world where we belong, so would you be my baby?”
He glances over, smiles at Derek, who’s watching him with what he’s sure is a stupidly adoring look on his face, and winks. “What do you say, Der? Want a trip to the moon and back?”
“Been there, done that,” Derek replies, easing in beside him and looping an arm around his boyfriend’s waist, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I already have a world where I belong, and it’s with you. Always with you.”
“Aww, you big sap,” Stiles teases, turning his head enough to drop a quick kiss on his cheek before focusing on laying out all the meats, cheeses, bread, and condiments in a sort of assembly line. “Now grab some bologna, get a handle on that salami, and let’s make magic.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully, and Derek groans long-sufferingly while tightening his arm around Stiles, smile growing wider. Love song lyrics and sexual innuendo. Pretty much a perfect summary of their own love story.
Stiles
that played once, when he was twelve. He asked it as his birthday present, and
John and Melissa drove them to the nearest place from Beacon Hills. Stiles was
absolutely delighted, until they learned that they would be put with strangers
to form a team. It all went downhill from there.
They
were left alone to be shot at fifteen seconds in, and had to hide under a ramp.
Scott had an asthma attack when the fog machines started and Stiles, terrified,
had to drag both of them out. He then fell into a full blown panic attack in
the changing rooms.
So,
not their best memory.
But
fast forward seven years later. They are nineteen now, Scott is a werewolf and
Stiles has been tortured and shot at. Laser tag is gonna be easy. Stiles is so
ready to avenge their younger selves.
He
only need a team.
Stiles
prudently presents the idea during pack night. He’s not worried for most of
them, he knows that most of his friends have an unhealthy love for violence and
winning. He’s also ready to make Scott cry in order to convince Isaac.
The
only unknown variable is their taciturn alpha. Somehow, convincing him to play
with lasers in a room reeking of teenager’s hormones and sweat seems like a
difficult task. But Stiles has prepared his speech, he has perfectly reasonable
arguments, and he will bullshit about pack unity and trust exercises if need
be.
Of
course, because this is Derek and he likes to fuck up with Stiles’
expectations, he’s only finished the first sentence of his passionate plea when
Derek raises one hand in the air to stop him.
“Yes,” he breathes, and smiles. They all blink at him a little. Derek
keeps smiling, bunny teeth showing and looking almost… excited.
So.
Derek’s
family apparently used to throw their kids into the woods to pitch them against
each other for fun.
Stiles
is not surprised.
Stiles
is awfully not surprised.
This
was the family whose genes created Peter Hale.
Not
noticing their stunned silence, Derek describes his childhood memories. During
their monthly run under the full moon, adults used to hide colored pieces of
tissue everywhere. The next day, Derek, his sisters and cousins were all let
loose, in several teams, into the wood. At dusk, the team that was able to
bring back the more targets to their home base while protecting said home base
from enemy raids won. The prize was some old trophy, bragging rights and first
crack at every dish during the huge dinner.
Derek
is trying so hard to communicate his enthusiasm for his claws-and-fangs-allowed,
hunger-game version of catch the flag that his hands are moving a little bit in
the air. It’s adorable.
When
Scott tries to get back on the subject of laser tag (Stiles glares at him,
because Derek was sharingthings), Derek immediately nods and
explains helpfully that there is a place supernatural-friendly just 45 minutes
away from Beacon Hills. There is no protest in the pack. Stiles bats the air
with his fist in victory.
Their
first game together teaches Stiles a lot of things.
I wrote a little thing that I hope will make you feel better for a few minutes on this tough day. ~5K words of a Sterek first meeting AU that’s fluffy and (hopefully!) sexy. Take care of yourselves, kiddos. Love is super important right now, and know that I love you. Wish I could give you all a hug.
Derek steps over the threshold into the bar and immediately grimaces. “This is the tackiest thing I have ever seen in my goddamn life.”
At least, at the very fucking least, he doesn’t have to yell in the crowded bar because he knows Laura can hear him. She grins and hooks her arm through his as she gestures to her “Bride-to-Be” sash.
“But I’m getting maaaarrrried, so you have to put up with me.”
“I have no idea why I agreed to this,” he says, looking around with distaste. It’s a Western-themed bar, complete with a mechanical bull in the corner, and it’s horrendous, honestly.
“Because you’re my brother and you love me, and if I ask really nicely you’ll do anything for me.”
He sighs—because she’s right—and wraps his arms around her to scrape his scruffy chin over the top of her hair, a move he’s been doing to annoy her ever since he was tall enough to do so. Right on cue, she squeals and pushes him back, reaching up to fix her hair.
“But you’re the prettiest bachelorette at the bachelorette party, don’t you worry,” she says with a grin, patting his cheek, and he snarls at her.
The two of them manage to find a few of the other people who are here for Laura’s party and catch the bartender’s attention for drinks—Derek just gets cranberry and soda because he sees no point in paying for overpriced alcohol that won’t affect him anyway.
The mechanical bull has been in continuous use since they got there, but for some reason, the person clambering on now catches Derek’s attention. It’s a guy, tall and lean with messy brown hair and a pretty face. He’s wearing plaid, sure—like every other fucking person in this godforsaken bar—but at least there’s no cowboy hat or boots in sight. The bull starts moving, and the kid is laughing, being egged on by the cluster of people nearby who are probably his friends. It’s moving faster now, and holy shit, his hips are really moving, going with the movement easily. Derek has never been more thankful in his life for his good vision because he can see very clearly how this guy’s shirt is riding up and revealing a very temping happy trail that leads into his skinny jeans. He’s waving his arms around for balance, and Derek can tell even from a distance that his hands are big. And the way those long legs are wrapped around that bull gives Derek a very vivid image of how they might look wrapped around something else. Namely, his own hips.
He actually makes it to the end of his “ride” without being bucked off, the first one Derek has seen to do so, and he watches with a shameful amount of longing as the kid stumbles off the mat, still laughing, and back into his group of friends.
“Oh my god, you reek,” Laura says, waving her hand in front of her nose dramatically. “Get away from me. Right now. I never want to know what your desire smells like. Gross, gross, gross.”
Author: leslieknopeismyspiritanimal Title: Kiss Me on This Cold December Night Rating: E Word Count: 19K Tags: Future Fic, Christmas, Fluff, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things Summary: The hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck tingle, and he swallows hard against the unmistakable sensation of someone staring at him. He’s tempted to just ignore it, but after a few seconds, his curiosity wins out and he looks up from his phone instead. He doesn’t notice anything right away, flicking his gaze along the people on the other side of the intersection until he suddenly stops and backtracks. It’s a little hard to see, what with the thick drizzle and the cars whizzing between them, but he would recognize that glorious bearded face anywhere, even after six years. Holy shit.
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