halffizzbin:

Anonymous asked you:

i would die a fiery death for a sterek AU where derek is the grumpiest ‘sandwich artist’ in all of subway, and stiles thinks it’s hilarious to order a footlong sub and be the little shit he is and wink and flirt and just generally make derek a flustered mess.

“Heads up, Hale,” Boyd says while Derek is bent over restocking the Italian Herb ‘n’ Cheese. “It’s your favorite customer.”

“I don’t have a favorite customer,” Derek protests without looking up. “I dislike all of our customers equally.”

“That really hurts, Derek,” says Stiles, and Derek sighs heavily and straightens up. “Oh, no, you don’t have to stand up on my account. By all means, finish what you were doing.”

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

“Bent over is a really good look for you,” Stiles continues, winking, and somewhere over by the register Boyd chokes on a laugh. “Are those jeans regulation Subway attire? Jared-approved?”

“Grilled chicken?” Derek asks, sneaking a glance at Stiles from under his green viser. It’s a hot day, and he’s wearing a worn, soft-looking Green Lantern t-shirt. It’s hitched up a bit on one side, from the way he’s carrying his backpack over one shoulder, and Derek can see the smooth curve of his hip.

He’s got a tiny line of freckles on that side, too. Derek’s counted three, but he thinks there might be more, higher up.

“Meatball, today,” Stiles says, leaning forward and grinning at Derek over the sneeze guard. “How do you feel about balls, Derek?”

“Oh lord,” Boyd says, stomping over. “Stiles, I will give you free cookies for life if you ask him out right now and never force me to listen to you make sandwich-related double entendres ever again. This job is already hellish enough, damn.”

Derek flushes and fumbles the meatball ladle. “Boyd. Shut up.”

“Hale, come on, you can’t tell me you don’t want to—”

“Stiles isn’t serious,” Derek hisses. “He’s just—”

“Oh my god, what? Yes I am!“ 

Derek drops the ladle altogether. ”What.“

“I’d love to go out with you. Wanna go to Quiznos? Ha, I’m kidding. Except not really, I actually really love Quiznos. I’m so sorry.”

“Then why…” Derek pulls off the visor and tries to get his hair to do something vaguely sexy, feeling nervous under Stiles’ warm, intent gaze. “But you come in here every other day.”

“Yup.”

“There’s a Quiznos right across the street,” Derek tells him.

“Hale I swear to god,” Boyd mutters, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Wanna meet me there on your dinner break?” Stiles asks, bouncing excitedly. “On a date. A romantic date. I don’t know how to be clearer about this. I’ve actually never been accused of being subtle before.”

“Derek’s just an idiot,” Boyd explains, while Derek keeps his cool by focusing all his attention on laying the cheese triangles in a perfect tessellated layer over the meatballs. “When good things happen to him, he assumes they’re a lie.”

“I’m a good thing?” Stiles smiles at his shoes, and his face is all soft and pleased and going blotchy as he blushes, and Derek’s chest aches.

“I’m off in three hours,” Derek says, sliding the sandwich into the toaster and trying not to do anything embarrassing, like a victory dance.

Stiles, of course, has no such compunctions, and shimmies in a happy little circle right there in front of the counter. “Awesome. See you then, bright-eyes. Oh, and ring me up for two bags of chips, all right? I’m carbo-loading so I can keep my energy up tonight.”

“Why, what are you doing tonight?” Derek asks, and in the back room he can hear Boyd banging his head repeatedly against the freezer door.