window sneak
PAIRING: Derek/Stiles
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 2000+
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 08-12-11
DISCLAIMER: don't own anything related to TW.
SUMMARY: Derek starts marking Stiles as his territory. (Fill for this prompt.)
NOTE: generously podficced by fire_juggler
"Are you going to tell me why you keep stealing my shirts or are we-- okay, we're just going to keep stealing them. That's great." Stiles tries to push Derek's bandit hands out of his drawers -- there's a mental image -- but Derek shoulders him off. "Seriously, why are you taking all of my clothes?"
Stiles isn't going to go postal if once in a while he pulls a shirt out of his dresser and it's one Derek’s borrowed and stretched all to hell, but somehow it's like less and less of his clothes are actually his anymore. At first he thought he was shrinking because suddenly stuff didn't fit. He hadn’t even taken it that bad. He’d just thought finally he had a mutant power like Scott and Derek. It was a sucky one, but it could be useful someday. He could be the De-aging Man or The Incredible Shrinking Boy, able to fit through keyholes and use contact lenses as boats.
So he'd laid awake imagining the possibilities. Sue him.
But no.
Derek stuffs Stiles's shirts into his ratty trash bag suitcase. "It's called borrowing. I need some clothes. No money. I'll give them back eventually."
"Well, glad that’s all cleared up then, thanks. Just what I wanted. They don't even fit you. Awe man, you're gonna stretch them all out with your bulgy...bulges?" He snorts, feeling too on for his brain to keep up. "Look. If you need money, I-- all right, fine, I'm not Mr. Money Bags or anything, but I can take you clothes shopping. Or you could borrow some money? Let's try that instead. Let's do this the normal people way. The Derek way is no one's idea of a party." He makes a grab for one of his shirts as it disappears into Derek's bag, but it just barely nicks through his fingers. "This is really not a viable option. I'm-- I'm putting my foot down. Yeah, what do you think about that?"
Derek shoots him a look that wilts his balls.
"Okay, so." He nods, paces a step or ten back, laughing nervously. "I take my foot back."
Derek grunts, like good, what I thought.
"But seriously," Stiles starts again, strangely emasculated. "Can you at least leave me my Star Wars shirts alone? Those're sacred."
^
Derek's idea of eventually is apparently the black hole suck of NEVER. Or almost. It takes two weeks of full-on annoying him before he comes through Stiles's bedroom window one night with a familiar trash bag over his shoulder and a put-out look.
"Nice to see you took care of my stuff," Stiles mumbles, sitting up on his bed, comic book tumbling into his lap. Is there a reason why his friends treat him like a carpet? Oh wait, stupid question-- because he is. News at eleven.
Derek drops the bag just inside the window and cocks his head. He makes a face before he's even got both feet on the floor.
Well, that's nothing new.
"Was someone here today?"
"Good to see you, too."
"Stiles. Answer the question."
"What's with the third degree?" He pops the comic back open over his lap. "And yes. Danny. He wanted to show me some sites for our lab paper. Smell him with your creeper werewolf nose?"
"Can I use your computer?"
Even that transition was too fast for Stiles's brain. He waffles for a second, confused. "Uh, yeah? Sure. Go ahead. Throne’s empty, your highnass."
Derek gives him what he's starting to consider a 'thank you' sneer and goes to sit down, while Stiles just tries to hook the bag with his toes without getting up. No luck.
He's lazy rolling onto the floor, crawling over to the bag and pawing it open. A smell punches him -- no, that would be a reek, actually, Grade A Reek -- and he balks back. It smells like his hamper. And by hamper he means the entirety of his closet floor because, he's not kidding anybody, nothing ever makes it into his hamper. It's that metallic, musty did something die in this? Yeah...definitely something died in this clothing smell.
"Derek, did you even wash these?"
There's no answer. Just the dragging peck of Derek hitting one key at a time, like he's never seen a keyboard in his life.
That’s not doing anything to disprove Stiles’s theory that he’s a caveman transplanted into the twenty-first century.
"When exactly was the last time you used a computer?"
"Shut up," Derek mutters. "Don't have a computer, don't have a washer. Wash them here."
"You'll wash them here, you mean."
When Derek doesn't answer, Stiles looks up from his clothes at him, notices the way Derek is literally rubbing his hand all over the desk top, touching the keyboard without striking the keys, his other hand scrolling the mouse down what looks like a weather forecast site. He's breathing heavy, his shirt tight on his shoulders. And he keeps resituating himself, like he can't get comfortable.
Must really like the forecast.
"Looking at porn?"
Derek spooks and straightens in the chair. It's the strangest thing Stiles has ever seen him do -- stranger than the whole werewolf shebang, even, if that's possible. That Derek can actually get scared makes him want to bawl laughing, but he just swallows hard and looks at him expectantly as he stands up. Suddenly, everything feels really weird. "Okay there, big guy?"
Derek nods quick and crosses the room to duck out the window without a word.
"Hey--" Stiles scrambles up over the sill, just as he's dropping down onto the lawn. "Hey, dude! What about my laundry!"
Was any of what just happened supposed to make sense?
^
Stiles hates doing laundry, so he just leaves all the clothes in a pile near the window to air out. It doesn't do a very good job, because one morning he goes to first period and Scott turns around in his seat with a suspicious expression.
"What?" he asks, mimicking Scott's face.
"I don't know. You smell like Derek? For a second I thought maybe he was here somewhere."
"Yeah, he keeps taking my clothes. It's like you give a guy a shirt one time, and he thinks he can just take anything. Do I look like a shopping mall?"
Scott opens his mouth to answer, but then Allison comes in and Stiles kisses the rest of that conversation good-bye.
^
After that, it just gets weird. Weird even for Stiles, and that's saying something.
Derek starts to touch him.
At first, it's a hand on his shoulder or grabbing the back of his neck to get him to shut up, and Stiles thinks it's just a new side of that loveable asshole he's gotten used to. Nothing he can't handle, being Yoda and all. What's a death grip here or there for Batman?
But then Derek starts to stick close to him whenever they're together, even if Scott's twenty feet away getting decapitated. Like, rubbing up against him, almost, or plowing into him, hanging all over him. And if anyone touches Stiles while Derek's there, he paces around like he's impatient to do something, or he'll actually pry their hands off Stiles, playing bodyguard to Stiles's Whitney Houston. And after the few times Danny comes over to work on labs, Derek always gets really jumpy and strange in his room, picking things up and moving from chair to bed to floor and back.
Musical Chairs for one.
Stiles doesn't want to ask him about it because he just doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know.
Okay, he wants to know.
When he finally breaks and demands to know what Derek's problem is, though, Derek just gives him a frustrated grimace and backs off for a little while. Even he doesn’t seem to really understand it, himself. Or Stiles is just trying to give him an excuse.
This happens about twenty thousand times, until it gets to be that Stiles is tired of asking, and smelling like Derek or Derek slinging an arm around his shoulders doesn't raise anyone's brow anymore, not Scott's, not even his own.
He figures, maybe it's just a dominance thing, or a wolf brotherhood thing, which is pretty cool. Or that Derek's just starved for touch, being alone all the time, and Stiles is too much of an established carpet to deny him.
Maybe Stiles is a little starved for it, too. Maybe he likes it a little too much, at times. Looks forward to it, even.
He blames Lydia for that. All the time they could've been hanging out and, more importantly, making out, and she had to go and have standards.
^
"Can I ask a question?" Stiles says, looking up from underlining study points in his notebook.
Derek freezes coming through his bedroom window, eyes suddenly bright on him.
Have they always been like that? Stiles kind of forgets what he was going to say for a second. Like a…what color is that, even? Green--
"Stiles, what?"
He jolts. "Yeah… Do you know how to use a door? Just wondering."
All he gets is an exasperated sound in response.
Derek sets his feet on the floor and straightens up. He looks around expectantly, but doesn’t move to do anything.
"No, seriously, I have a real question. Not to do with doors or windows."
Derek comes up to him, towering over him in the desk chair. "What?"
Stiles tries to talk himself out of asking it, right up to the very last second, but his mind and mouth have always been on different tracks. "Are you marking me?" It’s especially bad when somehow one jumps the rail and crashes into the other, like now.
And he can cut the silence with a knife.
This would definitely require a chainsaw.
After a minute, Derek sets one hand on either arm of his chair and leans over, gets right in his face. "Doing research again?"
"Actually--yes?" his voice cracks. That's just unfortunate. "Yes," he says again, more firmly, obsessively clicking the pen in his hand.
"And why do you think that?"
"Well, for one thing, it feels like you wear my clothes more than I wear them, so I always smell like you."
Derek concedes the point with a blunted nod, reaching down to gently wrangle the pen from Stiles's hand and toss it on the desk. Without even looking.
Because looking would require him to stop staring Stiles through, like a frickin' heat-seeking missile.
"And you come in my room and touch everything, all the time. Especially after someone's been here. Like you’re trying to cover their scent up. And you touch me, too. But not like you touch Scott. Or don't touch him. And sometimes I catch you smelling me. Which, dude, really weird. And you're always on my ass, just, like, right up on… Oh wow, don't picture that. You're picturing it, aren't you? I am. Okay, that was too much information right there--"
Derek cups a hand over his mouth.
Stiles expects him to sneer shut up or to shake his head, scowl, do anything he normally would do, but he just looks at Stiles in a way that makes Stiles's stomach hot and his mind calm. For once.
"If I were," Derek says slow, taking his hand away, "would that be bad?"
Stiles can feel himself blushing, there's just no stopping it. Batman wouldn’t blush. "I don't know." Or maybe he does under the mask. Stiles needs a mask.
He gulps, says "I don't know" again, for no reason.
It's like Derek has to force himself to speak next because he doesn't for a while, mouth slanted. "I don't-- like it when other people touch you."
Color Stiles flattered. He fluffs up a little, proud. "I am pretty touchable."
Derek smiles tight-lipped, but it's still a smile, closer to one than a frown at least. Progress. "Unfortunately. I don't want to have to ask, but I will this one time."
"What's that?"
He strokes his fingers down along the side of Stiles's neck, making Stiles's skin tingle in the wake. No one's ever touched him there, like that. Oh wow-- is that a pinky under his shirt collar?
He is officially easy.
"Let me kiss you."
"That--" Stiles breathes out hard, locks up a little at Derek leaning in close. "Wasn't even a question."
"You're right."
Stiles would probably admit it at the worst time, without a gun to his head even, because he's just that kind of person, but when Derek kisses him then, it's his first. With a human. Forget the Pillow Lydia incidents. He doesn't know what to expect, though he must have had expectations because some vague sense of disappointment rattles him. The kiss is shallow and Derek pulls back too soon, and he doesn't even really get time to shut his eyes all the way. Where are the fireworks and lighting and train whistles and frickin' cool stuff people talk about? Can they try that again?
Derek seems to hear Stiles's brain loud and clear because he makes this curious noise and comes in for another, mouth open just enough to tease the seam of Stiles's lips with his tongue.
Yeah. Yeah, okay there. Well-- oh god. There they the hell are.
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 2000+
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 08-12-11
DISCLAIMER: don't own anything related to TW.
SUMMARY: Derek starts marking Stiles as his territory. (Fill for this prompt.)
NOTE: generously podficced by fire_juggler
"Are you going to tell me why you keep stealing my shirts or are we-- okay, we're just going to keep stealing them. That's great." Stiles tries to push Derek's bandit hands out of his drawers -- there's a mental image -- but Derek shoulders him off. "Seriously, why are you taking all of my clothes?"
Stiles isn't going to go postal if once in a while he pulls a shirt out of his dresser and it's one Derek’s borrowed and stretched all to hell, but somehow it's like less and less of his clothes are actually his anymore. At first he thought he was shrinking because suddenly stuff didn't fit. He hadn’t even taken it that bad. He’d just thought finally he had a mutant power like Scott and Derek. It was a sucky one, but it could be useful someday. He could be the De-aging Man or The Incredible Shrinking Boy, able to fit through keyholes and use contact lenses as boats.
So he'd laid awake imagining the possibilities. Sue him.
But no.
Derek stuffs Stiles's shirts into his ratty trash bag suitcase. "It's called borrowing. I need some clothes. No money. I'll give them back eventually."
"Well, glad that’s all cleared up then, thanks. Just what I wanted. They don't even fit you. Awe man, you're gonna stretch them all out with your bulgy...bulges?" He snorts, feeling too on for his brain to keep up. "Look. If you need money, I-- all right, fine, I'm not Mr. Money Bags or anything, but I can take you clothes shopping. Or you could borrow some money? Let's try that instead. Let's do this the normal people way. The Derek way is no one's idea of a party." He makes a grab for one of his shirts as it disappears into Derek's bag, but it just barely nicks through his fingers. "This is really not a viable option. I'm-- I'm putting my foot down. Yeah, what do you think about that?"
Derek shoots him a look that wilts his balls.
"Okay, so." He nods, paces a step or ten back, laughing nervously. "I take my foot back."
Derek grunts, like good, what I thought.
"But seriously," Stiles starts again, strangely emasculated. "Can you at least leave me my Star Wars shirts alone? Those're sacred."
^
Derek's idea of eventually is apparently the black hole suck of NEVER. Or almost. It takes two weeks of full-on annoying him before he comes through Stiles's bedroom window one night with a familiar trash bag over his shoulder and a put-out look.
"Nice to see you took care of my stuff," Stiles mumbles, sitting up on his bed, comic book tumbling into his lap. Is there a reason why his friends treat him like a carpet? Oh wait, stupid question-- because he is. News at eleven.
Derek drops the bag just inside the window and cocks his head. He makes a face before he's even got both feet on the floor.
Well, that's nothing new.
"Was someone here today?"
"Good to see you, too."
"Stiles. Answer the question."
"What's with the third degree?" He pops the comic back open over his lap. "And yes. Danny. He wanted to show me some sites for our lab paper. Smell him with your creeper werewolf nose?"
"Can I use your computer?"
Even that transition was too fast for Stiles's brain. He waffles for a second, confused. "Uh, yeah? Sure. Go ahead. Throne’s empty, your highnass."
Derek gives him what he's starting to consider a 'thank you' sneer and goes to sit down, while Stiles just tries to hook the bag with his toes without getting up. No luck.
He's lazy rolling onto the floor, crawling over to the bag and pawing it open. A smell punches him -- no, that would be a reek, actually, Grade A Reek -- and he balks back. It smells like his hamper. And by hamper he means the entirety of his closet floor because, he's not kidding anybody, nothing ever makes it into his hamper. It's that metallic, musty did something die in this? Yeah...definitely something died in this clothing smell.
"Derek, did you even wash these?"
There's no answer. Just the dragging peck of Derek hitting one key at a time, like he's never seen a keyboard in his life.
That’s not doing anything to disprove Stiles’s theory that he’s a caveman transplanted into the twenty-first century.
"When exactly was the last time you used a computer?"
"Shut up," Derek mutters. "Don't have a computer, don't have a washer. Wash them here."
"You'll wash them here, you mean."
When Derek doesn't answer, Stiles looks up from his clothes at him, notices the way Derek is literally rubbing his hand all over the desk top, touching the keyboard without striking the keys, his other hand scrolling the mouse down what looks like a weather forecast site. He's breathing heavy, his shirt tight on his shoulders. And he keeps resituating himself, like he can't get comfortable.
Must really like the forecast.
"Looking at porn?"
Derek spooks and straightens in the chair. It's the strangest thing Stiles has ever seen him do -- stranger than the whole werewolf shebang, even, if that's possible. That Derek can actually get scared makes him want to bawl laughing, but he just swallows hard and looks at him expectantly as he stands up. Suddenly, everything feels really weird. "Okay there, big guy?"
Derek nods quick and crosses the room to duck out the window without a word.
"Hey--" Stiles scrambles up over the sill, just as he's dropping down onto the lawn. "Hey, dude! What about my laundry!"
Was any of what just happened supposed to make sense?
^
Stiles hates doing laundry, so he just leaves all the clothes in a pile near the window to air out. It doesn't do a very good job, because one morning he goes to first period and Scott turns around in his seat with a suspicious expression.
"What?" he asks, mimicking Scott's face.
"I don't know. You smell like Derek? For a second I thought maybe he was here somewhere."
"Yeah, he keeps taking my clothes. It's like you give a guy a shirt one time, and he thinks he can just take anything. Do I look like a shopping mall?"
Scott opens his mouth to answer, but then Allison comes in and Stiles kisses the rest of that conversation good-bye.
^
After that, it just gets weird. Weird even for Stiles, and that's saying something.
Derek starts to touch him.
At first, it's a hand on his shoulder or grabbing the back of his neck to get him to shut up, and Stiles thinks it's just a new side of that loveable asshole he's gotten used to. Nothing he can't handle, being Yoda and all. What's a death grip here or there for Batman?
But then Derek starts to stick close to him whenever they're together, even if Scott's twenty feet away getting decapitated. Like, rubbing up against him, almost, or plowing into him, hanging all over him. And if anyone touches Stiles while Derek's there, he paces around like he's impatient to do something, or he'll actually pry their hands off Stiles, playing bodyguard to Stiles's Whitney Houston. And after the few times Danny comes over to work on labs, Derek always gets really jumpy and strange in his room, picking things up and moving from chair to bed to floor and back.
Musical Chairs for one.
Stiles doesn't want to ask him about it because he just doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know.
Okay, he wants to know.
When he finally breaks and demands to know what Derek's problem is, though, Derek just gives him a frustrated grimace and backs off for a little while. Even he doesn’t seem to really understand it, himself. Or Stiles is just trying to give him an excuse.
This happens about twenty thousand times, until it gets to be that Stiles is tired of asking, and smelling like Derek or Derek slinging an arm around his shoulders doesn't raise anyone's brow anymore, not Scott's, not even his own.
He figures, maybe it's just a dominance thing, or a wolf brotherhood thing, which is pretty cool. Or that Derek's just starved for touch, being alone all the time, and Stiles is too much of an established carpet to deny him.
Maybe Stiles is a little starved for it, too. Maybe he likes it a little too much, at times. Looks forward to it, even.
He blames Lydia for that. All the time they could've been hanging out and, more importantly, making out, and she had to go and have standards.
^
"Can I ask a question?" Stiles says, looking up from underlining study points in his notebook.
Derek freezes coming through his bedroom window, eyes suddenly bright on him.
Have they always been like that? Stiles kind of forgets what he was going to say for a second. Like a…what color is that, even? Green--
"Stiles, what?"
He jolts. "Yeah… Do you know how to use a door? Just wondering."
All he gets is an exasperated sound in response.
Derek sets his feet on the floor and straightens up. He looks around expectantly, but doesn’t move to do anything.
"No, seriously, I have a real question. Not to do with doors or windows."
Derek comes up to him, towering over him in the desk chair. "What?"
Stiles tries to talk himself out of asking it, right up to the very last second, but his mind and mouth have always been on different tracks. "Are you marking me?" It’s especially bad when somehow one jumps the rail and crashes into the other, like now.
And he can cut the silence with a knife.
This would definitely require a chainsaw.
After a minute, Derek sets one hand on either arm of his chair and leans over, gets right in his face. "Doing research again?"
"Actually--yes?" his voice cracks. That's just unfortunate. "Yes," he says again, more firmly, obsessively clicking the pen in his hand.
"And why do you think that?"
"Well, for one thing, it feels like you wear my clothes more than I wear them, so I always smell like you."
Derek concedes the point with a blunted nod, reaching down to gently wrangle the pen from Stiles's hand and toss it on the desk. Without even looking.
Because looking would require him to stop staring Stiles through, like a frickin' heat-seeking missile.
"And you come in my room and touch everything, all the time. Especially after someone's been here. Like you’re trying to cover their scent up. And you touch me, too. But not like you touch Scott. Or don't touch him. And sometimes I catch you smelling me. Which, dude, really weird. And you're always on my ass, just, like, right up on… Oh wow, don't picture that. You're picturing it, aren't you? I am. Okay, that was too much information right there--"
Derek cups a hand over his mouth.
Stiles expects him to sneer shut up or to shake his head, scowl, do anything he normally would do, but he just looks at Stiles in a way that makes Stiles's stomach hot and his mind calm. For once.
"If I were," Derek says slow, taking his hand away, "would that be bad?"
Stiles can feel himself blushing, there's just no stopping it. Batman wouldn’t blush. "I don't know." Or maybe he does under the mask. Stiles needs a mask.
He gulps, says "I don't know" again, for no reason.
It's like Derek has to force himself to speak next because he doesn't for a while, mouth slanted. "I don't-- like it when other people touch you."
Color Stiles flattered. He fluffs up a little, proud. "I am pretty touchable."
Derek smiles tight-lipped, but it's still a smile, closer to one than a frown at least. Progress. "Unfortunately. I don't want to have to ask, but I will this one time."
"What's that?"
He strokes his fingers down along the side of Stiles's neck, making Stiles's skin tingle in the wake. No one's ever touched him there, like that. Oh wow-- is that a pinky under his shirt collar?
He is officially easy.
"Let me kiss you."
"That--" Stiles breathes out hard, locks up a little at Derek leaning in close. "Wasn't even a question."
"You're right."
Stiles would probably admit it at the worst time, without a gun to his head even, because he's just that kind of person, but when Derek kisses him then, it's his first. With a human. Forget the Pillow Lydia incidents. He doesn't know what to expect, though he must have had expectations because some vague sense of disappointment rattles him. The kiss is shallow and Derek pulls back too soon, and he doesn't even really get time to shut his eyes all the way. Where are the fireworks and lighting and train whistles and frickin' cool stuff people talk about? Can they try that again?
Derek seems to hear Stiles's brain loud and clear because he makes this curious noise and comes in for another, mouth open just enough to tease the seam of Stiles's lips with his tongue.
Yeah. Yeah, okay there. Well-- oh god. There they the hell are.