but he's still derek

anonymous asked:

Hey can you update the docking tag please 🙏🏻

umm

We’ve Got Company by alisvolatpropiis (1/1 | 2,494 | NC17)

It’s still strange for Derek, waking up next to someone. He’s opened his eyes to Stiles’ gorgeous face every morning for a month now, and it still surprises him. There’s so much about it that’s hard for him to accept: that he trusts someone enough to sleep next to him, that someone as breathtaking and powerful as Stiles inexplicably seems to love him, that Derek hasn’t felt the urge to run away since the moment he laid eyes on him.

Stiles is an incredibly heavy sleeper, so Derek doesn’t even bother being gentle or quiet about burrowing in closer to him. They’re on their sides, facing each other; Derek slides down the bed a bit so he can nuzzle into his neck, tossing a leg over Stiles’ hip, hitching closer. Stiles, still asleep, mumbles into his hair, warm breath teasing across his scalp.

This hunger, that’s new too. Derek’s never had a problem getting sex whenever he wanted, has become quite skilled, in fact, in taking what he needs from the men eager to sleep with him. But this – this bone-deep, nearly insatiable desire he feels for Stiles, the way his mind and body practically scream to touch him, taste him – is something wholly new and frightening in its intensity.

Part 2 of Alpha Stiles

anonymous asked:

Okay last one bc I have to go to sleep! More amputee!Stiles After the whole "saw off my arm" incident stiles asked Derek what would he do if stiles had sawed off Dereks arm and Derek said "I'd get over it." Which pissed Stiles the fuck off bc no you never get over it you never just accept not having a limb. Stiles hasnt had lower part of his right leg for years and he still has phantom feelings of a whole leg. Fuck Derek bc no don't just "get over it". years later Derek says sorry saying that.

Aw, Derek just wanted to reassure him becasue he felt like if he had made a huge fuss over it he would have insulted Stiles, so he said he’d “get over it” becasue he wanted Stiles to feel like nothing was wring with him, that he was a normal (but special) guy who could do anything. It just took him years to apologise becasue every time he brought it up, Stiles got upset and Derek didn’t want that and he felt guilty for saying what he did, so he’d dropped the conversation.

(Please don’t be mad at Derek, he tries to do what’s right for Stiles)

little spoon

To save money while attending college in NYC, Stiles and Derek decide to rent one tiny apartment together. With one bed.

*whispers* I have no idea if any of this is realistic. Don’t judge me.

You guys know by now that practically everything I write is so so fluffy, but this is just like, a whole other level. A little over 4k words of enemies-to-lovers, bed-sharing, & cuddling. ;)  

on ao3

*

The thing is, Stiles is pretty sure he can’t afford to breathe the air in New York City, let alone rent an apartment there. But it’s also been his lifelong dream to go to NYU, same as his mom, and he’s just gotten his acceptance letter in the mail along with a hefty scholarship offer. So he has a bit of a conundrum on his hands.

Enter Derek, who has a (relatively) dirt cheap apartment in Queens.

Okay, so Derek calls it an “apartment.” Stiles calls it an “attic closet.”

It’s nothing but a narrow bed, a foot or so of walking space between that and the wall, and a lone shelf by the door to hold the microwave and all of Derek’s possessions that can’t fit under the bed. There’s not even enough room to open the door all the way; the edge of the door hits the edge of the bed, and then you have to shimmy into the room.

The sad thing is that Stiles can’t even afford that.

He can, however, afford half of it.

“So you’re going to share a bed,” Scott says, looking concerned.

“Yes,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek says at the same time.

Scott looks more concerned.

Stiles sighs. “Okay, so it’s like this. Derek’s going to be doing the whole normal person schedule, up at the buttcrack of dawn” (Derek rolls his eyes) “and out working and studying and stuff all day and back in bed asleep by 11 pm, and I’m going to be taking all evening classes and working the night shift!”

“We won’t actually ever be in the same place at the same time,” Derek clarifies. “He gets it during the day; I get it at night.”

“Because we can’t stand each other,” Stiles adds, in case Scott is thinking of getting his hopes up that this whole roommates thing is going to be some kind of bromance.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Oooooooo tell me more about Derek feeling small and safe and loved 😍

You hit me at exactly the right time because I was just finishing this:

Just picture Derek waking up late on a quiet Sunday morning, pulling on Stiles’ worn FBI shirt in a sleepy haze, and shuffling out to the kitchen where there’s a mug of fresh coffee waiting for him. Stiles is making breakfast and just lets him putter around in the background while he wakes up–he still finds a half-asleep Derek impossibly endearing, and if he can avoid waking him up fully, he does. Every chance he gets. It’s still something of a novelty that Derek doesn’t jerk awake at the slightest movement or creaking floorboard.

In this particular future, they’ve got a house up in the mountains overlooking Beacon Hills, and Derek likes to shuffle out onto the deck to drink his coffee and read the paper when he’s conscious enough. It usually takes a few tries to get both the sliding door and the screen unlocked and open, but he gets there eventually. Stiles just lets it happen, however long it takes.

When breakfast is ready and on the table, he follows Derek outside and hugs him from behind so he can hook his chin over his shoulder and look out at the city. There’s a chilly breeze because it’s moving into fall, but with Derek in his arms blocking the wind, he’s still warm. 

He presses kisses to Derek’s neck and stubbly jaw, and runs his hands up under the front of his own shirt, and marvels at the extra space through the chest and shoulders. Derek’s eased up on his workouts over the years, the further from danger and memories they got, and he’s not soft by any means, just less obsessive with being prepared for an attack of any kind. He doesn’t feel like he has to be a physical wall against any and all threats, not anymore.

There are good days and bad, of course there are bad days with everything they’ve been through in life, but the weekends are always theirs. The weekends are for waking up late and having real breakfast that’s not a rushed piece of toast in the car on the way into the Sacramento field office, and half-asleep coffee on the deck while the city comes alive. 

They’ll probably go back to bed after they eat–maybe have some lazy and playful sex if they’re in the mood. Maybe they’ll just spoon and doze into the afternoon, because even though Stiles loves being the little spoon when he sleeps, he also loves holding Derek in his arms while the sun’s light lazily inches across their bedroom.

“Breakfast’s ready,” he murmurs quietly, and presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder before pulling him back into the house. Derek’s eyes still aren’t open all the way, but he willingly goes where Stiles tugs him, knowing he’ll never steer him wrong.

help you forget.

Originally posted by teenwolf--imagines

derek hale x reader (smut)

warnings: smut, some dirty talk, oral. (male receiving)

prompt: you’re pining over scott while derek pines over you. he helps you forget scott in his own way.

AN: let’s just pretend derek is still in teen wolf and he never lost his alpha title.  i’m such a sucker for alpha hale right now. 

beacon hills was a beautiful town, strange but beautiful none the less. you’d lived here your whole life, fortunately you’d managed to go most of your life without knowing what truly lurked in the dark but in the end, you were exposed to it all and fighting things nightmares were made of was a daily occurrence now.

Keep reading

No, Wait, You Got it All Wrong

You know what there’s not enough of? Canon compliant future fic where Stiles is a cop and he runs into Derek again. What’s that you say? There’s a ton of that?? Yes, true, but NOT ENOUGH.

“…. so then he says, ‘No, Officer, I swear to God this is the first time I’ve ever smoked up! I’ve never been in trouble with the law in my life! And I say, Billy, my man, you’ve been in trouble with me personally twice this month.” Stiles snorts at the memory. “Kid was so fucking high.”

Amanda must be halfway past tipsy, because she laughs uproariously into her beer at the mediocre punchline.

Stiles smiles. He’s satisfied with her reaction, with the warm murmur of the bar, with the buzz he’s got going… with just about everything, actually. After tonight, he’s looking at two full days off before he’s back on the beat, and the night’s still young. He leans back in his chair and takes a pull of his beer, savoring it.

Amanda glances towards the bar, probably considering a fourth round, and then visibly perks up as something near the front catches her eye.

“Oooh, Stiles,” she croons. “Look over at the door, like, just glance over.” She’s adjusted her gaze down at the table now, faking casual disinterest. Badly.

Stiles raises his eyebrows at her.

“This dude just walked in, he’s so your type,” she hisses. “C’mon, look! I’m telling you, six feet two inches of ‘yes, please, give it to me’ muscles, with some salt-and-pepper scruff icing. Unff.”

“Eh,” Stiles says, tipping his weight forward to hunch over the table. It’s not that he isn’t interested, exactly, but this is a cop bar and he doesn’t want to shit where he eats. Metaphorically.

“No, really,” Amanda insists. “He's… oh my God, he’s looking over here. He’s looking at you. Oh my God, Stiles, he’s coming over here!”

“No, he isn’t,” Stiles scoffs. He’s filled out a bit from high school and he’s finally competent at styling his hair, but he’s not that hot. Only Amanda’s sitting straight like a rod, eyes fixed on a point behind him that’s about where a six foot two man’s eyes would be.

“Stiles?”

He turns then, shooting to his feet before his brain’s quite caught up, because that voice is familiar like the back of his own hand.

Keep reading

It’s been about a week of driving on the road, and Stiles gets to his place and drops his things off. The rest of his stuff will be delivered in about another week. 

Stiles stands in the stillness of his tiny apartment and closes his eyes, takes in the quiet, a quiet he hasn’t heard and felt in a long time, when his phone dings.

Stiles opens his eyes, sees it’s text from Scott asking if he made it by the time he said he would. Stiles answered he made it, and then shuts his phone down, and proceeds to lay down on all the blankets he brought with him - his bed won’t be there for a few more days, at least - and sleep.

It’s night when he wakes up, and the street lights are shining into his apartment where he lay in the almost bare living room. Stiles turns on his phone, and this time his heart skips a beat - and Stiles doesn’t quite know why - when he sees the text he’d been expecting from Derek:

Have you made it? Do you want to meet up? 

It was sent an hour ago. Stiles replies back, saying he did and he would, but since it’s night time, they could meet tomorrow?

But Derek replies back a few minutes later that he wouldn’t might meeting up that night. It’s only 7PM, and so Stiles agrees and they agree to meet at a coffee shop a few blocks from where Stiles lives - Derek has been living in D.C. for a few months now, and ever since Stiles told Derek where he would be living, Derek made a point to get to know the area around it. Stiles found that oddly sweet, but he would never tell Derek that. 

Stiles’ heart is beating wildly as he leaves, locking his door behind him. He hasn’t seen Derek in over a year now. They’ve talked over the year, actually they’d talked quite a lot in the past few months, especially, but Stiles hadn’t been face to face with Derek in well over a year. 

Stiles feels and equal measure of excitement and nerves. He feels almost jumpy as he heads down the stairs in his apartment building, and then out into the warm summer night D.C. air. 

He texts Derek that he’s on his way, and Derek texts back that he’s already there, waiting outside. 

Stiles gulps and licks his lips, and walks faster, pocketing his phone.

Stiles is away from the only home he’s known for 18 years. But he feels oddly free. He misses Scott, his dad, everyone like crazy, but he also feels less…heavy. Less like he was drowning. Stiles still looked around him surreptitiously, not able to shake off the habit from almost two and a half years of danger and destruction happening to and around him, but the air is quiet, people barely spare him a glance. 

It feels wonderful.

Stiles is able to breathe

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed. 

When he rounds the corner to the coffee shop, he freezes, his inhale sharp when he sees Derek standing outside, and then it feels like his heart trips over itself when Derek hears him and turns towards him, and they lock eyes. 

Derek looks good. He looks as relaxed as Stiles felt. Derek was still in the tight jeans that Stiles remembered him wearing all the time (and damn, they always made Stiles stare a little longer than he should have) but his shirt looked soft and comfortable, and it was a light purple color that made Derek look absolutely…amazing. 

And he wasn’t wearing his signature leather jacket. He wasn’t standing with his arms over his chest. They were at his sides, just hanging, relaxed. He also wasn’t scowling. He was grinning. At Stiles.

And Stiles found himself grinning back. He let out a shocked laugh, and then he was walking fast toward Derek, who started walking toward him too. 

Stiles sped up the last ten or so feet, and then Stiles was practically jumping into Derek’s awaiting arms, and Derek gave a small “oof” as if Stiles, fragile human that he was, was able to knock the breath out of Derek. 

“Sorry,” Stiles murmured. 

But he felt Derek shake his head and wrap Stiles up firmly in his arms, and Stiles breathed out softly, tightening his arms around Derek’s shoulders and resting his cheek against Derek’s.

“I missed you,” Stiles whispered, surprised he let that slip out. But he did nothing to take the words back. 

“I missed you, too,” Derek said, and Stiles shivered. He and Derek had mostly texted over the past year, and the last time they had talked on the phone had been months ago. Stiles had missed his soft, beautiful voice. It was like honey to Stiles’ ears.

Two and a half years. That’s how long Stiles had basically lived in hell. 

But now….now, Stiles was getting out of it. With Derek, who actually picked Stiles up enough that Stiles was then on his tippy toes, somehow bringing Stiles closer in his arms, and Stiles huffed out a laugh. 

“Derek-”

“Shh, just enjoy it,” Derek murmured. 

“Can’t imagine the Derek I knew saying that,” Stiles whispered. Even at the end, before Derek left, when he was in such a good place, he hadn’t quite been like this. So happy. So relaxed. So ready to hug someone. And hug them closely, for that matter. 

“Yeah, well…some time away helps,” Derek murmured, and Stiles felt his heart beating faster when he felt Derek brush his lips lightly against Stiles’ neck. 

“Good thing I’m getting some time away, then,” Stiles murmured. And then after a long moment, “with you,” Stiles said. 

He felt Derek inhale sharply, and then the arms around him tighten. But it didn’t feel restrictive. It felt amazingly comforting. Stiles felt warm, safe. Relaxed. And maybe even a little bit happy.

“I’m glad you’re getting time away, too. With me.”

Stiles smiled, buried his smile against Derek’s shoulder, and then decided to hold on to Derek just a little longer. 

He didn’t feel the need to be anywhere else. 

bashfyl  asked:

*incoherent screaming* You opened prompts! Sterek: Not yet together sterek. The idea is a bath and Stiles how did you get that there?!? Thank you.

Taking Sterek Prompts | Filling Prompts Live

———

“Are you going to get in?” Stiles asked, peeling out of his last shirt, his words a little slurry around the edges. “In a- a- a-” He paused, trying rather unsuccessfully to shake his hand free of his sleeve. He started laughing uncontrollably and collapsed to the floor to work on his shoes. “The water, are you?”

“No,” Derek groused, pointedly not looking when Stiles flopped onto his back and began to shimmy out of his soaked pants. Black slime coated almost every square inch of the floor. “This is your bath, not mine.”

“Mine,” Stiles echoed, now just lying on the floor in a puddle of black, his pale skin coated head to foot in the gunk. “This is not my house.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed, as patiently as he could, checking the water’s temperature before turning off the tap. It had to be extra hot to affect the stuff. “This is the clinic.”

Deaton had explained that even minimal contact with the ichorous substance gave a contact high. Stiles had been practically drenched in the stuff when they had killed it. Luckily it was not deadly or even toxic- which was the problem. Someone had been keeping the creature as a pet, drawing out the fluid and selling it, and it had escaped three days ago to wreak havoc.

Very, very unfortunately, Derek had drawn the short straw for ensuring Stiles got cleaned up and came down from the high safely. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were taking care of disposal of the body while Scott and Allison swung by Allison’s house to return weapons and report to her father. Deaton had been kind enough - or perhaps had enough self preservation - to give Derek the key to the clinic so he could get Stiles washed up away from his father’s questions.

“Come on,” Derek said gently, slipping from the edge of the tub to crouch at Stiles’ side. It was, he reflected, a very good thing that werewolves were not susceptible to the substance’s effects. “You gotta get cleaned up.” The effects wouldn’t wear off until every drop of the ichor was gone.

Stiles lifted his head, looking all the way down his lean form. “Oh, no, no that’s too far,” he told Derek, head falling back with an audible clunk he was probably going to feel in a few hours. “Wow, this is the best floor ever. Do you think I could take it home with me?”

“No,” Derek said with a sigh. Looked like this was going to have to be the hard way. He shifted, kneeling beside Stiles, and grabbed at his wrists to haul him up.

Despite that they slipped and slid a bit, Derek managed to get a very naked Stiles upright and across the three feet to the tub. For a second Stiles stood very still, holding tightly onto the edge of it like he was going to resist going in. Then he tipped forward and faceplanted directly into the basin so quickly Derek had to scramble to keep him from drowning.

“Hoooooo!!!!” Stiles shouted the second his mouth was above the surface, water sluicing away the ichor clinging to his skin. “It’s hot, Derek! This is really hot, why is it so hot? Oh my god, I’m melting!” He started grabbing at the black liquid coming off his skin.

Closing his eyes, Derek counted to three. Then five. Then ten, for good measure, and when he opened them again, Stiles had fallen very, very still and was staring wide eyed into the middle distance. It was not exactly an improvement, but at least he’d stopped thrashing, slopping water and ichor all over the floor and flinging it onto the walls and- and was that- on the ceiling?

“Stiles, how did you- you know what, nevermind,” Derek grumbled, reaching for the spray nozzle.

This setup was supposed to be for cleaning dogs, but it would work just as well for ornery, tripping humans. He began to run the spray over Stiles’ hair, watching the black give way to brown. When the tub had filled completely, Derek pulled the plug and let it drain. Diluted like this with water, it wouldn’t hurt the general populace; at worst, they’d all have a really good day soon.

Stiles’ eyes slid closed, and he relaxed into the gentle touches Derek used to turn him this way and that, to get at the last of the ichor still clinging to strange places like inside of his ears and between his fingers and- well, at least Stiles was unlikely to remember any of this very well tomorrow.

By the time he had gotten the last of it, Stiles had turned to putty in his hands, making a soft, pleasant humming noise that might have been purring on a cat. Derek swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. He still needed to get Stiles someplace to wait out the high, and get this place cleaned up so no one else would be affected.

Difficult to think of anything beyond the way Stiles pressed himself into Derek’s touches. “Feels good,” Stiles murmured, unwilling or unable to keep his eyes open. “You should touch me more.”

“Tomorrow,” Derek mumbled back, prodding Stiles to his feet. The floor was still covered in ichor, so Derek just leaned over and scooped a completely unresisting Stiles into his arms. Immediately, Stiles looped his own arms around Derek’s neck and burrowed his nose against Derek’s shoulder. “If you still want me to touch you tomorrow, I will.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed muzzily.

He wouldn’t remember. No one else had. Still…

He allowed himself a small smile, and a measure of hope. Stiles had never been one for following the rules, after all.

summersaltturn  asked:

"Have anyone told you you have the most intimidating nostrils I've ever seen?"

“Yeah, I won an award, junior year,” Derek answers, frowning at his new IKEA (bought and built, all in a soft Henley sweater; Stiles knows, he supervised) book-shelf, like he hasn’t just finished a seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts. A seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts alone.

Derek Hale: epic nerd and assembler of easy-to-build IKEA products. Of course, Stiles thinks, cursing his stupid Professor and DIY kinks. Why not? The worst part is, he doesn’t even think those kinks are sexual. It’s just….a thing. That he has. A Derek thing. The Butterflies That Live In His Stomach were trying so desperately to move on with their lives, too. They’d shopped around. Hired a real-estate agent. They were ready, goddammit!  

Derek settles on a book - Stiles is pretty sure it also has the word ‘artefacts’ in the title - and sighs, all feigned nostalgia, and glances over his shoulder. “It was a golden nose, too. Across the bottom it said,” he pauses, grinning, “Stiles Stilinski needs to get a life.”

Stiles opens his mouth, clutches his chest, because rude much? Is it his fault Derek’s nostrils belong in some kind of anatomy museum? Is it his fault his Saturday nights are spent playing video games in his underwear, when his week days are spent chasing down monsters and researching things like how Scott and Erica managed to contract chicken pox when stabbing them does, like, nothing? (Except get Erica excited because she’s a beautiful, terrifying weirdo.) The moment he tries to tell Derek this, however, a copy of - is that Pride and Prejudice? - is thrown at his head. 

Stiles doesn’t know if he’s more offended when Derek rolls his eyes when it misses him, or the concerned look that crosses his face when the book sails past him and lands in an empty pizza box, like Derek is worried if it’s okay or not. 

And to think, Stiles was going to screw up his courage and finally invite Derek to see a movie this weekend. In an actual theatre. Where people go to be normal. Well, the laugh is on Derek because Stiles is going to buy the big popcorn and he’s going to enjoy it all on his own. 

Yeah, that’ll show him. 

~

“Has anyone ever told you your eyebrows could star in a disturbing kid’s movie about caterpillars?” 

Stiles is drunk. No, he’s wasted. Hammered. Loaded. Completely and utterly shit faced. Which is probably why instead of ending up on his ass on the floor, Derek just pinches the bridge of his nose, tips his head against the back of the couch and says, “what.” Not even a hint of inflection.

This dude, Stiles thinks, and then laughs because, ohmygod, Derek is this dude now. Not that dude or whoa, what are you doing crawling through my window, dude? but this dude. And that’s kind of beautifully heart warming, in its own way. 

Really, Stiles should write into Hallmark. It could be a trilogy. A Gay Trilogy ™. Bisexuals on ice. Except, without the ice because Stiles doesn’t know how to skate. Can Derek skate? Stiles totally bets Derek can skate.   

Speaking of Derek, he’s got this little crinkle on his forehead now, right between his eyebrows, and man, they really are very nice eyebrows. Animated but nice. A little dramatic but nice. Murderous but nice.

“What,” Derek says again, looking more confused than annoyed by the second. Stiles really wants to kiss him.

Instead, he stares. Stares and stares and stares.

Shit.

Slapping a hand over his mouth, he begins laughing uncontrollably and before he knows it, he’s clutching his sides and has his face pressed against Derek’s chest, because the hilarity is killing him. 

Because this is them now. Drinking peach-snaps at Derek’s loft, on a couch filled with throw pillows. Throw pillows. One is even soft and pink and frilly and another has a picture of the pack on it. Granted, no one is looking at the camera but Derek, Boyd and Kira and Derek is not so much looking at the camera as yelling at Stiles (holding the camera) for eating his secret stash of cookies, but it’s nice. It’s a nice picture. There is a plain black pillow too, of course. Somewhere. Stiles might be sitting on it, actually. He figures one can only expect so much when it comes to sour-wolves but Erica glued little cat ears on it last week and Derek said nothing. Fuck, he’d even smiled.

It says a lot about what a secret softie Derek is when it comes to vulnerable, drunk-ass people, because he doesn’t push Stiles away; just lets him laugh and laugh until he passes out, drooling on his chest. 

When Stiles wakes up, Derek’s sweater is pretty soaked through but he hasn’t moved an inch. He does, however, tell Stiles he snores like a deranged goose and that he owes him a pastry later.

He doesn’t even ask for a specific kind, Stiles chastises in his head, falling back to sleep. He’s in love with a pastry idiot. 

~

“Do you know when you smile, you brighten up the whole damn room?”

The question clearly catches Derek off guard because he falls head first…into a duck pond. 

Stiles’ first reaction is to jump in after him - he hates to admit it, but he gets a little nervous around water when Derek is with him; there have been several incidents where he’s unconsciously grabbed Derek’s hand in order to drag him away from pools and, one time, a very large puddle - but when Derek emerges, wearing his someone is about to die face, Stiles can’t be held accountable for the way he falls to the ground because, yup, that’s a tiny, outraged duckling perched on top of Derek’s head.   

“Oh my god,” he yells, rolling onto his back and kicking his legs in the air. He feels like a kid, grabbing his stomach, water practically pouring from his eyes. This was, quite possibly, the best day of his life.

Normally, Derek would be yelling threats - several, in fact, some in Spanish because he’s a show off - but he just stands there….in the middle of a fucking pond. The duckling is still sitting on his head, like he or she plans to set up home there and it’s so adorable Stiles thinks he actually coos out loud.

Still, Derek still doesn’t say anything. Not even when Stiles coos again, very, very deliberately. (And Scott said his middle name could never be Danger, pffft.) Stiles can’t actually guess what Derek is going to do but he doesn’t care. He looks a strange cross between wanting to murder someone - namely, Stiles - and a little kid who was told they couldn’t get a puppy only to get one on Christmas day anyway. 

Mostly, he just looks lost. And wet. Very, very wet. Somewhere out there, someone is playing It’s Raining Men and Stiles wants nothing more than to share this glorious moment with them. He’s just in the process of taking out his phone to at least snap a photo to send to the pack when - 

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, and man, those water droplets just keep on running, don’t they. 

Stiles grins. “Did I mean for you to fall into a pond and adopt a new feathered friend? No but I think we can all agree-” 

Stiles.” 

Derek growls and it would be effective - at least in getting Stiles to help him out of the pond - if it wasn’t for the fact his ears were turning a little pink. A lot pink, actually and - 

Oh.

Sitting up, Stiles drags his butt over to the edge of the pond.

“Yeah,” he says. “I meant it. I mean, smiles can’t literally light up rooms, I know that, but when you smile it’s like…” He sighs and flaps his arms, suddenly nervous, hitting Derek in the process. The duckling practically glares at him and Stiles briefly wonders if he has competition here. 

Right. Better make this good then. He clears his throat. 

“It’s like, everything just makes sense for a little bit, you know? I look at you and it’s not that smiling is rare for you, at least not anymore, but it’s still pretty thrilling to see it and when you do I’m like, that’s some quality shit right there but then I get confused because it’s like, do I wanna punch it? Kiss it? Pet it? Who knows. Usually it depends on what you’re wearing.” 

Derek blinks and Stiles groans because, yeah, he just said that out loud. In real time. To Mr McGrumpy himself. Who is currently not reacting.

Great.

“Uh, I mean,” he attempts to correct himself but it’s too late. Derek is already slowly pulling him in and pressing his lips to his in what is the single most innocent, chaste kiss of Stiles’ life - because, you know, duckling and head movements - but somehow, it still manages to be perfect. 

“Nice,” Stiles whispers, after, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek snorts and kisses him again.

~

“Turn it off,” Derek whines, nuzzling further into Stiles’ neck. “This is why I leave my phone in the kitchen. Like we discussed.

Stiles tries to swat him, ends up kissing his temple. Sue him, he’s tired. “Says the person who can afford to leave their phone in the kitchen. We don’t all have supernatural hearing, asshole.”

Derek whines again. “You also have the worst taste in ringtones.”

Stiles gasps, suddenly sitting up. Well, he tries to. When your boyfriend is made of muscle and is half lying on top of you, it makes moving a lot more difficult. Not that Stiles is really complaining. Much. “I’ll have you know Bushes of Love is a Star Wars parody classic.”    

Derek rolls his eyes, Stiles can feel it, says, “just answer it, sweetums.” 

“Ugh,” Stiles grimaces, “I already told you I’m sorry for the pet-name thing. It was an accident!”

“Calling me your ‘slutty buddy’ in front of your dad was meant as a pet name?”

“It sounded better in my head!”  

Derek groans and wraps an “exasperated” arm around Stiles’ waist. Oh. So. Exasperated. Stiles grins. “Answer. Your. Phone.” 

Stiles finds his phone on the fifth try.

He has fifteen missed calls, all from Erica. Texts too. Every single one is a link to some article online, followed by a string of heart and eggplant emojis.   

Young Love and the Ugly Duckling’,” Stiles reads, clicking on the link. “Uhhh, Derek?” He prods him. 

What.” 

There’s a picture of us in the online Beacon Gazette,” looking into each other’s eyes, like a pair of love sick fools, Stiles wants to add because, wow, is he really that obvious when he looks at Derek? To be fair though, Derek isn’t much better and he is the one with an angry bird on his head.

He prods Derek again and again until he finally gives in, makes him look at the phone. 

“Huh,” he says, blinking at it. “Fred looks pretty pissed that I’m kissing you.” His face breaks out in a smug grin and Stiles rolls his eyes. Hard. 

“You are aware Fred is a duckling, right?” 

“Yes.” Derek grins harder, showing all his teeth, although his cheeks do colour slightly when he catches Stiles’ eye. 

Stiles sighs, totally not fond. “They couldn’t have come up with a better title, though?” he asks, brandishing his phone. “The Ugly Ducking, really?” 

Yeah,” Derek says, frowning. “I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as to call you ugly.” He laughs and Stiles smacks him across the chest with a loud, “hey!”

They both turn back to look at the picture. 

“We look so stupid,” Stiles whispers, shaking his head and biting his thumb. We fit, he thinks. We look like we fit. 

Leaning in, Derek smiles at him. “We do,” he agrees, burying his face back into the warmth of Stiles’ neck, muttering something about home and content and stupid Star Wars parodies.

Stiles snaps a selfie, captions it goals, and sends it to Erica. 

A Life Less Ordinary by Jebiwonkenobi

It takes a few years but eventually they manage to agree on something; Derek Hale is an asshole, and Stiles Stilinski is in love with him.


Burn by night by thebrotherswinchester

Sheriff Stilinski has been kidnapped by Alpha werewolves. As bait. For his own son.


Cupboard Love by mklutz

He’s carefully balancing the sandwiches and the two biggest tupperware containers he could find that both had functioning lids when the front door opens and he almost drops everything right there in front of the stupid fountain.

If that’s Derek Hale, he’s definitely not a mountain man.


Daddy’s Do’s by apocryphal

“Hi Mr. Stilinski!” Lydia said pertly. “My name’s Lydia, and this is my daddy. His name is Derek Andrew Hale and he watches all of your videos on YouTube a lot, but he still can’t braid.”

[Stiles is a celebrity YouTube hairstylist. Derek may or may not have a crush. Lydia just wants a French braid for school picture day.]


Everything’s Better Under the Sea by tryslora

Everything changes when Derek goes under while surfing, hits his head on a board, and sees a man with a tail swimming away. He wants to know who that was, and what it has to do with Beacon Hills, the one place he never meant to come back to.

Keep reading

allirica  asked:

sterek + "why are you knocking on my door at 4am"

GOD BLESS YOU <3 

Stiles awakes with a start, his heart pounding almost as loud as the person who is pounding at his door.

“Coming,” he mumbles, not even thinking that hey maybe he shouldn’t be answering his door in the middle of the night? That’s how scary movies start, isn’t it?

Well, it’s too late because he is already opening his apartment door to find Derek standing there with his blue eyes glowing.

“Dude,” is all Stiles can muster. He glances down at his smart watch and sees the time. “Why are you knocking on my door at 4am?”

Derek takes a deep breath, trying to control himself, but now hair is sprouting from his cheeks, and Stiles can’t have any of his neighbors see, so he grabs Derek’s arm and pulls him into the apartment.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks. It’s been relatively quiet for Stiles since he moved to New York, and it’s not unusual for Derek to be in his apartment but at 4am? That’s a bit unusual. It has Stiles’ anxiety spiked.

Derek shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Dude,” Stiles says again, squeezing Derek’s arm where he still has a hold on it. “Talk to me.”

Derek takes another deep breath and the hair on his cheeks begins to disappear. “I got a whiff of a scent,” Derek finally says.

This puts Stiles on alert. “What scent? Do we know what we’re fighting yet? I can get my baseball bat.”

Before Stiles even takes a step back, Derek is grabbing his hand and keeping him where he is. “It was nothing. Probably. I caught a whiff of Kate’s perfume.”

Stiles stops breathing as he stares at Derek, who won’t look back at him. Derek’s shoulders are hunched, his head ducked. There’s an overwhelming urge to protect Derek in Stiles, and the first thing he can think to do is hug Derek. So he does.

He holds on tight, putting a hand on the back of his neck. Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck and takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” Derek whispers.

“Anytime,” Stiles tells him, and he means it.

Jump me, bro?


Prompted myself with: “I just want a neighborhood AU where Stiles is the bro-iest bro to ever bro and Derek pines after him anyway.”

I’m trying to get better about moving my twitterfics over to a more readable format without overthinking them, so we’ll see how that goes. (Also on AO3)

Derek’s house is a couple doors down from what he’s pretty sure is a frat house-wannabe. He’d drop the qualifier—as an undergrad, he’d unfortunately lived close enough to frat row to recognize the distinctive loud parties, music thumping late into the night, a stream of girls constantly flowing in and out the doors, bros drunkenly crooning along to badly-tuned guitars—but as far as he can tell, all of the guys are at least a few years out of college.

Resisting the urge to call the cops with a noise complaint takes some effort. Derek doesn’t particularly want to be that guy, though; he still has to live in this neighborhood. And a part of him, much as he doesn’t want to admit it, simply wishes he’d been invited. It’s not that it sounds like fun, exactly. Derek didn’t enjoy those types of parties when he was in college, and he’s not nearly old enough yet for the nostalgia to kick in. It’s just that…well, it would be nice to be included.

He carefully doesn’t think about the fact that the shift from outright irritation to a sort of wistful longing happened around the time that he saw one particular guy hanging around in front of the house, surrounded by his friends.

Derek does not find frat bros attractive. He never has. He never will. A certain long-limbed guy with an infectious laugh and warm brown eyes won’t change that.

He finds other ways to channel his frustration, some more productive than others. On nights when he takes his trash to the curb, he makes his way down to the overstuffed bins haphazardly jumbled in front of the pseudo-frat house. Under cover of darkness, shielded by the noise pouring through the brightly-lit windows, he sorts through the upper layers of his neighbors’ trash, separating stacks of greasy pizza boxes from sticky piles of beer cans.

It’s primarily to be a good citizen. Every house in the neighborhood has separate recycling bins—they’re even color coded, making it incredibly easy to put the correct materials in the appropriate spot. Derek’s just doing his part for the environment, since his obnoxious neighbors refuse to take a few extra seconds out of their day. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he’s sticking his fingers in strangers’ trash. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t count as trespassing if he’s not actually going into the yard, and he’s not stealing anything. Just…moving things around a little.

The other reason’s one he doesn’t like to dwell on. The rational side of his brain recognizes that the guys in this house don’t even know him, so why would they invite him over? This isn’t like high school, when he was the nerd people intentionally ignored. They’re living their lives, he’s living his, and it’s perfectly natural for them to not intersect.

But one night, as Derek slaps the lid of the recycling bin shut, wishing he’d brought a roll of paper towels or maybe even some wet wipes, he looks up and finds one of the bros standing on the front porch, watching him.

Derek freezes in place. He can’t immediately identify the person; from the street, all he can see is a tall, athletic figure backlit by the open front door. He’s expecting to be chased off the property, probably cussed out in the process, but the guy comes down the steps and lifts the lid of the recycling bin, dropping his empty beer can inside.

“Thanks for doing that, bro,” he says. “The guys don’t spend a lotta time thinking about the environment.”

It’s not just a bro. It’s the bro. The one Derek hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. His first time speaking to Derek, and it’s because he caught Derek rummaging around in his garbage late at night.

“You’re uh, you’re welcome,” Derek says.

Fortunately, the guy doesn’t seem to care about getting an explanation. He introduces himself instead: Stiles. Of course his name would be equally intriguing, Derek thinks, annoyed with himself for even caring about this interaction.

Derek gives his name in turn, wondering if he should point out his house to make his presence here seem less weird, but Stiles doesn’t seem inclined to linger in the cold. He heads back inside, giving Derek a brief, friendly wave before shutting the door again.

Keep reading

Stiles hits his growth spurt a little later than most of his high school friends. He came home from his first year of college three inches taller and 25 pounds heavier, mostly in muscle. 

He’s standing at a solid 6′3″ when he runs into Derek at the grocery store in Beacon Hills. 

Literally runs into him because Stiles still hasn’t figured out how much bigger he is now and didn’t realize how close he was to the other person in the toilet paper section. 

Derek manages to catch himself before he knocks over a canned soup display and when he sees who almost knocked him over his eyes go a little wide because Stiles Stilinski grew up fucking hot.

It wasn’t that Stiles wasn’t always attractive, but now that he’s grow into himself Derek can’t take his eyes off of him. 

And even if Stiles hasn’t mastered control of his newly long limbs, he’s certainly learned how his body effects people. The smirk that pulls at his mouth only makes him look better and Derek can feel his ears burning. 

“Sorry for almost knocking you over,” Stiles says, leaning closer to Derek as he speaks, “I still haven’t mastered my own strength. Can I - can I make it up to you with a coffee or something?”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Derek says, “You can tell me all about the miracle grow they’re feeding you in college.”

Stiles laughs because yeah, he really did grow like a weed. He’s probably four inches taller now than the last time Derek saw him, “You free now?”

Derek looks into his cart. There’s a frozen pizza and some toilet paper in it, he can always come back later and get that.

“I am.”

“It’s a date then,” Stiles says with a cheeky smile, looking at Derek’s ears in a way that tells Derek Stiles knows his tells. 

Derek nods and Stiles grins wider. Both of their stomachs flip when their hands brush as they walk out of the store. It feels like something new, it feels bigger than either of them. It feels like something good. 

nosetothewind94  asked:

Fun wolf fact to think about: wolves greet handlers (and packmates) they love by standing up on their hind legs and enthusiastically smooch-licking them all over their faces/mouths. Can you imagine feral/wolf!Derek terrified of everyone and then seeing Stiles and just attacking him with wolfy kisses? And everyone just standing there terrified for half a second while Derek charges at Stiles and then just standing there confused when he proceeds giving him a tongue bath...

I just…..

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MANY FEELINGS I HAVE ABOUT THIS.

Stiles thinking this is it, this is how he dies….and suddenly he’s got slobber on his face and a shaking feral puppy whining against his throat because Allison still has her bow aimed at him and…..oh my god, Allison. 

Who looks like Kate.

And Derek is really whining now, practically trying to scramble into Stiles’ arms (which is impossible given his size but it doesn’t stop Derek from trying). Stiles isn’t sure if Derek is himself at the moment or if he’s having some kind of panic attack and all his usual walls and filters are shot but one thing is for certain: STILES IS NOT GOING TO HOLD BACK ON DISHING OUT ON THE STILINSKI CUDDLES. He always imagined the first time he got to hug Derek for real there would be more muscle and complicated eyebrow emotions involved but he can work with this

“Hey, it’s okay, big guy. I’ve got you now. No bad people.”

*more whining*

Hey now, none of that. When have I ever left you, huh?”

*sudden silence*

You can depend on your buddy, Stiles. Right?” 

*more tentative, almost SHY licking*

*followed by tail wagging when Stiles’ hand accidentally brushes Derek’s ear*

Stiles’ status: dead from feels (and also the sudden, alarming confusion he is still every bit as in love and attracted to Derek in his wolf form. Hell, he even thinks his droopy ears are cute. WHAT DOES THAT SAY ABOUT HIM???)

So, @thepsychicclam posted this, and then this happened:

Stiles listened to the latest musicians that Derek had brought to court to play for him with a wide smile and a thankfully small amount of hand movements. They were, as all the artists that Derek presented to him with startling frequency and fervor were, wonderfully talented, and playing a piece that had been commissioned just for him.

Sometimes, Stiles thought that his husband’s gifts and ever increasing support of Stiles’ interests might mean that his own feelings of deep abiding love may be returned by his king, but in his more reasonable moments he knew his love was unreturned. Derek had always been a generous and attentive man, even as a child he would allow Stiles to choose their activities and humor him in his frequent schemes. When Stiles proposed that they sneak into the castle kitchens to steal some of their favorite cakes, Derek rolled his eyes fondly (“They’re my kitchens, Stiles! And yours as well!” “Yes, but we aren’t meant to be in there now, silly!”) and acquiesced with enthusiasm as they tiptoed around the halls and into the pantry.

The head cook had found them covered in icing and failing to contain their laughter.

Thinking of it now brings a warm glow to Stiles’ chest even as it sets off a cascade of similarly joyful memories of growing up as Derek’s best friend. They were so close that Stiles had never considered that he would marry anyone else, though when he was old enough to understand that he was in fact Derek’s intended, the betrothal sent a panic through him. How could he ever think that a union with a man he loved so deeply, but could only look upon him as a dear friend, would bring him anything but heartache?

In the end, Stiles had decided that life without romantic love but with Derek by his side was far better than life away from the man who reigned in his heart.

Sitting now, beside his husband, ensconced in ornately carved thrones with soft velvet cushions, Derek’s arm resting close enough to his own that he can feel the warmth radiating from him, seeing his friends in court smiling and enjoying the music created just for him, Stiles knows he’s exactly where he wants to be. Even Boyd and Isaac, their usually stoic guards appeared to be enjoying themselves, though each man was regarding their kings with indecipherable looks.

Stiles takes a deep breath and turns to his husband only to find Derek looking back at him, a smile curving his lips in a way that still makes Stiles’ heart flutter. He can feel his own grin widen in response as Derek’s eyebrows raise in question. “Are you pleased, my dear husband?”

Stiles’ heart stutters then gallops at the thoughts that assail him, all the ways he’d like to please his king, the oft imagined looks of pleasure he’d like to paint upon Derek’s beloved face. He must get lost in thinking about how Derek’s skin would feel beneath his hands, because Derek’s brow furrows in concern. “Stiles? Is something the matter?”

“No, my king,” Stiles hurries to reassure, “I was simply trying to decide how best to tell you how perfectly lovely this evening has been thus far.”

Derek’s smile is so bright it puts the castle’s chandeliers to shame, and Stiles feels an elated pride bubble in his chest.

“I am exceedingly happy to hear you say so,” Derek says genuinely, the radiant smile still in place and the corners of his beautiful eyes crinkling slightly. The way Derek looks at him then, his entire regard focused on Stiles and the force of his honest joy makes Stiles forget that they are a couple bound by duty and friendly affection. It makes him believe for a moment that they share a love that will inspire artists for decades.

It emboldens him, and he places his hand over Derek’s, suppressing a shiver when Derek moves ever so slightly so that his thumb can run lightly over the outside of his pinkie. “I am exceedingly happy that you are exceedingly happy,” Stiles teases.

After another long moment simply getting lost in watching one another, a particularly evocative piece of the song draws Stiles’ attention and he turns to see how those gathered to dance interpret it. He can feel Derek still watching him, and it turns his smile small and private as he ducks his head briefly. Derek’s hand is still warm and real under his own, and as the evening stretches into night, it remains there, tapping the occasional rhythm against Stiles’ hand, their fingers eventually entwining.

Neither dares acknowledge it, but neither do they pull away. When it is time to applaud, the lost contact is nearly unbearable. When their hands automatically settle back together, Stiles feels like he’s soaring.

inell  asked:

“I need a favor, and not the sexual kind.” Stiles/Derek

Nonsexual Favors

Derek woke to his phone vibrating on his nightstand. He rolled over and unlocked it when he saw he had two texts from Stiles that had both come in within the last two minutes. 

It wasn’t unusual for Stiles to text Derek at all hours of the morning, what was unusual was the lack of sexual content in the text.

Stiles: I need a favor,
Stiles: And not the sexual kind.

Derek was tempted to just roll over and go back to bed, but then he had a vision of Stiles laying in some ally, bleeding out because he was attacked by some monster, and he hit the call button.

“Oh thank god,” Stiles said as soon as he picked up, “My bike got stolen and I’m nowhere near a Metro stop.”

“Where are you?” Derek asked, already getting out of bed and pulling on his pants. It was 1:30 in the morning, there was no way he was letting Stiles wander around D.C. by himself that late. 

He and Stiles had been doing this, thing, whatever it was, since they ran into each other in D.C. almost two years prior. Stiles had grown into himself nicely and though he was still an asshole, Derek knew him well enough now to appreciate it.

“I’m in Alexandria,” Stiles breathed out, his voice sounded a little less strained now, “I’ll send you a pin with my location.”

Derek jogged out of his apartment, well it was actually a brownstone that he had bought when he moved to D.C. He had redone the basement so it was a full, though small, apartment that he could rent out. 

Not that he needed the money, he had plenty from his inheritance, but he kind of liked not having to live off of it. He loved everything about living in D.C., from the diversity to his job at an environmental non profit. 

When Stiles had walked back into his life it had felt like fate, they had run into each other at GW. Derek was working on his masters and Stiles was getting his degree in criminal psychology, on the fast track to the FBI. 

They had picked up right where they left off, snapping at each other and defending each other whenever someone else said a bad word about the other. Things escalated quickly, within a month they were fucking in Derek’s new Camaro. 

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hi!!!! For your Sweet Affectionate Moments Meme, number 32 please!! Pretty please with Sterek??? PS: Love your writing!!!

32. Getting caught in the act.

-

“Now–” Stiles’ dad says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “I can understand the first time. You were young, had been dating for a few weeks. Hell, sometimes I couldn’t resist your mother either.”

Stiles thumps his head against the kitchen table and groans.

“And the second time was my fault.” His dad continues. “I walked in without knocking, I’ve learned my lesson.” He still glares at Derek though, like it’s his fault Stiles ended up the way he is. “But for god’s sake, you have a daughter now.”

Said daughter is currently sitting on the floor, mouthing at Derek’s fingers and drooling all over herself. She can’t even sleep the entire night yet.

Dad,” Stiles cries out, “can’t you just –”

“It won’t happen again, sir.” Derek says, barely holding his laughter at Stiles’ horrified expression.

What?” Stiles yells, making Mia start laughing at the noise. He takes a moment to smile down at his daughter and then turns to his husband again. “But – I like having sex on the couch.”

“Stiles!” Both Derek and Stiles’ dad scream.

“What? I do!” He points at Derek. “And it’s not like you said no.”

Derek ducks his head down, the tip of his ears going red. Hah, he likes having sex on the couch too. Stiles grins.

“I’m too old for this.” His dad complains, running a hand through his hair. “Give me my granddaughter.” He gestures for Mia and Derek passes her quickly. Stiles always found adorable how even after ten years Derek is still scared of Stiles’ dad.

Mia laughs as her grandfather tickles her and they all stare at her, amazed.

“Bring her back by six!” Stiles yells at his father’s retreating back, waving as Mia smiles at him.

“Seven!” He screams back. “So you learn not to have sex where your daughter can see!”

“She’s ten months, she doesn’t even know what a blow-” Derek clasps a hand over his mouth.

“Just stop talking, please.” He mutters, watches as Stiles’ dad drives off and then heads back inside. To do laundry probably, Stiles frowns, Derek loves being all domestic when they’re baby-free.

Such a wasted time.

“We need to start locking the door.” He says, following Derek into the kitchen.

“We need to stop having sex on the couch.”

Stiles throws his hands up. “Ah, come on. Not you too!”

“We do have a baby, Stiles.” Derek says, collecting the toys they had laid out for Mia to play while they were in the kitchen. “We have to be more careful.”

“But I like having sex on the couch.” Stiles says. “I like being able to touch you all the time.”

“But you do–”

“We spent a long time not being able to do that.” He still remembers the two years away, Derek in New York and Stiles calling him at night, pretending he just wanted to ask about a book or if Derek would buy him a Mets jersey. He remembers missing Derek like crazy, going to New York just to see him and then spending the entire weekend trying not to give away his feelings.

Mostly, he remembers Derek kissing him on his last night there, remembers the feeling of finally being able to be with him, to run a hand over his hair and drop a kiss on his shoulder just because. He remembers Derek promising they’d be together forever.

“Stiles,” Derek says, kissing the top of his head, “I love you. That’s never going to change. But I also love our daughter and I’d rather not answer to sex questions before she’s at least thirteen.”

Despite himself, Stiles snorts, slumping against Derek’s chest. “Fine. No sex on the couch or the kitchen table. Forever. This is so unfair.”

“Well, you know she’ll move out eventually, right?” Derek asks.

The thought of his adorable baby girl growing up and going to college or even getting married is not something Stiles is prepared to deal with now. “Hey! One problem at a time!” Derek snorts, pulling Stiles in for a kiss.

“Come on, we can still have sex in our bed.”

Stiles grins, forgetting about Mia and his dad and everything else as Derek begins to unbutton his shirt. “I like the way you think.”

In the end it doesn’t really matter if it’s on the couch or the bed, as long as Stiles has Derek, the location is only a detail.