A/N: Hey fellow readers and/or Sterek shippers!
This is my first oneshot for this absolutely amazing ship - and the first story I've written after about four months of writer's block!
The idea isn't actually mine - well plot and dialogue are - but the basic storyline of the "proposal paradox", as I like to call it, comes from my dear friend Alwa, who's also published her version of this on Wattpad!
Thank you Alwa for letting me use this idea as a kick-off to this new adventure. You can find Alwa and her stories here:
/user/AlwaLea
and her version of this story here (WARNING: HERS IS IN GERMAN.) :
/story/9992712-marry-me-a-sterek-fanfiction
Now enjoy this little madness/cuteness!
cheers xx
… … …
the proposal paradox
Stiles wakes to the smell of coffee and an empty space beside him.
With a groan he rolls over, confirming that yes, Derek isn't lying next to him anymore. It's not the only reason the room is freezing, though: one of the windows is open wide, allowing a cold wind to rush in and tousle Stiles's already disheveled hair.
A shiver races down Stiles's bare back, raising goosebumps on his arms; he's kind of annoyed that Derek doesn't like sleeping in, that he gets up at the fucking crack of dawn, that he has all this body heat Stiles would like to use as his personal heater a while longer. But getting Derek Hale to cuddle is just about the hardest thing in the world.
A clattering sound comes from the kitchen, indicating Derek's - unsurprising - momentary location. Of course he won't let Stiles make breakfast, because a) Derek Hale doesn't let people treat him and b) he doesn't trust Stiles around his new kitchen interior. (Stiles is still insulted at that; he may be clumsy, but he's not that bad, and he only broke the microwave once. Talk about exaggerating.)
Stiles squints into the sunlight, which is coming at him from all directions; he kind of really dislikes the position of Derek's bed, which is right next to a wall that consists solely of windows. At least it's up on the gallery, leaving them some kind of privacy in Derek's loft - it has happened before that they were interrupted by a highly embarrassed Isaac, or a grumpy Erica.
Finally, when another breeze bristles past Stiles so malevolently his teeth actually chatter for a second there, and his stomach growls at the delicious smells wafting upstairs, does he find the motivation to roll over and out of bed. Stiles stretches gingerly, making sure his movements remain careful and slow; he's sore all over.
With a grimace, he bends over to pick up his boxers, tossed to the side carelessly in last night's white hot passion, then risks his life by opening one of Derek's drawers, choosing a shirt from it. He knows that Derek hates when he does this, and he hates it even more when Stiles keeps the shirt and only gives it back weeks later, with spots of cheese and salsa sauce on it, but Stiles loves wearing Derek's shirts too much to care; it's like a blanket, warm and wide and reaching down to his mid-thighs.
This time, it's a dark green shirt that Stiles loves because it brings out Derek's eyes, and pulling it on feels like getting hugged to Derek's broad body. Well, almost.
With a content sigh, Stiles clambers down the stairs and into the kitchen where, sure enough, his boyfriend is busy preparing breakfast. Derek looks up at all the noise that Stiles makes - he's loud enough to be mistaken for a group of four people walking downstairs instead of one - and frowns.
"That's my shirt," he says, his voice a deep, irritated rumble. Stiles yawns and sits on one of the bar stools his totally cool boyfriend has placed in front of the totally cool bar-like counter in his totally cool apartement.
"Good morning to you, too, Sherlock," he replies, grinning. Derek rolls his eyes and divides the scrambled eggs onto two plates.
"Take it off, Stiles."
"What, this early in the morning? Now, Der, if I had known how hungry you are for my undoubtedly tempting body-" Stiles begins, biting back a laugh as Derek growls in irritation.
"Shut up. You're just going to ruin it, Stiles, because you're a messy eater and this is my favorite shirt so quit the nonsense and take it off," his boyfriend barks, glowering at him and heaping bacon onto their plates at the same time. Stiles sighs.
"Fine, fine," he gives in, pulling the shirt over his head and throwing it to the side. "You're a pain in the ass," he mumbles to himself, contemplating whether he should make the trip back upstairs to get his own shirt or can endure eating his breakfast with permanent goosebumps dotting his skin.
He has just decided on the latter when Derek walks up to him, placing one of the plates in front of him. "You would know."
With that, he presses a quick kiss to Stiles's temple, so gingerly it makes Stiles blush in surprise, and fetches the coffee. Next thing he knows, Derek is sitting next to him, his left thigh pressed against Stiles's right one, and Stiles isn't cold anymore.
More on the contrary, actually.
Stiles can't help it: a goofy grin spreads over his face as he begins to eat, the smile widening when he sees Derek roll his eyes. But the other man doesn't move his leg away, either.
They eat in comfortable silence, and of course, Derek is finished before Stiles, and wolfes down a second helping; Stiles is still fighting with a particularly headstrong piece of bacon. When he's done, Derek has finished his second round. Stiles gets up, gathering the plates and cutlery, carrying them over to the sink.
He is just about to turn the tap on when he feels strong arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him against a broad, muscled chest. He didn't even hear Derek move, but then again, that may just be one of the many perks of having a werewolf boyfriend; and it's not like he minds being all pressed up to Derek like this.
"Leave it," Derek commands, his voice low in Stiles's ear; Stiles can feel hot breath fanning his neck.
"But somebody's got to clean u-" he protests, then ends the sentence with a sort of half gasp, half squeal as one of Derek's hands cups his chin, turning his head until their eyes meet.
"That somebody wants to do something else, though," he whispers, and Stiles doesn't protest at all when they sink into a heated kiss, hands going everywhere.
… … …
"Do you think there's life on, say, Jupiter?"
"Oh yeah, definitely. Jupiter is just full of big, gay werewolves and their annoying little boyfriends," Derek replies, cocking his eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles imagines a weightless Derek floating around in space and giggles.
"Sounds amazing," he says in between giggling and grinning like an idiot. He feels stupid, but he can't help it; he's so stupidly giddy even after all this time with Derek.
"Indeed," Derek says, pulling Stiles closer to him so that Derek is now facing him while Stiles lies on his stomach, pleasantly aware of the warmth Derek's naked body radiates next to him. "And all those werewolf Jupitans take their nerd Jupitans out on dates, which makes the nerd Jupitans blush and giggle like a twelve-year-old girl."
Stiles smacks Derek, but it's not very effective; so he decides to just keep his hand there on Derek's skin, right between his ribcage and the hipbones. "Jupitans is not the correct term, idiot. It's alien."
Derek laughs at this, a full-on, raspy laugh from somewhere deep in his throat, and then he buries his face in Stiles's back and laughs some more. Stiles, who feels pleasantly spent, chuckles quietly.
They don't say anything for a while, just lie there, quietly chuckling. Stiles has scarcely felt this happy in his entire life. He feels as though the luck is filling him up from the inside out, and soon, the human that used to be Stiles Stilinski will have evaporated and turned into this mushy, human-shaped glob of happiness.
When several minutes have passed, Derek leads a trail of kisses up to Stiles's neck, where he spends some delicious extra time, and then to his mouth. They kiss for quite a while, hands no longer grabbing at each other hungrily, but tracing intricate patterns across the other's skin, lips no longer swollen and gasping for air from the almost desperate force of the kiss. There is not a trace left of the hunger, the desperation they filled each other with just minutes ago; this time it's tender and slow and absolutely perfect.
Stiles wants this moment, this warm, safe moment, these brilliant few minutes, to last forever, but of course they don't. When Derek pulls back, Stiles lets out a small whine, making Derek smile.
"I'll be right back," he promises, placing one more kiss on Stiles's lips, one more, two more, and then a third. Then he climbs out of bed swiftly, pulls on a pair of boxers, and disappears down the stairs.
Stiles rolls onto his back, a mad smile breaking his face into a hundred pieces. After a few seconds of simply relishing the memory of Derek's skin on his, of Derek's voice whispering his name, of their bodies moving together in perfect harmony, he swings his legs out of bed as well, opting to get dressed in fresh underwear and a pair of jeans.
He's just contemplated stealing another one of Derek's shirts when the boyfriend in question comes back up the stairs, making no noise as usual. He's carrying two cups of what smells suspiciously like fresh coffee.
"Here," Derek smiles, then hands Stiles one of the steaming cups. Indeed, it is coffee, with milk and a dash of sugar as usual; Derek likes his black. Stiles hums happily, his hands closing around the warm goodness, and they lie back down, shifting around for a while before getting comfortable with Stiles's head on Derek's chest.
They sit in silence, taking the occasional sip of coffee; Stiles dies, and ends up in heaven, with a great boyfriend to use as a pillow and a cup of the world's most delicious hot beverage in his hands. He glances up to find that Derek is looking out of the window, a faint smile playing across his lips.
It was Scott who noticed it first, pointing it out to Stiles one rainy afternoon when they were working on Stiles's beloved jeep: "He smiles an awful lot when he's with you, you know. It's almost scary."
But to Stiles, there is nothing scary about Derek's smile. Only that distinct pride that he's the one to actually evoke some sort of positive emotion from the sourwolf himself.
Derek turns his eyes towards Stiles, their gazes meet, and Stiles makes the mistake.
"We could do it, you know," he blurts out, then wishes immediately he'd kept his mouth shut. Derek frowns.
"Do what?"
Common sense, Scott's voice, Lydia's advice, even his own brain tell him to shut up - but to his terror, Stiles's mouth doesn't feel inclined to obey. "Run away. Live in a small cabin at the beach. Adopt four cats. Get married."
Derek tenses, and Stiles's heart drops. He feels like slapping himself, but his caffeine-fired brain still thinks this is a good idea.
"Get married?" Derek asks, an odd tone to his voice. He puts the coffee cup down on the floor beside the bed.
Stiles swallows. Deny it. Take it back. Say you were joking. "Yes. I'd love to marry you." Idiot.
Derek runs a hand across his face, looking a thousand years old. Then he gets up, leaving Stiles to sit alone in the midst of a sea of blankets. Derek starts pacing up and down, causing Stiles to shiver so hard, he would've spilled his coffee if he'd still had some.
Stiles bites his lip to keep from talking, and talks anyway. "I- I mean, wouldn't you want to? Like, m-marry me, I mean?"
He's stammering so hard right now, it's a wonder Derek even understands a word he's saying. But he must, because he gives Stiles a sort of look he's never seen before and immediately wishes to never see again. "I don't fucking believe this," Derek hisses, and Stiles goes cold all over.
"I- I don't even have a ring, I know, this is some shitty sort of p-proposal, but like... you will marry me, right? We can make do, I can get a ring, I, just, please," Stiles pleads, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
Derek comes to a sudden halt, turning to look at Stiles, who's eyes have filled with tears. Then he laughs a bitter sort of laugh. "Must you always ruin everything, Stiles?"
Stiles starts shivering even harder; he can't believe this is happening. He can't believe he just fucked it all up.
Tears blur his vision, so he doesn't see Derek walk over to his drawer and take something out of the pocket of one of his jeans. He doesn't notice that Derek is kneeling in front of him until two large hands grab his face on either side, stroking away his tears gently. He doesn't even register the odd press of velvet against his left cheek.
"You're an idiot," Derek says, but instead of contempt, his voice is laced with softness - and something else Stiles cannot place his finger on. Blinking furiously, he clears his vision enough to look Derek in the eyes. "And you ruin everything."
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut at this, the pain that's roaring up inside him almost unbearable. To his horror, he lets out a sob.
"You ruin everything, like a proposal plan, for example." At this, Stiles stops to cry at once.
He opens his eyes as Derek lets go of his face, fumbling with something until it clicks open. Stiles lowers his gaze and stops breathing.
"I wanted to ask you first, idiot," Derek says, taking the silver ring out of its box and slipping it onto Stiles's trembling finger. "But I suppose I can take your miserable attempt at a proposal as a yes, then."
Stiles doesn't even nod. He only pulls Derek in for a kiss.
… … …
A/N #2: Given that this is my first time ever writing about Sterek, I kind of really like how this turned out! I hope you guys like it too. Bonus points if you can guess why it's titled the way that it is!