Stilinski Dreaming

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?

anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.

demon: then why?

anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.

demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.

anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!

They’re definitely dating, Stiles is confident in that, but he’s still uncertain how Derek feels about him. He doesn’t want to be the “so where is this going?” guy. Especially not when right now everything feels as close to perfect as Stiles has ever experienced it. 

At least three times a week Stiles gets to wake up next to Derek in bed. When Stiles threads his fingers through Derek’s whenever they’re close enough together to touch, Derek lets him, squeezes Stiles’ hand softly in his own.

Derek remembers his ridiculously unnecessarily complicated coffee order from the one place in town that Stiles says gets it right. Everywhere else he takes it black but that place is special.

The first time Derek brings Stiles a coffee with no reason other than Derek was seeing him and driving by anyway. But the look on Stiles’ face when he tastes it makes the back of Derek’s neck flush.

But Stiles who sometimes can’t fathom Derek Hale being attracted to him. Like the first time they get together. Derek has Stiles pinned against a wall, and it’s familiar. Except, this time after they’ve been staring at each others’ mouths for far too long, Stiles’ hands clutch Derek’s leather jacket, but he’s moving before Stiles has a chance to pull him in.

There’s a lot of kissing, and Derek’s hands on his waist slipping underneath his hoodie. And when Stiles presses his hips closer, grinding up against the feel of Derek against him, he pulls back and says, “you’re really fucking hard…” like Derek doesn’t know. Derek is probably bemused. 

Neither of them are good at talking about feelings or anything. Sometimes they sit for long periods of time in silence together. Derek is always waiting for the other shoe to drop when it comes to relationships, Stiles knows this, so he gets Derek is probably feeling vulnerable or whatever. 

Derek gets a new tattoo and doesn’t even tell him about it, he just shows up one day with it. It’s a small constellation Stiles doesn’t recognize on the inside of his right wrist. Derek is aloof when asked about it. And he wonders again if Derek really trusts him. 

Then he’s sitting in English one day and feels the unmistakable press of a pen against the back of his neck. “What are you doing?” He asks, ducking out from the Sharpie Malia is wielding.

“Playing connect the dots.” Stiles doesn’t ask why. He just turns around and lets her commence. It’s not until he snaps a picture that he sees it. When he sees Derek later that night the marks have faded somewhat with the intense alcohol scrubbing. 

Derek presses his thumb against the redness on the skin there, cups Stiles’ jaw gently. “That’s your tattoo right?” Stiles asks. 

“Yes,” Derek says, letting his hand go. Stiles pulls it to him, turns Derek’s hand over to look at it. 

“I don’t understand,” Stiles says, truthfully. “Why didn’t you say that when I asked about it?” 

“Because we weren’t alone,” Derek says simply. “And you never brought it up again.”

“I thought it was too personal,” Stiles says.

“It was,” Derek smiles at him. “It’s my favorite pattern of moles,” Derek says.

“Yeah, I got that,” Stiles says. “What’s it mean?” Derek doesn’t say anything. Instead he moves behind Stiles carefully. Stiles lets him, he doesn’t tense up when Derek presses himself in close. It’s a familiar feeling, Derek enveloping him, nosing at Stiles’ neck and the underside of his jaw. Derek presses a kiss to the spot of his moles.

“Oh,” Stiles sighs. He pulls reluctantly away from Derek and turns around to face him. “We’ve only been going out for like three months,” Stiles says. 

“Maybe I’ve been waiting for longer,” Derek says. Stiles can’t help the grin though it wobbles slightly as he feels a sting in his eyes. Derek returns it, before he leans forward and kisses Stiles. 

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@salios 

Erica kind of knew what to expect since it wasn’t her first time being a TA, but even her experience wouldn’t have prepared her for them. Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski were absolutely goddamn ridiculous.

-OR-

Derek and Stiles don’t think their witty rapport counts as flirting. (Newsflash: It does.)

Erica kind of knew what to expect since it wasn’t her first time being a TA. She was prepared for students bullshitting their work. She was prepared for the professor to dump all the grading on her and the teaching, also, when he didn’t feel like it. She was prepared for the class discussions to go on for too long or be incredibly awkward or stilted because of some of the texts they were reading. She was prepared for some students to be over eager and some students to very clearly put in no effort whatsoever.

Erica was prepared for all of that.

She was not, however, prepared for what could only be described as belligerent unresolved sexual tension.

Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski were absolutely goddamn ridiculous.

It started the very first class after syllabus day. Professor Deucalion had decided that he wanted to try a more informal teaching style in a bid to get more favorable student reviews. He told the class he wanted them to be ready to discuss Romeo and Juliet. If they’d read it already, fine. If not, it was fine to just look on SparkNotes or some similar site to get enough of an idea of the story. The first discussion was just a way to see what things popped out at them and their comfort in arguing a particular point and supporting it with evidence from the text.

Erica had noticed Stiles dramatically rolling his eyes at the choice of text and immediately pegged him as one of the types with loud opinions and a big mouth. So when Deucalion asked about the nature of Romeo and Juliet’s relationship and everyone was looking around wondering who would speak first, she wasn’t that surprised when Stiles raised his hand.

“I think their relationship is purely sexual,” he said.

Several eyebrows went up, but Derek Hale was the only one that looked personally offended. Deucalion gestured to him. He cleared his throat and said shyly, “I disagree. Their relationship was a bit rushed, but I feel like they truly loved each other.”

He glanced over at Stiles who was looking back at him incredulously. “What? Romeo was ‘in love’ with someone else at the beginning of the play and love at first sight is bullshit. Love is a complicated and intense emotion. It’s not something that happens instantly. That’s what lust is.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed and a good bit of his shyness left him. “So you think they were willing to abandon all they knew, for each other, because they wanted to have sex? Are you forgetting that they made the plan after they’d already gotten married and had sex?”

“I’m not forgetting anything,” Stiles replied, “But as you said, their relationship was rushed, no time to fall out of a honeymoon period created from having sex for the first time, in Juliet’s case, if not Romeo’s.”

“If it was really just lust, why did they get married before they had sex? They made a commitment to spend the rest of their lives together despite the fact that their families wouldn’t approve.”

“Because one of the subplots is Juliet’s pending marriage to Paris, whom she does not want to marry. If she has to marry someone, wouldn’t making a choice of her own be significantly more appealing?”

“And why would Romeo be her choice? He’s not just anyone. He’s a member of the family hers hates the most. It’s not just a marriage of convenience when they both know their family members have killed each other. And she still chooses to be with him even after Tybalt. Is that lust too?”

“You’ve both brought up some really good points,” Deucalion interrupted.

Erica watched them both jerk as they realized they were on the edges of their seats, glaring at each other.

“Does anyone else have similar opinions to Derek and Stiles? Or another opinion entirely?”

The discussion continued with other students stating their own ideas about the play, but Derek and Stiles continued to glance at each other for the rest of the class.

And it was like that every time after.

Every single book, every single reading, Derek and Stiles would argue with each other like it was a fight to the death. One time, Deucalion just let them keep going and they didn’t even notice when class was over and people started to leave. And what made it even more idiotic was that all the arguing didn’t hide in the slightest that they were stupidly into each other.

They wouldn’t have been able to fool a blind child, let alone a class full of college students with fully functioning eyes. Not with the way Derek’s eyes lingered on Stiles’ wild gestures and he always lost his train of thought for a second every time Stiles put his pen in his mouth. Not with the way Stiles’ lips would part whenever Derek adjusted his glasses and he had to look away every time Derek’s biceps bulged when he crossed his arms in offense at some comment Stiles had made.

Erica wanted to throttle them both. It was kind of hilarious how oblivious they both were, but also super fucking annoying because all that sexual tension would go away if they would just get over whatever hangups they apparently had and just fucked already. Because, honestly, it just led to Erica drifting off into daydreams about a portable dehumidifier that could clear up sex fog. She was actually pretty sure all their erotic energy was making the other students horny. No doubt she’d seen the blond that usually sat in the third row jump her boyfriend as soon as she saw him waiting outside the door for her one day.

And then it got even worse because they banded together to fight someone else.

“We can’t really say that the book has a racist viewpoint,” Theo said. “It’s more about colonialism and how both the colonizers and those colonized are affected.”

Derek and Stiles shared a look and for a moment, Erica honestly thought they would just ignore him and start their own more intelligent argument between themselves. But apparently, they were just silently agreeing to put aside their own rivalry in order to take down a bigger idiot.

“So, you’re just going to ignore how Kurtz was literally described as a symbol for Europe, and how when he wrote a report about natives he explicitly said to exterminate all the brutes like the natives were some kind of infestation and not actual people living on their own land that they’d been living on for centuries?” Stiles asked coldly.

“And you’re not going to acknowledge that Conrad basically illustrates Africa as some kind of black hole that sucks in all remnants of civilization and destroys it, which leads to an automatic othering and fear of Africans?” Derek questioned furiously.

“What about the fact that he dehumanizes Africans by describing them mostly by the color of their skin, naming them cannibals and savages…” Stiles said.

“Not to mention the way any African that seems to have even a hint of intelligence or emotion ends up dead,” Derek added.

“Also, the way Kurtz Stockholmed the natives in the village he decided to settle in, abusing them until they went along with everything he said while still taking their resources,” Stiles bit out.

“Plus, the blatant way the African queen was interpreted as being the catalyst for his descent into madness, luring him with her savagery and sexuality, rather than the fact that his greed caused him to become increasingly more violent and irrational,” Derek hissed.

They went on like that, bouncing off each other, bringing up point after point, adding on to each other until they’d built a wall of irrefutable evidence.

Theo was clearly a douchebro of the highest order, and Erica would freely admit that his opinions on Heart of Darkness were wrong. All of them. Every single one was wrong. He was a smarmy asshole and he deserved to be put in his place.

But the event had evolved Derek and Stiles’ relationship from some “lowkey flirting while bickering” bullshit to some “so-in-love married couple” bullshit.

They fucking finished each other sentences now and had silent conversations about how to further their argument and basically became an unstoppable force of nature and they still hadn’t boned.

Erica had actually seen Stiles notice Derek in the dining hall, blush bright red, trip over his own feet and nearly spill all his food, before turning tail and straight up running away.

What. The. Fuck.

They were two intelligent dudes who were pretty fearless about stating their opinions. How had neither of them made a move yet?

If anything positive came from it, it was that it banded the rest of the class together. They all smirked and rolled their eyes at each other when Derek and Stiles got going. Erica was pretty sure there was a betting pool about which one of them would finally beat the dynamic duo in a class discussion. She was also pretty sure there was a pool going about when Stiles and Derek would finally have sex. (Maybe she was the one who had started that pool. Maybe not.)

They were halfway through the semester and Erica was starting to believe the two idiots would never get their shit together.

And they didn’t. Because they were stupid as fuck. She had to do all the work.

It wasn’t news that Stiles was a human disaster and could trip over air. It was even worse when he was in a hurry. He rushed into class a minute or two late and tripped before he could get to his seat. Stiles caught himself on the back of Derek’s chair, and Derek turned to look up at him in concern.

Their faces were only an inch or so apart and their gazes locked. Erica could feel the hair on her arms raise because the energy between them was electric.

But Derek rumbled, “Are you okay?”

And Stiles said a hoarse, “Fine.”

He stood up straight. They continued to stare at each other for a moment before Stiles shook himself and stumbled over to his seat. And Erica knew, she fucking knew, that class would be full of quick glances and blushes and pining and an unnecessary amount of arousal whenever either of them made a particularly well-thought out point. She couldn’t take it anymore.

“No!” she said in a loud sharp voice that caused everyone to look at her. “You two, get up, get your shit, and get out.”

Derek’s eyebrows crinkled in a hurt and confused expression. Stiles was immediately indignant. “What?!” he spluttered.

“I’m sick of the sexual tension,” Erica snapped bluntly. “Get out and don’t come back until you’ve fucked it out of your systems.”

Now they were both gaping at her in absolute shock. There was a loud moment of silence before Mason shouted, “Hear hear!” and started to clap. Everyone else joined in clapping and shouting agreements.

Derek and Stiles both grabbed their things and hurried out.

“Don’t forget safe sex is the best sex!” Danny called just before the door closed behind them.

-

Outside the classroom, Derek and Stiles stood and stared at each other, listening to the cheers of their classmates.

Derek looked away first, the tips of his ears bright red as he clutched his books to his chest. Stiles took a deep breath and decided to take the plunge.

“Uh. They weren’t wrong. I do want to sleep with you. Because, seriously dude, you are so gorgeous. But I also… You’re really smart. And you do deadpan like I’ve never seen. I’d like to date you, too. So. I don’t know where you stand, but that’s where I’m at,” Stiles said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Derek seemed to be frozen in shock, staring at Stiles with his impossibly colored eyes open wide. Then he smiled the shyest, most adorable smile Stiles had ever seen, just the slightest int of bunny teeth peeking out.

“Um. Coffee?” Derek asked softly.

“Yes, god, please. I slept straight through my alarm because I was up late trying to finish a paper,” Stiles said.

“For what class?” Derek asked, turning to head towards the nearest coffee shop.

Stiles chattered on while they walked. They bickered companionably until they finished their coffee. Derek shyly asked Stiles questions while they ate lunch. They swapped stories over dinner. The pair stopped by the store on their way to the apartment Derek had just off campus because Danny was right.

Safe sex was the best sex.

-

Erica thought it was maybe worth losing her temper. The sexual tension wasn’t completely gone and most of the time their arguments still ended up tripping into the realm of verbal foreplay, but at least it was because they were an actual couple, not because they were oblivious idiots too stupid to know how to deal with their feelings.

For the lovely @poetry-protest-pornography, who listed one of their favorite tropes as “doing something nice for the other and getting caught.” although this didn’t quite turn out to be that, I hope you enjoy anyway ♥

It seemed like a good idea at the time. How much of Stiles’ life was shaped by those words? But this? This was probably one of the worst decisions he had ever made.

After two years of living in the dorms, Stiles was faced with a choice. Either find some people to get a shitty apartment with, or move back home. Between nightmares and training with Deaton, moving back to Beacon Hills made the most sense. The commute was only an hour and he had managed to schedule his on-campus classes to meet only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Everything else he could take online.

But he just had to go complaining about moving back in with his dad to Derek over the summer. In his defense, he never expected Derek to offer his spare room. Because Derek had a house now. A very nice house. And a job.

Honestly, the idea of living somewhere he could be independent, yet still see his dad whenever he wanted was too good to pass up. But now, standing in the fancy kitchen and staring at the yellow sticky note on the coffee maker, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d made a mistake.

DO YOUR OWN DISHES, spelled out in Derek’s blocky hand writing stared back at him. Stiles sighed, scrunching up the yellow square and setting it beside his mug. It was the fifth note he’d found in as many days. One in the bathroom (PICK UP YOUR TOWELS), one on the refrigerator (DON’T DRINK MY BEER), and several others scattered across the house.

It was infuriating. This was the reason Stiles had wanted to sit down and draw up a roommate contract, but Derek’s only stipulation was ‘pay the rent on time.’ Stiles rinsed his mug and dropped it into the dishwasher. It hadn’t even been a week and he was already worrying about making this work.

—

Stiles was stubborn. He told his dad this was for the best, so he was going to stick it out. And Derek wasn’t a bad roommate, really. He worked odd hours because he was the newest deputy on the force, but he was always quiet and neat. Sometimes Stiles didn’t even know he was home.

After the first month, Derek convinced him to take the Toyota to class. It had much better gas mileage, plus meant less wear and tear on the Jeep. So Stiles parked Roscoe in the garage with the Camaro and hung the new set of keys off of his keyring.

All in all, Stiles though they were doing well. Even if they rarely saw each other. (Which, considering the massive crush he had on Derek, was probably for the best. No need to make it weird.)

It had been two weeks without a damn sticky note, so Stiles figured he’d cleaned up his act enough to make Derek happy. Until one morning he came down to a note reading PICK UP YOUR SHIT. It was stuck to the wall above the pile of shoes and sweatshirts and textbooks that had accumulated in the living room.

Stiles sighed heavily before gathering up the mess to take to his room. “This is why we need the expectations outlined,” he grumbled, not even caring if he woke Derek up.

He dumped everything on the floor, grabbed his backpack, and shut the door a tad bit harder than necessary. KEEP YOUR DOOR CLOSED OR CLEAN YOUR ROOM had been the last message and Stiles tried hard to comply. But hell, it was exhausting trying to remember all of the rules. Maybe he should have kept the notes instead of crumpling each one and throwing it away.

—

For the first two months living together, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually spoken to Derek. Part of it was his crazy schedule, with classes and training with Deaton and hanging out with his dad. And the rest was Derek’s apparent preference for night shifts. In fact, it wasn’t until mid-October that Derek finally confronted Stiles about his sleeping habits.

Stiles was neck deep in practice tests when the door to the garage swung open. Derek dropped his work bag on the kitchen floor and slipped into the chair across from him. There were notecards, loose leaf papers, and multiple notebooks spread across the table between them.

Derek took in the chaos and sighed. “Why are you still up?”

“Stupid exam tomorrow.” Stiles didn’t even look away from his screen. The words stopped making sense an hour ago, but there was no way he could remember this many conjugations.

“Go to bed.” Derek gently slid the laptop out of range. “You can’t learn anything when you’re this tired.”

“But…” Stiles’ protest died as Derek fixed him with a look. It clearly conveyed that he wasn’t listening to arguments. Defeated, Stiles leaned back in his chair and yawned widely. Ugh. It was almost four in the morning.

The next day was brutal. Stiles rolled out of bed at eight o’clock to an alarm that he didn’t remember setting. He stumbled down the stairs, trying not to wake Derek with his heavy footfalls. But when he went to pull the milk out of the refrigerator, the sight of a yellow sticky note on the door made him freeze.

In neat capital letters, it said: GOOD LUCK TODAY. There was even a smiley face. Was this the Twilight Zone?

Stiles stared, then blinked several times. But the words didn’t disappear.

He smiled the entire duration of his morning routine, stopping to stick the note to the inside cover of his Latin textbook before he left. Then he hopped into Derek’s Toyota and drove to school.

He aced the exam.

—

Several weeks passed and Derek was already out on his night shift when Stiles shuffled in from school. He’d had an incredibly long day, filled with lectures and labs and finishing a stupid group project. Finding a familiar yellow note hanging from the microwave didn’t fill him with dread anymore. Especially not when it said: DINNER’S IN THE FRIDGE.

Stiles heated up the leftovers, feeling exhausted and content. Derek had even made his absolute favorite because he knew today was going to suck.

It was difficult not to read into Derek’s little acts of kindness, and Stiles was crushing harder with every note. The newest one was going to hang alongside DON’T FORGET YOUR LUNCH, and SCOTT SAYS HELLO, and DON’T WORRY I’LL BUY MORE COFFEE TONIGHT, and HAVE A GOOD DAY. That last note had Stiles grinning like a lunatic, to the point where Deaton asked if everything was alright.

So all in all, life with Derek was good. Stiles just had to keep reminding himself that Derek was a friend and not his co-lead in some rom-com about a werewolf and a spark who live together and fight crime. Although that would probably be an awesome idea for a TV show.

Shaking his head at the thought, Stiles loaded his dishes into the dishwasher and headed up to bed.

—

Halfway through the semester, Stiles’ three accelerated online classes had finals. He was super excited because that meant he’d be down to only two classes. His work load was about to be so much easier, and he might even have time to catch up on Netflix

The only problem was that the exams had to be scheduled at the proctoring center on campus. And because he was an idiot, he scheduled them all back to back. How he was going to survive six hours of testing was a mystery.

But Derek stayed up with him every night for a week, flipping through notecards and quizzing him on what he knew. Plus, he promised to take the night off and have a movie marathon once Stiles got home. Because Derek’s house was ‘home’ now and Derek was one of his best friends.

Sure enough, a yellow square saying: YOU’VE GOT THIS was already in his spot on the kitchen table. Stiles grinned at the note, peeling it away so he could add it to his collection.

—

On a typical Thursday night, Derek tapped at the door and stepped into Stiles’ room. Which he had never actually been in before. It seemed kind of weird, now that Stiles thought about it. He glanced over at the mountain of three week old laundry in the corner that was offensive to even his human nose and, well maybe not.

Marking his page, he set the textbook on his desk. “Hey, what’s up?”

Derek didn’t respond. He was staring at the bed with a slightly dazed expression. Then Stiles remembered the little yellow squares affixed to the headboard in neat rows.

He flushed, not really sure what to say. “Was there something that you wanted?”

Derek tore his eyes away. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready.”

Right. This morning’s note read WE’RE HAVING DINNER WITH YOUR DAD. It was a nice reminder of the fact that Derek was taking fewer night shifts. Sometimes he was even around to hang out with.

“Give me a second.” Stiles glanced down at his ratty sweatpants and stained t-shirt. Man did he need to do laundry.

He emerged from his room in more appropriate clothes and followed Derek out to the Camaro.

They were halfway to his house when Derek broke the silence. “You kept the notes.”

“Yup.” Because, obviously.

—

Stiles rushed home from school. It was the last day of the semester and normally he’d be ecstatic to have his freedom back. But this time, he was too nervous. Honestly he had no idea what he was thinking that morning. Maybe he could still get back in time to take that idiotic note off of the counter.

He parked in the driveway and sprinted to the door, hands shaking as he unlocked it. When the door finally clicked open, he crashed into the kitchen. The shower upstairs was running. Fuck. Maybe he could call it a friend dinner? People probably made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town for friend dinners all the time. Right?

Stiles’ panicked eyes landed on the note. His hurried scrawl: Dinner at Luka’s? 6pm was followed by Derek’s blocky print spelling out: IT’S A DATE and underlined three times.

Sagging against the counter, Stiles took a deep breath. He knew he hadn’t imagined the last few weeks. Derek was home all the time now, only taking shifts while Stiles was training or at school. Which meant they spent most of their day bickering over recipes and watching crappy television.

It was awesome and domestic and Stiles couldn’t wait to date the hell out of Derek Hale.

—

#jake being a great friend/ally

bonus: 

Sterek AU - Catalyst

“How… What was that, Stiles?”

but every scene is an entirely different depp impersonator

“that guy behind us is following you,” she said. “he was watching you leave the train car and followed you up.”

i hadn’t noticed him, or at least not noticed him following me. when we stopped outside a grocery store, he stopped half a block back and loitered. the woman linked her arm with mine and walked me several blocks out of her way to my front door and made sure i got inside safely.

another time, nocigar and i were walking home and at a stoplight a stranger grabbed my arm when i wouldn’t respond to him and tried to physically drag me over to him. she—who is, by the way, not a very physically imposing girl—ripped his hand off my arm and snarled, “don’t fucking touch her.”

“Those guys behind us were talking about following you. We can walk with you.”