sterek au: fireman!derek and waiter!stiles
happy birthday to my dear friend, attoliancrown. just some fluff to make you smile on your birthday! <3 love you!!!
Stiles watches the diner boredly from behind the counter while Lydia reties her apron for the four hundredth time in an attempt to achieve the perfect bow and Allison refills sugar containers. He’s waiting for table 12’s order from Scott and Isaac, and from their laughs floating in from the kitchen, that’s not going to happen soon.
His eyes cut over to the door when the bell jingles, and two ridiculously attractive men walk in. “Mine!” Stiles nearly yells, rushing around the counter before Lydia even has time to look up from her crooked bow.
“Hey, no fair! It’s my turn!” she hisses, and Stiles feels no remorse at all when he stops in front of the table, out of breath and red-faced. The two guys look up at him, and even with the one look of confused amusement and the other of pure disdain, it is so worth it. God, Grumpy Beard is the hottest thing to ever enter this diner. Or maybe enter planet Earth. And, oh god, he’s wearing a fitted black button up uniform shirt like his companion. A fireman. Stiles tries not to pop a boner right there.
“Hey, welcome to Wolf Road Diner. I’m Stiles, I’ll be taking care of all of your needs, well, food wise, I mean, um…would you like anything to drink?” Stiles flicks his pen nervously against his pad, his face burning with embarrassment. Grumpy Beard’s friend, who is only slightly less attractive, gives him a creepy closed-lipped smile. Grumpy Beard looks like he wants to murder Stiles in his sleep.
“Two waters, and two burger plates,” he says, and wow, that voice is not what Stiles expected. It’s almost…soft. As Stiles nods and takes the scribbled order to the window, he briefly imagines what it’d sound like in his ear, with the fireman’s long hot –
“You ass!” Lydia slaps his arm, hard. “That was my table, and you know it!”
“Lydia, I…I had to. Did you see the dark-haired one? He’s like every wet dream I’ve ever had come to life. After this, I’ll have spank bank material for at least two months.”
Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Ew, Stiles, really? You’re disgusting. I don’t know why I talk to you.”
“You love me, shut up.”
Stiles manages to not embarrass himself in front of Grumpy Beard and Hot Friend, and he learns that Vernon Milton Boyd IV is the friend, and Grumpy Beard is a caveman who is afraid of debit cards. But he leaves Stiles a four dollar tip on an eight dollar meal, so Grumpy can stay in the stone age for all Stiles cares. Plus, stone age means no shirt, score.
i need you to know i failed you because there’s no sex but there is some hardcore macking okay. also im really fucking sick with a cold too so we are twinsies
Stiles and Derek mesh at the nerd level.
For all that Stiles hides it, he’s a complete geek 95% of the time. He collects action figures and keeps them in an airtight Rubbermaid in his closet, plays online role playing games for hours on end, and owns multiple Dungeons and Dragons audiobooks, one of which was recorded by Ice-T. For all intents and purposes, Derek and Stiles were practically prophesied to happen.
But in the ninth grade, when the great slithering organism that called itself Freshman Year began dividing at a cellular level, Stiles somehow found himself on the jock side of the sample slide while Derek slithered off to the edge and fell on the floor. And then got stepped on. Repeatedly.
It all started out as a joke, which really makes him wonder about every other legend and myth he’s read before. Maybe Big Foot was just a bear with a bad hair-do. Maybe vampires were just pale aristocrats with bad dental plans. Maybe every story in the world started out with ordinary people who found themselves in strange circumstances.
Either way, it was all Lydia’s fault. She had been the one to flip her hair and roll her eyes and snap out, “Hey, Little Red,” one day at lunch. The rest of the group had looked up, eyes wide, matching wolfy smirks across their faces. Stiles should have burned that jacket a long time ago, but… he was attached, all right? It wasn’t his fault he was a Winter. And the one time he threw it into the dumpster outside of class, it had reappeared on his dresser the next morning. He couldn’t figure out how Derek was to blame for that one, but he knew, somehow, that it was him.
i need a fic where derek is bad at carpentry. like he’s a failboat. and despite buying a fixer-uper, he just spends nights reading carpentry books and that hole in the wall is actually a carpentry fix-it gone wrong. so maybe stiles and his hands decide to help
It’s always been Derek’s dream to be a small town Sheriff’s deputy, buy a quaint fixer-upper, and live five miles down the road from his mother.
None of these things are true, but his previous job had started questioning his monthly absences, the local Alpha had been tolerant at best, and Derek’s last relationship had literally caught fire.
He hadn’t been home to Beacon Hills in ten years, but his mother made a few phone calls and got him an interview with Sheriff Stilinksi, a man who’d been serving and protecting Beacon Hills for nearly as long as Derek could remember and who—incidentally—knew all about the local werewolves and was pleased as punch to have one on his force.
Then there was the house. Thanks to Kate, his credit was shit. Derek would have loved a place clear across town from his family—maybe with a moat—but the small, historic homes near the downtown area were more in his price range. The houses could charitably have been called cottages if he squinted.
He wound up with a foreclosed fixer-upper on a quiet, older street.
And the street had potholes. Of course it did.
Derek discovered this the day he moved in and bit straight through his lower lip when his car drove over a pothole deep enough to lead to Hell.
The neighbors were thrilled to have a deputy in their midst, and his mother was thrilled that Derek was back home and only lived ten minutes away.
Derek was less than thrilled about the entire situation.
That wasn’t to say he was ungrateful, he just—he just wanted to bitch about it to a sympathetic ear.
He should have known better than to call his sister.
"Ha ha ha," Laura says over the phone. Derek can hear waves crashing in the background. “You are living the dream, little bro."
She’s in SoCal with her hippy werewolf surfer boyfriend and Mom and Dad don’t seem to have any expectations of her. It’s all ‘Laura needs time to sow her wild oats, she’s going to be Alpha some day’ and ‘We trust Laura can handle herself so far from home.’
Derek resents the implication that he isn’t just as capable.
"It’s not that, honey," his Mom says later that night, patting his hand. She leans over and spoons some casserole onto his plate. “It’s just that we know how you like to be comfortable."
Comfortable, Derek thinks with a grumpy snort, digging into his home cooked meal. Comfortable. He’s a grown werewolf, dammit, and his mother still thinks he’s five years old.
He chews angrily and swallows. The food gets stuck sideways and sends him into a coughing fit that has his mother jumping up to pat him on the back.
"Do you have any milk?" he wheezes, his eyes watering.
"Of course, baby," his Mom says, giving his hair a fond ruffle on her way to the kitchen. “It’s the whole milk kind that you like, too."
Title: Of Star Wars and Lightsabers
Pairing: Pack + sort of pre-slash Sterek
Notes: Remember me talking about that conversation with Kim about what if BH had a blackout and the pack was hanging out together and Derek brings out the emergency light sticks? Also, this video is responsible for this fic.
"This is so wrong." Stiles declared, staring at the red emergency light stick in his hands before looking over at Peter, who was sporting one in blue. “Why did I get the red? Does this make me Darth Maul?"
Peter ignored him, continuing to make quiet ‘vvooom vvoom’ noises under his breath as he waved the stick around, pretending that it was a lightsaber. Scott lowered his own blue stick, blocking an attack from Allison’s green stick. “Only if you got two of em.”
Summer Theories: What if Stiles and Derek really had spent the summer together? How much have the alphas taken?
The thing is, he doesn’t remember.
Which is confusing, because he does remember, too. He remembers school letting out for the summer, and practicing lacrosse with Scott on the field because he wanted to play on the team for real in the fall. He remembers how Scott’s mom pitched a fit and said he was still grounded for the summer and they didn’t get to see each other much after that. He remembers the few texts he did get were about how hard it was to leave Allison alone, and how many times he had rolled his eyes even though he missed Scott terribly.
Except he doesn’t miss Scott terribly.
He feels like someone told him he should miss Scott terribly and it’s dissonant and makes his skin crawl a little when he thinks too hard about it, and it’s all because he just doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t remember that the summer started with Isaac leading them to Derek’s apartment so that they could discuss the alpha pack that had descended on Beacon Hills. He doesn’t remember the way Peter scoffed and snarled at them, telling them it was useless to even bother trying to hunt these alphas. They would get what they wanted, regardless of anything this stupid, greenhorn pack does. Stiles may have wanted to argue with him, but Peter is still terrifying and Stiles likes having skin.
He doesn’t remember the long nights spent curled up on Derek’s couch, shoulder to shoulder with Scott or Derek or Isaac as they tried to figure out where Boyd and Erica were being kept. He doesn’t remember the smell of pancakes as Derek cooked breakfast in the small kitchen because they’d fallen asleep over maps and computer screens. He doesn’t remember the brush of Derek’s fingers over his as plates traded hands, or the way Derek’s eyes brightened when Stiles mumbled thank you in a voice full of sleep.
Stiles got wounded in fight and isn’t able to walk, barely staying conscious. Derek has to carry him around the battlefield while trying to defend them both at the same time. Despite Stiles’ condition he’s eager to help, but his hand is shaking and it’s hard to aim.
From a strategic and tactical stand point, this is a terrible decision. Derek needs to be at the top of his game if he wants to come out of this alive, to make sure that they all survive. So hefting Stiles up against him, trembling limbs clinging to his torso, is probably the worst decision that Derek can make.
The stench of Stiles’ blood blocks out every thing else, making bile rise up Derek’s throat. He’s having a hard time hear anything above Stiles’ wheezy breath and his pounding heart. “I can still fight.” The teenager slurs, slick fingers curling against Derek’s back. Derek can feel him raise his gun, the warmed metal leaving behind a sticky sensation that he honestly doesn’t want to think about.
Derek curls his arm protectively around Stiles’ body, frantically wondering how he can make it out of this mess as soon as possible so that he can race Stiles to the nearest hospital. “Shut up Stiles.” Derek retorts, trying not to think about how the grip that Stiles’ has around his waist is slowly loosening.
It makes him tighten his hold, knowing that the sudden surge of pain will keep Stiles awake. Sure enough, Stiles grunts and curses, nails scratching against Derek’s back. “Do that again and I’m gonna pop one in your ass.” Stiles grinds out, teeth pressing into the meat of Derek’s shoulder.
The threat makes Derek smile grimly, eyes darting between the alpha twins before he mutters, “I’d like to see you try.” Stiles’ laughs, or huffs breathlessly before he raises his head. Derek doesn’t know what the teenager sees behind him, but it makes him freeze. “What?” Derek asks, fighting the urge to look back for himself.
“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news,” Stiles pants, rolling his shoulders before he carefully attempts to straighten up against Derek’s chest. “But we’re kind of surrounded.”
That means that they’ve taken out Isaac and Peter. And Scott’s still on his way to get the Argent’s. Meaning that its one alpha and one wounded teenager against 4 alphas. “I got your back, big guy.” Stiles murmurs, “But if you drop me, I swear I’m not gonna wait for these lunatics to kill you. I’ll do it myself.”
A sharp, amused bark of laughter falls from his lips as he flexes his fingers to show off his bloodied claws. “Same goes for you if you hit me instead of them.” He returns, rolling his neck to the left before he flashes his fangs at the twins and darts forward.
cuz Kal wanted a fic?
I NEED THIS FOR TEEN WOLF
and laura made it for derek and he doesn’t know
the morning shift customers have been giving Derek strange looks over the counter all day and Derek is about 900% sure that is has something to do with the drink recs board because he saw Laura doodling on it earlier before she cursed him out for “walking like a fucking ninja!” and shielded the board with her arm.
he’s 900% sure, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is that Laura wrote down that made three separate high school girls giggle uncontrollably and a business man give him his card in what Derek assumed was a sympathetic offer of different employment that didn’t involve his batshit sister. Like he was actually working here for money; that paycheck wouldn’t even cover his monthly gas bill, and helping out in her shop was the only way to keep Laura from dropping in unexpectedly at his loft at all hours of the night to make him watch Love Actually with her.
it only sort of works.
the point is that morning is rush hour in coffee shops, and Derek hasn’t had a chance yet to get out from around the counter with an excuse involving wiping down tables in order to see what she wrote. morning rush is almost over now though, only three people left in line, and it looks like two of them are ordering together anyway.
or rather, Derek amends in his head as he hands off a Chai Tea Latte drink order to Laura and the woman who ordered it steps off to the side to wait for her drink, and the two young men next in line step forward close enough for Derek to hear some of the salient parts of their bickering, one is ordering while the other tries to convince him that he doesn’t need anymore caffeine today, no really Stiles, “YOU DON’T.”
‘Stiles’ waves a hand dismissively under his friend’s nose and makes a comment about stimulants that makes Derek wonder if the guy is a drug addict or a chemistry major and finally drags his attention forward to order when.
when he stops. Stares at the recommendation board quietly for a moment, drags his astonishingly penetrating gaze up to study Derek with golden brown eyes, smiles this odd little half smile and orders a dark roast blend “as big as they come, man, load me up.”
his friend is glancing wildly between the recommendation board and Derek and has something akin to a traumatized look on his face. “STILES NO.” Stiles’ smile only grows more pronounced.
Derek rolls his eyes and rings the guy up, and Stiles pays him and drops something in the tip jar, but there’s no line now and Derek is not letting this moment slip away from him so he ignores the jar for now and storms out from behind the counter to find out what the hell Laura wrote on that stupid board and.
Laura has fished out a folded piece of notebook paper from where Stiles had dropped it in the tip jar and is too busy unfolding it to look up at Derek’s outburst. A moment later she coos, “aw, Der, he gave you his number, see?” She waves the sheet of paper in his direction and grins so fucking wide she looks like the Joker. “I knew that board would work!”
Derek throws his apron in her face and turns on his heel to storm out of the shop. A moment later the bell above the door rings delicately as Derek strides back in, walks up to the counter and snatches the piece of paper out of her hands before leaving again without a word.
THIS IS WHAT I WANTED
Stiles had been having a hell of a bad day and all he wanted was some caffeine. Well, maybe a lot of caffeine.
As he walked into the coffeeshop with Scott, he whined about his molecular biology professor and how he was positive that the guy hated him.
“Scott, seriously though, he gave me the evil eyes!” To prove that his statement was a very valid one, he crooked his fingers above his head and wiggled them in the universal sign of devil—beware!
Scott stared at him, a horrified expression on his face.
“What, dude?” Stiles asked, pausing to peruse the menu and decide exactly what poison—delicious, life-giving poison—he wanted to order today.
“How much caffeine have you had today?”
Stiles paused in his Very Important Choosing of the Caffeine and counted back in his head to when he woke up and found that he hadn’t actually went to bed last night.
“Well, that depends on your definition of ‘today’,” Stiles started and snickered at Scott’s eye roll. “If you mean by starting from twelve AM last night, uh, maybe two travel mugs, one coffeepot, three mugs, and five styrofoam cups. Oh, and I’ve decided on the dark roast blend and I’ll get the large cup…huh, I wonder if they have Trentas.” Stiles nearly salivated as he remembered the gigantic cup of coffee that Starbucks had—thirty one ounces, wow.
In the background, Stiles could faintly hear Scott loudly demanding they leave this instant because Stiles didn’t need any more caffeine in his system.
“You don’t need any more, Stiles, YOU DON’T!” Scott emphasized the last two words like that was going to force Stiles to listen.
“Ah, shuddup, Scott, I need all the caffeine I can get, it’s a stimulant for the brain cells—didn’t you know? Definitive tests have shown that caffeine is not adaptive, that is, regular consumption does not diminish its stimulant effects. Which means I am getting a nice, big, boost of energy every time I drink my precious coffee. Also! Caffeine increases energy metabolism throughout the brain but decreases at the same time cerebral blood flow, inducing a relative brain hypoperfusion…” Stiles’ speech trailed off as Scott got a glazed look in his eyes. He huffed and turned back towards the front.
Where he saw a sign proclaiming the a) sexuality of the barista, and b) the single-ness of the barista. He looks up at the barista to find that, yes, his first evaluation was still correct—he was hot as fuck (godDAMN that stubble, those eyes! Dat ass when he turned around to reach for something). Inwardly shrieking with joy at this wonderful, wonderful find, he tried to act calm but couldn’t help his lips twitching up in a smile.
“I’ll have the dark roast blend, as big as they come,” he couldn’t resist adding the last part with a wink to go along with it. Didn’t hurt to test the waters, he reasoned. Behind him he could hear Scott’s sharp intake of breath as he read the sign as well.
“Stiles!” hissed Scott, “Stiles, no!” jabbing Stiles in the back frantically.
Stiles ignored him and quickly jotted down his number on a scrap piece of notebook paper—shoving any insecurities to the back of his mind because, hey, if he didn’t try, he would never know.
When the barista came back, Stiles shoots him a large smile and exchanges money for
his preciousthe coffee and then drops the scrap of paper with his number on it into the tips jar.
And with that, he left the shop, hoping that he’d get a call from the stubbly, sex barista.
by the time Derek had been forced to enter the coffee shop for a second time in order to gather up his wallet and phone from the back office Laura was laughing uproariously with her head bent low over the counter and barely managing to hold herself up on her elbows. She sounded like a hyena. Derek told her so and drew up the tattered shreds of his dignity around him like a cloak and exited the hellish establishment for the final time.
of course it being late August in California, any sort of cloak, be it real or painfully imaginary, was generally a poor choice, and as Derek staggered under the sudden blazing heat of the Summer sun, he briefly contemplated going back in where there was air conditioning.
who was he kidding, after all. Was he really going to call the guy? He barely knew his name - if Stiles was even a name, which Derek firmly doubted - and the fact that Stiles had frankly dazzling eyes and hadn’t wasted Derek’s time asking for some whipped cream monstrosity were crazy reasons to ask someone out.
on the other hand, Laura wasn’t wrong, he was desperately single. And if he was forced to slink back into the shop with his tail between his legs for a third time Laura was probably going to literally expire from laughing too much, something that should never happen outside of Who Framed Roger Rabbit or maybe a Looney Toons cartoon.
(he fucking loved that movie as a kid, shut up.)
Derek thinks about going back to his apartment, maybe ordering some take out and reading a book; and when Laura stops by later tonight after closing up the shop and invariably knows that he wussed out and didn’t call the guy because Derek is literally incapable of keeping anything from her, watching Love Actually for the 42nd time since he came back home.
his phone rings twice before he even realizes he dialed the number. it rings a third time, and then a fourth, and just when Derek’s paralyzing self consciousness is beginning to rear it’s ugly head again…
Stiles picks up.
Stiles loves it when he wakes before Derek, tiptoes downstairs in his underwear (because he scared the hell out of Erica one morning by forgetting it). The sun’s just starting to stream in throguh the windows and Stiles flicks the switch on the coffee machine. The house is fixed, the pack as happy as can be expected considering the battering they took from Gerard, Erica still flinches at loud noises and Boyd touches her gently whenever she does. And somehow, don’t ask him how, Stiles got Derek. Derek who looks at Stiles with something other than irritation now, who touches Stiles like big hands that makes Stiles’s skin come alive, who pushes inside his body andf mouths at Stiles’s neck, muttering words and softly growling as Stiles comes between then.
Stiles links his fingers together and stretches his arms upwards as the machine wirrs to life, stands on his tiptoes and stretches as hard as he can. His muscles protest but he smiles to himself. He’s just fixing the elastic on his underpants when two strong arms wind around his waist, hot breath against his neck and Derek mutters something, pressing his chest to Stiles’s back. Stiles grins, lifts his hand and cups the back of Derek’s head.
“Morning,” he says and one arm unwinds from around his waist, snakes out and snags a cup, pours the not quite ready coffee into it.
He doesn’t get a responce other than a low growl and Derek lets go completely, leans back against the counter and takes a sip. Stiles can almost see the exact moment the caffeine works it’s way through Derek’s veins. He thinks it’s amusing, here is a born predator, ready to strike at any minute, reflexes like…well like a werewolf, yet he can’t live without his morning coffee.
“Morning,” Derek mumbles, puts the cup down on the counter and curls a finger into the front of Stiles’s waistband. He tugs and Stiles rolls his eyes but goes willingly, lets Derek rest of head on Stiles’s shoulder.
“Are you smelling me?” Stiles asks as Derek graws in a deep breath and there’s a quiet rumbles from his chest, Derek’s fingers working their way into Stiles’s underpants.
“Maybe…” Derek answers, his voice a little more awake, “you smell like me though.”
“And I wonder why that is,” Stiles mutters and Derek lets out a quiet laugh.
“I like it when you smell like me,” he says, lifting his head and running a thumb across Stiles’s eye.
“I’ve never been on a real date,” Stiles says morosely, his words just on the edge of slurring together.
Stiles is drunk.
Stiles is drunk and lying down on one of the train car benches, his legs stretched across the aisle and his feet propped up on the seats across from him. He’d for some reason chosen the bench with the wonky leg that had taken a beating during Derek’s pack’s ill-fated first full moon together, and Derek is keeping half an eye out, mentally taking bets on how long before the thing collapses under Stiles’ weight. Not that Stiles is heavy, for all that he’s filled out a bit in the past year Derek thinks that no matter how much Stiles eats or works out he’ll never fit a descriptive beyond slender. But he’s drunk and he’s wiggling about and really there’s only so much a rusted out bench can take.