Title: By Any Other Name
Author: kototyph
Recipient: versinotuum
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, hinted Scott/Allison and Jackson/Lydia
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3k
Warnings: Fluff, Humor, (very brief and swiftly over) Angst, (quite literal) Puppy Love
Summary: Sometimes Stiles gets ideas. This particular idea involves Derek, a puppy, and a lot of dumb dog jokes. Should he really be surprised that it blows up in his face?
Author's Notes: The writing process went a little something like: OH LOOK SO FLUFFY AND SWEET JUST LIKE S/HE WANTED HAHA SO AWESOME ah well oops I seem to have accidently angst and make-outs bUT BACK TO FLUFF. Hope you still like it!


By Any Other Name


Stiles gets ideas, okay?

"Derek!"

And his ideas range from so-so to good to freaking brilliant. Intricate. Masterful.

"Here boy!"

Stiles is Machiavelli in converses and a hoodie, when he's on a roll.

"C'mere, Derek! Here, Derek-Derek!"

This idea?

"Awww, how's my Derek? How's my good widdle Derek?"

This idea is the solid gold, Nobel-prize, jump-out-of-the-bathtub-naked-as-the-day-you-were-born-shouting-"EUREKA!" kind of idea.

"Oh, hey," he says brightly, like he hadn't noticed the werewolf lurking in the doorway until just then. "What's up?"

"What. The hell. Is that?" Derek bites out, lips pulling back from his teeth.

"What?" Stiles blinks at him, all innocence, then laughs as his milk-smelling and squirming foster-puppy jumps up excitedly to lick the underside of his chin. "Oh, this little guy? This is Derek, of course."

Scott is frozen in the motion of folding Derek Junior's brand-new leash, sitting cross-legged next to Stiles on the floor. He's giving him a wide-eyed look that clearly communicates, You have a death wish, don't you? You want to die, and you want to take me and a defenseless puppy down with you. Worst friend ever.

Stiles ignores him, because this possibly the best idea he's ever had. And that is saying something.

"You named it—?" Derek asks, like he's praying he somehow heard wrong.

"Yep, my little cutie-pie Derek," Stiles coos, and the puppy—who is indeed a little cutie-pie, some kind of floppy-eared Aussie shepherd mix, achingly adorable and all of — wriggles around on the floor, all four paws kicking in the air.

"No," Derek says, all granite implacability. "Change it."

Stiles looks up at him, hand going to his chest. "But Derek—" The puppy jumps up and yaps eagerly, pawing at Stiles' chest. "Look, see? It's his name, I can't change it."

"Now."

"Told you, can't," Stiles says brightly. "Now, who wants walkies?" He looks down into the puppy's sweet whiskery face, tongue lolling all over the place. His bright mismatched eyes are glued to Stiles'. "Does Derek want walkies?"

The puppy goes into ecstasies of excitement, fluffy tail wagging so hard it drags his body right off Stiles' lap to fall in a heap on the carpet. Undeterred, the puppy rolls to his feet before lunging for the leash still in Scott's hand, wrestling it away and bringing it to Stiles.

"Good boy, Derek!" and Stiles can feel the glower Derek's aiming his way. He has to duck his head further to hide the grin on his face, which the puppy takes as open invitation to try and lick his moles off.

Best. Idea. Ever.


"Oh, yeah, Derek had some trouble with potty training the first couple of days we had him in the house," Stiles says breezily, and Allison chokes on her juicebox.

"Derek had what now?" Isaac asks, eyebrows shooting up.

"Days?" Erika echoes.

"It's a puppy," Scott says in hurried disclaimer, thumping Allison on the back as she tries to wave him off and leaning over the cafeteria table. "Stiles named his foster-puppy Derek. I told him not to—"

"Dude, don't tell them!" Stiles huffs, elbowing Scott in the ribs. "You're ruining it."

"And you named it Derek?" Allison coughs, peering around Scott. "Why?"

"Because it's funny!"

"It's not funny," Isaac says, lips twitching.

"It's hilarious," Erika says with relish, and the two of them break off into semi-hysterical giggles.


"So I taught Derek this trick on Saturday. Y'know, the fetch the stick thing?"

Across the library table, Jackson pauses with his smuggled Starbucks halfway to his mouth. "I'm sorry?"

"It was a lot harder than I thought it would be," Stiles muses, chin on his hand. "I mean, he gets the whole you-need-to-chase-it thing. It's getting him to give it back that's the problem."

"… right," Jackson says, just as Lydia rejoins them.

"What are we talking about?" she asks, leaning over to give him a kiss hello.

"Apparently Derek and Stiles play fetch," Jackson tells her, and she gives the two of them a sidelong glance.

"Is that a werewolf turn-on or something?"

"No!" Jackson says immediately, and she rolls her eyes and pulls her Calculus II book out of her bag.

"Good. I don't know if I could handle you suddenly developing another weird fetish."

"Anoth—?"

"Shut up, Stilinski!"


"God, Derek was so cute last night," Stiles sighs dreamily, leaning down to lace up his lacrosse cleats. "He was all curled up in this teeny-tiny ball on the bed, and—"

"Don't want to know," Boyd says, shrugging his shoulder pads into place.

"It was the most adorable—"

"I do not want to know," Boyd repeats firmly.

"But his little face—"

"Look, your sex life is your own fucking business," the other boy starts, and from the direction of the showers comes the sound of Scott moaning piteously, "It's a dog, he's talking about a dog, oh my God."

Boyd gives him a very strange look and then of course Stiles has to explain.

"Hmm."

"Isn't that awesome?"

"No. You're an idiot," Boyd says, grabbing his jersey.

Stiles throws his hands up. "Whatever, losers, I'm a total genius!"


Later that night, Stiles is almost asleep when his phone starts vibrating.

He fumbles around on the nightstand, knocking a few things off the top before he locates the source of the offending buzzing noise. He pulls it back under the toasty-warm covers, squinting blearily at the screen. Sprawled out along his side, Derek Junior gives a huge yawn and tucks his muzzle more firmly under a paw.

/just had v. uncomfortble convo w/jackson about sticks/
/and erikas asking how werewolves are pottytrained/
/explain/

He snickers, and hits the reply button, wiggling around under the covers until he can get both hands on the keyboard.

/good question/
/how do you pottytrain werebabies?/
/is newspaper involved/

The return message is swift and to the point.

/tell the betas any more puppy stories and i'll gut you/

Stiles grins.

/speaking of which, derek ate his first kibbles today, OMG SO CUTE/
/I have pics/
/you want?/

/gut. you./

/i bet you got smacked on the nose a lot as a puppy/

/either change the name or shut up about it/

/is this where you say/
/i'll get you, my pretty! and your little dog too!/
/? :D/

Stiles falls asleep waiting for an answer, phone still on his chest when the alarm goes off the next morning.


Stiles hadn't really planned to use his very first foster-puppy solely to torture Derek, but it's just working out so well.

"What the hell is that thing doing back here?" Derek growls.

Stiles looks up from the floor where he, Erica, Isaac, and for some god-awful reason Peter are playing "Find the Ball!" with Derek Junior. It's one of the games the shelter behaviorist recommended for getting the puppy used to loud noises, sudden movements and a lot of people talking at once.

Before Stiles can answer, Peter smoothly interjects, "Making sure Derek II isn't as poorly socialized as Derek I."

Damn it, Stiles doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of laughing, but Erika gives a muffled snort and Isaac bites his lip hard and then all three of them are rolling on the floor and clutching their sides, the puppy barking his fool head off and darting around them madly. Peter looks far too pleased with himself. Derek looks like he's debating which corner of the yard to bury their bodies in, hands slowly balling into fists.

"If I come back and it's still here, I'm eating it," he says tightly, and vanishes into the dark.

Peter tskes, scritching under Derek Junior's ears. "Such a drama queen."

Stiles, flat on his back with a stitch in his lungs he almost can't breathe around, oh so completely agrees.


Of course, sometimes even the greatest ideas can go to shit in a heartbeat. Stiles knows it, the precise instant this one goes too far.

The betas go home and Peter skulks off to... wherever he usually goes, leaving Stiles and a completely and happily exhausted Derek Junior lying across the couch in the darkened living room. On the television, reruns of America's Funniest Home Videos play on near-mute, crotch-shots and snowmen being shot by cannons flashing by on endless repeat. The puppy is flat on his back in Stiles' lap, the very picture of canine bliss as Stiles strokes his belly, rubs a knuckle up under his furry chin.

Stiles is warm and pleasantly sleepy himself, head on the armrest, afghan tucked in around his legs. He's murmuring nonsense words to the puppy, already dreading the day (too soon!) he'll have to give him back to the shelter, when he catches a flicker of motion in of the corner of his eye. He senses more than sees a presence in the darkened doorway, and bites back a smile.

"Papa loves you, Der Der," he murmurs drowsily. Heh. "More than anything. Love you so-o much!" he coos, high and saccharine, and glances up with a grin, anticipating another sour scowl and cutting remark.

Derek isn't scowling. He's staring at Stiles, and there's something so... so broken-open and wounded in his eyes that it freezes the breath in Stiles' lungs, makes his next exhalation come out shaky and soft.

Oh. Oh.

"Wait," he says breathlessly as Derek takes a halting step backwards. "Wait, Derek, stop—"

It's a short chase, because Derek has obviously been knocked off-kilter and Stiles is feeling highly motivated by the horrible mixture of guilt and terror turning his insides to ice. He scoots as quickly and gently as he can out from under the sleeping puppy and blanket and runs for the door, following Derek's shadow down the back hallway and into the dark kitchen.

He knocks Derek's legs out from under him in a full-body tackle on the kitchen tile, sending them both crashing into the cabinets next to the fridge. With Derek blinking disbelievingly up at him Stiles army-crawls up his body and sits on his stomach, hoping to pin him in place for at least a few crucial seconds.

"Stop," Stiles says, grabbing Derek's face with both hands. "Whatever stupid thought you just had, you're wrong."

Derek laughs, and it sounds like broken glass being forced through his chest. It hurts Stiles just to hear it. "Pretty sure I'm not."

"Stop it," Stiles says desperately. "I— you, too, I—"

Derek's face is bleak. "You don't."

"Listen to me," Stiles says, giving him a shake that knocks his head back against the cabinet doors. "I— I really do. Derek... fuck."

"Let me up."

"No," Stiles says urgently, starting to panic and still out of breath from the chase. "Listen to me—"

"Let me up," Derek growls, and instead Stiles' grip tightens. He stares down at Derek and Derek looks back, looks tired and defeated and Stiles barely has a moment to think oh shit is he really doing this, is he really going to do this before he has his lips mashed up against Derek's mouth, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to stop whatever Derek was going to say dead in its tracks.

They freeze.

Derek is as still as a marble statue against him, not moving or breathing at all as Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and lets his hands slide from Derek's face, arms wrapping around Derek's neck as he angles his head and, hesitantly, licks at the closed seam of his lips.

Stiles' back slams into the kitchen island with an impact that knocks a yelp out of him, and then Derek is there, crowding between his legs and into his space with eyes gone red with barely-leashed rage.

"I don't need your pity," he hisses, and his teeth gleam long and sharp in the light bleeding in from hallway.

Fear for his life has always made Stiles do stupid things. Stupid, stupid, stupid things. Before he can think too much about it he puts his hands on Derek's shoulders and shoves, overbalancing the werewolf onto his ass and leaving Stiles slumped against the kitchen island.

Derek lets out a furious snarl Stiles will be hearing in his dreams for a long, long time, but he still uses one hand on the wood behind him to lever himself up so that he's crouched above Derek, knees on either side of Derek's hips, and if the look on Derek's face is any indication it will be a fucking miracle if Stiles survives this intact.

"Look," he says, voice actually wavering with how hard his heart is beating. "This isn't pity. I don't pity you. I— oh my God, please don't eat me."

Derek's hands have settled with a dire sense of finality around the backs of Stiles' knees, and Derek uses his grip to pull Stiles inexorably closer. "Then what?"

"I guess it's great to know that I'm just that subtle," Stiles manages, feeling winded and vulnerable and terrified as Derek slides into place between his thighs. "But I— really like you. A lot?"

It comes out as a question because Derek's face is doing something odd and complicated, banked anger cooling to narrow-eyed confusion and—

"Derek," Stiles says, daring now to lift a hand and lay it on his chest, feeling a heartbeat almost as uneven as his own. "Seriously? Peter's been smirking at me for months, how is this— I thought the wolfy nose thing? I mean, doesn't being an alpha make that even more—?"

"'Wolfy nose thing?'" Derek echoes, eyebrows pinching together. His voice sounds pained but the tension is leaking out of his body, mouth curving upwards and Stiles lets out a shaky laugh of relief, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I've been wanting to— with you— for a while," he admits with his eyes still closed, because it's easier than looking at Derek right now. "Oh wow, this is special. Even for us."

"Stiles," and now Derek's voice is a pleased smooth purr, of course it is, one of his legs drawing up so Stiles is rocked forward and has to brace himself against Derek's chest. "Are you asking me out?"

Stiles opens his eyes to scowl down at him but Derek's grinning, a little crookedly but that is definitely a full-on grin, and in the face of that, Stiles can only flush and stutter, "Uh, yeah, I guess?"

Their second kiss is much nicer than the first, Derek lifting up when Stiles leans down and their lips meeting somewhere in the middle, just catching and dragging against each other before Derek's tongue dips playfully into his mouth and hell yes, Stiles is so on board with that.

He knows he's a little too eager and unpracticed to make it perfect but Derek doesn't seem to care, hands sliding up Stiles' thighs to grip his waist, urge him closer so when they break apart to breathe he can lay small teasing bites along Stiles' jaw, down to his throat.

"Derek," he sighs, then groans. "God, Derek—"

Derek fingers spread low on Stiles' back, presses him down so the next slow rolling grind of their hips hits him perfectly, Stiles arching back so he can ride the gritty friction even harder, Derek following to suck a burning bruise low on Stiles' neck. "Derek—"

There's a muffled bark and the clatter of tiny claws on hardwood floors, getting louder.

"Shit—" Stiles starts, then let's out a startled "Ah!" when Derek scrapes his teeth over the tender mark. "Derek!"

Derek Junior slides into the kitchen with all four paws scrambling, dragging his leash in his teeth and bounding straight up to Stiles, yipping around the fabric with delirious enthusiasm.

"Um," Stiles mumbles as their rhythm slows, stops, and Derek's forehead falls onto Stiles' shoulder. The puppy jumps in circles around them, running for the sliding glass door and back, all but vibrating with excitement.

"Sorry?" he tries.

"Just take the damn dog out," Derek grumbles into his collar, and when Stiles eases back to see his face there's a smile edging around Derek's mouth that seems torn between laughter and the urge to maim.

"Don't move," Stiles says seriously, clambering awkwardly off of Derek's lap and wincing as his hard-on rubs against his jeans. Fuck.

"Don't move?" Derek repeats, leaning back on his hands. His own erection is pressing angrily against front of his pants, outlined clearly enough that Stiles has the sudden debilitating thought that he might not, in fact, have anything on under said pants.

"I don't think so." Derek lifts one hand to thumb the bruise on Stiles' neck like he has plans for it. "I think... I'll go shower. And if you hurry," and his grin promises a whole host of filthy things, "I might still be in there when you get back."

God. Stiles swallows and Derek smirks, leaning in for one last kiss that goes hot and deep and wet until a sharp bark breaks them apart again.

"I'm going to... walk the dog now," Stiles says unsteadily.

"Hurry," Derek says again, and the thought of him slick with water, slippery with soap is enough to propel Stiles to his feet and out the door. He slams it shut and sags against it as the puppy darts away and out into the yard.

Derek Junior is cute as hell, Stiles thinks dazedly. But he's suddenly much less sad the sheriff's allergic to dogs.


More Author Notes:

Full original prompt:

"So Stiles gets a puppy, or is fostering a puppy for Scott's vet job, and he decides to be sort of an ass and name the dog Derek Jr. Mostly so he can baby-talk and scold the puppy using 'Derek's name while the werewolf Derek just sits on the sideline and glares at him. SPOILER: Except Stiles really didn't think ahead and when the real Derek finally gives into his frustration to just sex Stiles up, Stiles ends up calling out "Derek" a lot. Really loudly. Puppy comes running in, wagging it's tail, howling along with Stiles, and ruins sexy time."

In conclusion: OH GOD I WANT A PUPPY NOW THANKS

THANKS BUNCHES