Julie, 26. I'm a good writer, an average musician and a bad dancer.

I'm months late on my Sterek Campaign Charity Auction fics and I'm very sorry.

CURRENT OBSESSIONS: Teen Wolf, Game of Thrones, Supernatural, and people with stupidly beautiful faces.

(BUT MOSTLY TEEN WOLF.)

OTP: Derek Hale / eternal failure.

rainglazed:

So according to the latest intelligence

this is basically, Sterek.

Guys we have a kitty AU.  I know what they say about coffee shop AU’s and high school AU’s and band AU’s but come on, once the pairing has a kitty!verse you know you’ve got it made.

“Come on, play,” says Stiles, crouching down in front of Derek with his tail twitching manically behind him. “You’re bored, I know you are. You’ve been sitting in that same dark corner staring at nothing for three hours.”

Derek has already been living at the McCall house for a few weeks, but Stiles still doesn’t know him very well. From what he’s been able to ascertain, Derek was adopted by the McCalls (Scott and Melissa, Stiles’ humans) after his house was burned down. Stiles hasn’t asked if Derek lost anyone important in the fire. He’s not sure he wants to know.

He is, however, sort of irresistibly drawn to Derek’s overall intensity, so he keeps pushing even though he knows it probably isn’t wise. 

“PLAY,” he says emphatically, rubbing his body against Derek’s and then jumping back and batting him lightly on his grumpy, grumpy face. “You’ll feel better. Let’s climb the curtains, our humans will scream; I promise it will be funny.”

“They’re not my humans,” Derek hisses. “They’re yours. Go away.”

Stiles bats him again and lets out a little angry yowl; surprisingly, Derek crouches down a little bit, looking up at him with wary, stormy, sad eyes. “They’re yours now too,” Stiles says, firm. “Scott and Melissa are great, and you should appreciate them. Scott helps me chase the magic tiny red light, which you would love if you just tried it, and Melissa brushes you, which I know you like, because I heard you purring from all the way down the hall yesterday.”

“I was growling,” Derek protests, shiftily. 

“Of course,” Stiles says, pushing his face against Derek’s. He rolls it back and forth a little, caressing boldly, and lets out a purr of his own because Derek lets him do it. “If you get sick of skulking in that dusty corner, I’ll be napping in that sunny spot on the windowsill. Feel free to join me. Or don’t. Whatever.”

Stiles pretends to ignore Derek while finding the absolute warmest and comfiest part of the windowsill to curl up in, and he’s only just managed to find it when his space is invaded by fluffy fur and tense, nervous cat-muscles.

“I’m only doing this because you found the best napping spot,” Derek rumbles, arranging himself against Stiles body and burying his frowning face in the scruff of Stiles’ neck. 

“Mmmhmmm,” Stiles purrs smugly.