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Part 9 of Sterek Bingo 2025
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Published:
2025-06-11
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2,638
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1/1
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Fireman Carry

Summary:

Fluffy prompt

Celebrity Stiles gets overrun by paparazzi and fans while out without his security and gets rescued by fire fighter Derek.

I'm double dipping on this and using is for 'Strength' for Sterek Bingo 2025

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

The air in LA is always buzzing - too loud, too much, too hot, too everything. But tonight, under the faded neon glow of the little corner diner tucked between a boarded up bookstore and a vape shop, it feels quiet. Not truly quiet, of course…cars still hiss down the boulevard, and the fry cook’s clatter filters out from the kitchen, but quiet enough. Peaceful. Familiar.

Stiles sits in a cracked vinyl booth with a plate of greasy fries and a diner mug that could double as a weapon, filled with burnt coffee that tastes like gas station memories and road trips that didn’t lead anywhere. It’s perfect.

He’s wearing a hoodie pulled low and sunglasses that do absolutely nothing in the fluorescent light, but he’s not trying to go full incognito. Just… low profile. Just enough to pretend he’s not Stiles Stilinski, the actor who’s been on every streaming platform and magazine cover for the last six years. Just enough to be a regular guy, alone, trying to remember what it feels like to not be watched.

Boyd is going to kill him.

Not literally. Boyd’s the best friend he’s ever had, the only one who doesn’t care about the name or the face or the net worth. But he is his assistant, and he is currently texting in all caps:
WHERE ARE YOU. SECURITY SAYS YOU DITCHED THEM.

Stiles ignores the message, dunking a fry in watery ketchup and chewing with his eyes closed, like this meal is holy. He’s got half a grilled cheese left and a second refill on the way when he notices the shift.

It starts with a whisper - no, not a whisper, a ripple.

He sees the waitress glance toward the windows. Hears the scratch of metal as someone pushes a stool back too quickly. Then it hits him: the shift in air pressure, the thrum of something gathering outside.

A crowd.

His spine stiffens. Through the smudged glass, he sees the flicker of a phone screen. Then another. Then a full blown flash.

They found him.

The crowd outside is growing, pressed up against the windows like a wave waiting to break. Some of them have cameras. Others are shouting, pointing. It’s a mixture of excitement and hunger and that brittle, terrifying energy that always comes just before the chaos.

Stiles swears softly, the sound barely audible over the sudden buzzing of his phone lighting up again. Boyd.

Too late.

He’s already been seen.

For a second Stiles feels proud of his fans.

They're staying outside.

That has to mean something, right? Maybe the tinted windows or the low lighting or his perfectly nondescript hoodie are working their magic. Maybe people are just being respectful for once. The crowd is pressing closer to the glass, but no one’s bursting through the door yet. That’s a win. That’s progress.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, scrubs a hand over his face, and starts mentally drafting the "you were right, Boyd" text he'll send when he gets home. But the breath barely leaves his lungs before his eyes catch the shift again - the way the crowd isn’t just hovering anymore.

They’re converging.

On the door.

Phones up. Some people are filming already. Someone shouts his name and presses their face to the window like he’s a tiger in a zoo. The angle of the booth has given him the illusion of space, of anonymity, but now he realizes the diner has exactly one exit.

His stomach drops.

A hand - soft, warm, and a little wrinkled - touches his arm, startling him. He turns to find the older waitress with the deep smile lines and the pen still tucked behind her ear. Her expression is calm, like this isn’t the first time a celebrity’s been ambushed over French fries.

“You can go through the kitchen, sweetheart,” she says kindly, jerking her chin toward the swinging doors near the counter. “Back alley’ll spit you out on Serrano. Fewer cameras that way.”

Stiles blinks, relief flooding him. “Oh my god, thank you.”

She pats his arm, then adds with a wink, “I’ve seen ya naked on screen, hon. Least I can do is let you go through the back door.”

Stiles loses it.

He snorts, actually snorts, then bursts into uncontrollable cackling laughter that echoes off the chrome napkin dispensers and greasy walls. It breaks the panic like a stick snapping in half, and he clutches his stomach as he gasps, “That was so dirty, and I respect it.”

The waitress just winks again, smug as hell, as he hauls himself out of the booth and makes a break for the back, still grinning like a maniac as he goes.

The back door slams shut behind him with a soft clang, and for a glorious half second, it’s quiet again.

Cooler air brushes his face, laced with the scent of oil from the dumpster and the faint citrus tang of someone’s laundry venting out of an upstairs window. The alley is mostly empty, mostly, except for three people lingering by the chain-link fence, phones already up and aimed.

Stiles throws on a smile, breathless but sincere. “Hey, hi - yes, it’s me. I’m so sorry, I’d love to chat but I really, really have to run. Like, literally.” He waves as he talks, already backing up, already moving.

He speed walks out of the alley like he’s power lapping a Whole Foods aisle, praying his hood still gives him a little cover. But then he hears it - the scuffle of sneakers behind him, excited voices picking up pace.

More people are following. More people are arriving.

“Stiles! Wait! Just one photo!”

“Are you filming something here?”

And just like that, the crowd begins to swell again. A few more people come around the corner, one of them running, and Stiles’s heart skips into overdrive. Panic creeps up his spine like ice. He breaks into a jog, phone in hand, thumb trying to unlock it so he can call Boyd, call anyone-

And then his feet leave the ground.

“WHAT THE - HEY! HEY!” he yells, flailing as strong arms wrap around his thighs and hoist him up like he’s a sack of sugar and not a fully grown adult. “I swear to God if this is how I get kidnapped, Boyd is gonna be so pissed!”

His voice bounces off walls as the man carrying him sprints full tilt down the sidewalk. Stiles can’t even see his face - he’s upside down, jostling with every step - but the guy moves fast, sure footed, purposeful.

They make a sharp turn and suddenly Stiles is being carried into a wide open garage lit by harsh fluorescents, the scent of smoke, metal, and something distinctly soapy hitting him like a wave.

A firehouse.

He’s been abducted into a firehouse.

The man sets him down gently, like very gently, which is weirdly polite for someone who just abducted him, and Stiles stumbles back a step, hair wild, heart hammering.

He’s halfway through “What the actual hell” when he looks up and sees the guy for the first time.

Pale green eyes. Five o’clock shadow. Broad shoulders in a fitted gray firehouse t shirt, and a face that looks carved from broody, heroic stone. The kind of face directors beg for and lighting techs pray not to ruin.

The man raises an eyebrow and deadpans, “You’re welcome.”

Stiles stares.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re hot.”

“…And you're loud,” the man replies, barely hiding the amused twist in his mouth.

Stiles blinks, still slightly winded from the unexpected fireman flight, and pushes his hood back with shaky hands. His cheeks are flushed, part embarrassment, part adrenaline, and maybe a tiny bit from being manhandled by a hot firefighter.

“I’m Stiles,” he says, sticking out his hand like a dork because of course he is. “Which, you probably know, because the entire city apparently has my location pinged like it’s Pokémon Go, but - yeah. Stiles Stilinski. Thanks for not, you know, murdering me.”

The man smirks, just the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth, as he takes the offered hand in a firm, warm grip. “Derek. Derek Hale.”

The name lands in Stiles’ ears with satisfying weight. Sounds like a romance novel lead.

Derek holds onto Stiles’ hand just a second too long, then lets go and crosses his arms. “I know who you are,” he says, casually. “Figured you could use a hand. I don’t usually run around picking up random guys in alleys.”

Stiles snorts. “That’s kind of a shame. You could make a real hobby out of it. Maybe start a calendar.”

That earns him a real smile, quick and sharp before it fades back into something more reserved. Derek leans against a nearby bench, the firehouse around them humming with quiet activity, someone laughing in the kitchen, the low murmur of a dispatch radio in the background.

“Firehouse actually got a call a few minutes ago,” Derek says, nodding toward the front bay where the trucks are parked. “Guy named Boyd asking if anyone had seen his quote-unquote ‘dumbass best friend who thinks he’s invincible because he was voted 5th in Sexiest Man Alive.’”

Stiles lets out a wheeze and clutches at his chest. “I knew he’d bring up that magazine cover. God, he was so smug when he had to schedule that shoot. Wouldn’t stop calling me ‘Captain Abs.’”

Derek’s expression softens, amused and maybe just a little charmed. “Boyd’s on his way here now. He told us to stall you if we found you. I told Captain I was bringing you back before I threw you over my shoulder.”

“Stall me?” Stiles huffs. “What am I, a rogue shopping cart? A runaway horse?”

Derek shrugs, still fighting back another grin. “Well, you did run off without security.”

“Once!” Stiles throws up his hands. “Okay, like, four times, but this one was important. I needed coffee that tasted like heartbreak and 2 a.m. diner floors.”

Derek tilts his head. “You could’ve just ordered delivery.”

Stiles gives him a scandalized look. “From a chain? Derek. No. What I needed was illegal levels of grease and the kind of coffee that tastes like it’s actively trying to end me.”

Derek chuckles quietly and Stiles watches it ripple through his chest, warm and unguarded. It tugs at something deep inside him, something that hasn’t stirred in a while.

Maybe this near kidnapping wasn’t so bad after all.

Stiles, still riding the high of post escape adrenaline and the glow of Derek’s absurdly attractive everything, leans back against the worktable beside him, arms crossed like he isn’t very aware of how his bicep looks when he does it.

“You know,” he says, casually tilting his head toward Derek, “for a guy who body snatched me in broad daylight, you’ve got a decent sense of humor.”

Derek raises a brow, arms folded across his chest like the cover of a firefighter romance novel, all smolder and smirk. “For a guy who snuck out for gas station coffee disguised as diner food, you’re surprisingly chill about being thrown over a shoulder.”

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, playful. “Hey, I’ve had worse experiences. At least you didn’t drop me.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Derek says, a little softer now, a little more serious, and oh.

That tone does something to Stiles. His stomach flips, and he catches himself staring again, at the square cut of Derek’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes are unfairly thick for someone who wrestles fires for a living.

“So…” Stiles starts, then pauses. Clears his throat. “This might sound like a heat-of-the-moment, just-got-rescued-from-a-mob kind of thing, but…would you wanna go out sometime?”

There’s a beat. Just a flicker of surprise in Derek’s eyes, then something warmer settles there, like a sunbeam cutting through the clouds.

“I’d like that,” Derek says, voice low and sure. “But only if you promise to tell Boyd where you are next time. I am not trying to face the wrath of that man.”

Stiles groans. “Ugh, I know, I know. He’s going to put a leash on my location settings. Honestly, I’m shocked he hasn’t already installed a GPS chip in my thigh.”

Derek grins. “He’s huge.”

Stiles cackles. “Right?! I’ve seen him deadlift a crotch rocket once. No joke. Some paparazzi crashed into it, and Boyd just picked it up like it was a damn suitcase and moved it out of the way.”

“So we agree,” Derek says, stepping just a little closer, his presence warm and steady. “If I’m going to take you out, I need to survive long enough to actually get you there.”

Stiles mock-salutes him. “Noted. I’ll text him now. You’re officially Stilinski approved.”

Derek’s smile turns into something softer, fond even. “Good. Because I think I’d like to keep carrying you off - but maybe next time, without the panic.”

“Oh,” Stiles grins, slipping his phone out of his pocket and tapping away. “You carry me like that again, I promise there won’t be any panic. Maybe a little moaning. But definitely no panic.”

Derek blinks. Then laughs, a deep, genuine laugh that shakes his shoulders and makes Stiles’ entire chest feel like it’s on fire in the best way.

The firehouse doors bang open with the force of divine judgment, and there he is. Boyd, tall, broad, and radiating the kind of calm fury that makes grown men apologize for things they haven’t even done yet.

“Stiles,” Boyd says, voice low but laced with warning, “you absolute menace to my blood pressure.”

Stiles winces and gives a sheepish little wave. “Hey, Boyd. So, funny story-”

“You ditched your security,” Boyd cuts in, stalking forward like a man on a mission. “Again. You went out alone. Again. You ignored all twelve of my texts, again. Do you want to be kidnapped? Do you want to wake up in a suitcase with your kidneys on eBay?”

Stiles lifts both hands in surrender, eyes wide. “I’m fine! I was just getting coffee and maybe a little heart clogging grease, and then things got a little mob-y, but I was saved! Heroically, I might add.”

Derek, leaning against a steel post with his arms folded and an unmistakable twinkle of amusement in his eyes, raises one hand. “That was me.”

Boyd stops and finally takes Derek in - boots to shoulders, shoulders to face, face to unfair jawline. He looks him up and down with slow, practiced appraisal, like a bodyguard doing a background check with just his eyes.

Stiles steps in between them, grinning. “Boyd, meet Derek. He’s a local fireman-slash-life-saver-slash-dude-who-literally-threw-me-over-his-shoulder-and-ran like a human tank. We’re gonna go on a date.”

Boyd’s brow arches slowly, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Just keeps looking Derek up and down.

Then finally, he nods. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait, really?”

Boyd’s eyes stay on Derek as he says, dead serious, “I know he can protect you when you decide to be dumb.”

Stiles sputters. “When I decide? I’m not - okay, yeah, that’s fair.”

Derek just chuckles, low and warm, and murmurs to Boyd, “I’ve got it covered.”

Boyd pats Derek on the shoulder once, hard enough to echo. “You better.”

Then he turns to Stiles. “You owe me pie for this.”

“Deal,” Stiles grins. “But I’m picking the place. Somewhere greasy.”

Derek laughs again, and Boyd mutters something about being “cursed to manage children in adult bodies” as he walks away, already pulling out his phone to reschedule Stiles’ next security briefing.

Stiles turns to Derek, still grinning. “Well. That went better than expected.”

Derek nods, still amused. “You didn’t get tackled. That’s a win.”

Stiles elbows him lightly. “Yet.”

Derek just smirks. “Don’t give him a reason.”

“Never,” Stiles lies. “So, you free Friday?”

Notes:

From a prompt over on Tumblr! 💜❤️💜❤️

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