Tag: this is too sweet!

halffizzbin:

yes so this is apparently an entirely different nerd!Derek AU from the one I’ve already written shhhh shhhhhhhh just let it happen.

::

“Okay,” Stiles says to himself, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet to psych himself up. “It’s game time. Top of the ninth. Now or never. Fortune favors the brave. Faint heart never won—”

“Fucking hell,” Lydia groans, slamming her book down onto the table. “If you don’t at least ask Hot Librarian for his name this time, I’m going to have sex with him out of sheer spite.”

Stiles gasps. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Watch me.”

“This is the love of my life! The potential love of my life,” Stiles corrects when Lydia gives him a look.

“Yes, be sure to lead with that,” she says, going back to her reading. “He won’t find that creepy at all.”

“Shhh, no talking,” Stiles says venomously as he backs away from their table. “We’re in a library.” 

Someone clears their throat pointedly behind him, and Stiles turns around slowly to find that he’s backed all the way into the circulation desk. Hot Librarian’s desk.

“Hello, librarian,” Stiles says, actually waving at him. It’s the single most awkward two seconds of his life; he’s actually kind of impressed with himself.

“Derek,” says Hot Librarian, and then lowers his gaze to his lap again. His eyelashes are ridiculous.

“Derek,” Stiles repeats, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too much like he’s planning on writing that name in his notebook with little hearts drawn around it. He leans on the desk, determined to plant here until he manages to form a coherent sentence, or until Derek tells him to leave. Whichever comes first.

As soon as Stiles leans in, though, Derek jumps and tries to jerk something out of his lap. “Shit,” Derek says softly, and Stiles’ pulse jumps because he likes the way Derek curses, apparently.

“Whatcha got there?” Stiles goes up on his toes, leaning further over. “Looks like—are you sewing?”

“It’s a slow day,” Derek says, defensive. “And I like this cardigan.”

“Me too,” Stiles says, recognizing it. “The argyle is a little much, but your shoulders look awesome in it.”

“Wha—ow,” Derek says, pulling the needle out of the pad of his thumb. “Fuck.”

Stiles shudders. He wants to hear Derek say that all night long. “I gotta ask you something.”

“Okay, just…” Derek tries to lift the cardigan off his lap, only to find that the stitches go right through to his jeans. He heaves a huge, resigned sigh, as if this is a common occurrence. Stiles is absolutely in love.

“Once you pull those stitches out and close up for the night, can I buy you dinner?” 

Derek abruptly stops tugging at the thread and looks up at him slowly. “Seriously?”

“Okay, well,” Stiles says, heart sinking as he starts to retreat. “It was worth a shot.”

“No. Yes. I mean, Stiles. Yes.”

“Yes?” Stiles beams. “Okay, yes. Wait. How did you know my name?”

“It’s on your library card.”

Stiles gapes. “You memorize all the patron’s names?” 

Derek’s eyes go shifty. “No.”

“Holy god, I am gonna date you so hard,” Stiles breathes, and Derek chokes on his next  breath and accidentally rips a bigger hole in the cardigan.

crossroadswrite:

[XII] "Take my jacket. It's cold outside." + ballet dancer!stiles + ballet dance teacher for little kids!derek

Stiles
might have a problem.

Well, to be
fair Stiles has many problems: his dad’s cholesterol levels, student loans,
last month’s rent, Jackson Whittemore trying to trip him so he can get the solo
at the next production the tiny tiny
ballet company Stiles is a part of makes.

This
problem, comparatively isn’t a bad
problem, unless you count a bad case of blue balls a bad problem.

“Stilinski
if you’re not going to take that pirouette seriously then just don’t fucking
pirouette!” Coach yells at him. The man is half insane, and not even in the fun
eccentric way most dance instructors in movies are.

First of
all he demands to be called coach even though they don’t play any kind of sport
and then he likes to recite motivational speeches from random movies, his
favorites being the ones from Independence Day and Toy Story.

Stiles
doesn’t ask.

“Sorry
coach,” Stiles shouts and then focus on his pirouette and not on his problem.

Coach claps
loudly and laughs. “Now that’s how
you fucking pirouette.”

There’s a
light knock on the door and Problem pokes his head in.

“Sorry to
interrupt,” Derek Hale says as politely as he can manage, a four year old
peeking at the full room from between his legs. “But it’s my class’ turn to use
the room.”

Stiles
loses his balance and smacks against Allison.

“Give us
another twenty minutes Hale, it’s important work we’re doing here.”

Derek opens
the door all the way and crosses his arms over his chest. Stiles almost
whimpers at the way his shirt is stretching over his chest. Allison pats him
sympathetically on the shoulder.

“Because
inspiring young children into pursuing ballet isn’t important?”

Derek’s
tiny arm of tiny four to six year olds are all looking into the room now,
pressing against each other and chattering excitedly.

Coach eyes
them and looks about three seconds from vaulting out of the window.

“You made
your point. Just don’t let them touch me. I was bit by one once! I have
trauma!”

“I promise
nothing,” Derek deadpans and lets his class of four to six year olds into the
room, a couple of parents following.

Ladies and
gentleman, meet his problem: Derek Hale; wears stupidly snug sweaters; teaches
children ballet in the afternoon and old ladies how to salsa every other night;
doesn’t like coffee unless it doesn’t taste like coffee; has magical eyes that
frustrate Stiles to no end because what
color are they even; looks like he could bench press Stiles; has like
thirty cats because he keeps picking up strays off the street and a family big
enough to fill a small theater.

And worst
of all: blushes whenever he talks to
Stiles.

Allison
elbows him on the side. “Close your mouth and go say hi!”

Stiles
winces and considers picking up his bag and just making a run for it, but Derek
is adjusting one of the girls’ tutus and glancing shyly at him and he just
needs to-

“Hey Derek.”

Derek looks
wide eyed at him for a second, face freezing in something that looks a little
apathy and unfriendliness to anyone else. But Stiles knows him, he knows that’s just Derek’s default
I’m-too-embarrassed-for-words-ohgod-what-do-I-do face.

“Sorry we
took so long with the room, we didn’t mean to keep you from it.”

“That’s
fine. I don’t mind, really it was, um, it was nice to watch you. You might get
that solo.”

Stiles
beams at him. “You think?”

Derek grins
back, this tiny little thing that melts hearts. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Thanks,”
he says and wonders if it really would be that bad to just lean down and kiss
him over that four year olds head. The four year old that is patiently waiting
for Derek to let go of her tutu.

Stiles
suppresses a smile.

“I better
leave you to it. Young minds to mold and all that, right?”

Derek
frowns a little.

“Bye Derek,
see you around.”

“Bye.”

«»

Stiles is
hanging back a little, distracted by Derek correcting a little boy’s pose
gently, and pretending he’s not creeping on the other man through the glass
windows that cover one side of the classroom.

“Stiles
it’s cold and I forgot my sweater, do you still have an extra one?”

“Yeah,”
Stiles says because Derek just bent down to tie someone’s ballet shoes and he’s
distracted, okay.

Allison
kisses him swiftly on the cheek. “Thanks! I’ll give it back tomorrow.”

“Sure,” he
says and watches Derek’s smile light up his whole face as he speaks to the
class at large. He always smiles just before he sends everyone home, telling
them how proud he is and how awesome everyone did.

The class
starts filing out, little kids with puffy jackets and backpacks and it hits
Stiles that no he doesn’t have an
extra sweater because he spilled Monster all over himself the other day and had
to use the extra sweater to go home.

He just had
one sweater. And now he doesn’t- Now all he has is a really thin shirt and a
spandex clad ass.

Fantastic.

Stiles
groans loudly and kicks a little at his bag because it’s the closest thing to
his feet. The second closest would be a tiny child and that just won’t do.

He sighs
and decides to resign himself to his fate. He’ll die of hypothermia.

“Are you
heading out?” Derek asks, coming up to Stiles already bundled up in a tight
tight terribly tacky Christmas sweater and a warm looking jacket.

“Yeah,”
Stiles sighs, pouting at the chilly wind that he can see sweeping leaves across
the street outside.

“Like
that?” Derek says judgmentally and Stiles just turns to him with resigned eyes.

“Yeah,” he mutters again, shouldering his bag.

Derek frowns,
before stripping his jacket and holding it out for him. “Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.”

Stiles
doesn’t even consider saying no, he doesn’t think he’d ever be polite enough
to. He just makes grabby hands at it which makes Derek huff a little breath of
laughter that does as much to warm him as the jacket carefully being slipped
into his arms.

“Thank you,
you’re my hero,” Stiles mumbles, tightening the fabric around himself and trying
not to completely melt at the strong scent of Derek that surrounds him. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”

“Yeah,”
Derek says and blushes because he’s trying to kill Stiles. “Or we could stop for coffee and I could, um, walk you
home?”

Stiles tops
and blinks at him. “Like, a date?”

Derek does
something complicated with his eyebrows before saying a little shakily, “Yeah?”

Stiles
beams. “I’d love to.”

Derek
should not look as he surprised as he does. It’s not like Stiles hasn’t been
pining after him since the day he watched him let a young girl place a tiara on
his head and thank her profusely. And then spending
the rest of the class with the tiara on.

“Oh. Okay,
so- shall we go?”

Stiles
smiles and reaches out to tuck his cold, cold fingers in the crook of Derek’s
elbow.

“We shall.”