yomikoda

or how about: scott dares stiles to move everything in derek's loft one inch to the left, except for one thing, and see how long it takes for derek to notice

Derek slides open the door to the loft, steps through, and slides it closed. He lets his eyes fall shut as he takes a deep breath in, ready to be reassured of home, safety; all things his. 

Instead, his eyes snap open. “Stiles.” He states flatly to the empty room. Derek listens intently, awakening powerful senses to do so, but his loft is indeed empty.  Derek growls in annoyance, his heart rate up, teeth itching for the growth into fang. 

He takes a few, cautious steps forward into the loft. Stiles’ scent permeates the air, but does not seem concentrated in one place. Derek detects no notes of distress, fear or pain. Why the hell would Stiles be over in his loft and then leave? He wanders around, trying to get a grasp on Stiles’ movements and purpose through his scent trail, but he comes up with nothing. 

It bothers Derek for the rest of the evening. He’s restless. He can’t get comfortable. Everything is wrong. He blames Stiles, oh how he blames Stiles. He can’t breathe, ugh. All he wanted was to come home and read a dusty tomb and relax. But no. Stiles was here. And there’s just…something not right all because of- 

Stiles. 

It winds up bothering Derek for far longer than the rest of the evening. It bothers him through the night-he can’t freaking sleep for some reason. It bothers him in the morning-having breakfast in his kitchenette, instead of grounding him, leaves him feeling wrong-footed.

He goes out for a run, when he comes back, everything is still wrong somehow. His shower leaves him feeling annoyed instead of clean and calm. 

For three days, Derek endures a rising tide of frustration and aggravation. On the third day, Derek is walking by his coffee table when he notices it. A little ring of dust on the floor. It bothers him, so he crouches down to take a closer look. There’s two rings of dust on the floor, what? Derek sniffs cautiously, but the still faintly lingering scent of Stiles throws off anything else. 

He glares at the two rings of dust, each about an inch or so away from the legs of the coffee table as if…as if…as if. 

“Stiles.” Derek snarls with realization, a little bit of rage, and no small amount of vindication (he knew he wasn’t crazy, he knew things were wrong in here). With mounting fury, he checks the rest of the loft, his steps growing angrier and angrier. Everything. Every piece of furniture and spare bit of housekeeping that Derek owns has been moved 1 inch to the left.

If Derek were to measure it, it would probably be precisely 1 inch to the left because-“Stiles,” Derek finds him self breathing out into the silence of the loft once again. He finds himself sitting down on his couch, letting the shadows grow long as he contemplates…revenge.

First Derek steals the recharge cord for the controller to Stiles’ Xbox.

Then, “Hale.” The Sheriff greets him cautiously as he looks up at Derek’s knock on the doorway into his office. 

"I brought donuts," Derek says seriously.

"Well come on in." The Sheriff says.

Then Derek waits until Scott and Stiles are going to have a ‘bro time’ night, and drags Scott out into the preserve with him. 3 separate times in a row. Derek teaches Scott things like what moss is edible and how to do back flips with style. It’s great. They bond. (Derek knows what nights are ‘bro time’ because he listens in on Stiles’ phone conversations.) (No, he is not a creeper, he prefers the term, ‘stalker’.) (Thank you.)

He brings the Sheriff a double greaseburger with extra large fries from the Beacon Drive-in for lunch.  

He sneaks in (and no he’s not proud of this, but now he’s maybe having too much fun to stop) when Stiles is asleep and steals his economics homework right out of his school bag.  

He spray paints on the back of that kid Liam’s house, ‘Stiles wuz here’.  

The night he lifts Stiles’ spare from that ridiculous thing he calls a vehicle and lets the air out of his back right tire, Stiles walks back in the rain straight to Derek’s loft, not his house. 

Derek’s waiting for him in the center of his living room (yes it is a living room goddammit, not a rave party’s wet dream), arms crossed over his chest, his best asshole look on his face, and a not inconsiderable amount of glee. Which, considering his age, is maybe a little disturbing. 

"You." Stiles accuses, as he storms inside, limbs in all directions, his eyes wild, bringing with him the scent of rain and righteous fury. 

"Me?" Derek parrots back with an eyebrow raise.

Stiles stomps straight over to Derek, who smirks in anticipation. 

He’s completely ready for Stiles to get all up in his space. He’s even ready for Stiles to grab to fistfuls of his shirt (kid’s grown bold in his old age).

He’s even secure enough in his victory to allow Stiles to jerk him forward.

He’s completely unprepared for Stiles’ lips (soft parted raindrops sweet) to press against his. 

Derek’s arms uncross from his chest and drop to his sides in shock. 

"You," Stiles pulls back and glares at him, "I hate you.”

Derek nods in agreement, even as he leans forward into the next press of Stiles’ lips against his own (warm now full slightly parted sweet sweet).

They break apart for air. 

"You ruined my loft," Derek growls.

"I want my fucking charger cord back," Stiles hisses.

They come together again, and this time Stiles gets a hand around the back of Derek’s neck, and Derek slides both his hands under Stiles’ wet t-shirt.

They break apart once more for air.

"You fed my dad junk food," Stiles accuses, lips swollen and (Derek is pleased to see) tender looking.

"Yeah I did, I think he likes me better than you now," Derek grins.

"Fuck you," Stiles. 

They kiss again, angry, demanding, life-affirming. 

Stiles’ scent is going to be everywhere again, Derek reflects. As Stiles slips an aggressive tongue inside his mouth, Derek supposes that’s not going to bother him much anymore.  

how about Derek runs the charity gift wrap kiosk at the mall and Stiles works across the way at one of the shops.

“I hope you’re not planning on giving that back to anyone,” Cora mutters from his left.

Blinking, Derek looks down at the gift he’d been in the middle of wrapping—one end is wrapped perfectly, the other, he notices now, is clearly too short to cover even half of the space it’s supposed to. He sighs.

“Maybe if you spent less time watching that elf and a little more time paying attention,” Cora jabs, “I wouldn’t have to spend my entire day re-wrapping your shitty gifts.”

Derek glowers down at the pitiful gift in his hands. There’s no salvaging it. There’s also no good retort to throw back at Cora because, infuriatingly enough, she’s right. The worst part is that he’s failing in the name of charity, which is just, not a good feeling. Sure, it’s long hours with no pay, but the Hale siblings of Hale’s department store always do a charity gift wrapping kiosk during the holidays. In the past it was because they were so enraptured by the holiday spirit—and also because their parents made them. More recently, it’s a moderately good excuse to get out of the office for two weeks.

Also, Derek really does enjoy giving a little something back during the holidays.

Unfortunately this holiday season all he’s been giving is a load of unusable paper to the recycle bin after failing every other gift he’s trying to wrap because of some tall, lanky elf that is unfairly distracting. The guy has a smile so bright and genuine no kid has had the guts not to smile back. Not just the kids either-

An elbow digs into his ribs. “You look weird when you smile that much. Simmer down,” Cora says, not bothering to keep her voice down. The woman in front of the table glances between the two of them, unsure. “Sorry ma’am,” Derek offers after clearing his throat. He really needs to get ahold of himself. “Which paper?”

“Toy trains, please.”

Derek nods before turning to pull off a slab of the requested paper. He’s particularly careful not to look up until he’s completely finished wrapping. Without the distraction of the Smiling Elf, the gift is finished in a little over three minutes and the picture of the perfect, pristine holiday wonderment. One that he nearly drops as he moves to hand it back and his eyes slide, of their own will, past the woman’s shoulder to see Smiling Elf pick up a little girl in a white dress, bordering four, from armpits and swings her up in the air. The girl squeals with laughter and Derek feels like he has ovaries all of the sudden while his dick shows simultaneous interest at the way Smiling Elf’s svelte arms ripple with sleek muscle.

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