dumb derek and his dumb face

For You

Thank you @viviena for this amazing animation!!! It is perfect :))                   In celebration of such amazing work, I present a fic

  Stiles was a very easily distracted five year old. Example A - he had managed to wander off seventeen times in the past hour, constantly caught up in his need to more closely examine every flower or bug that caught his fancy.

  He had been taken on the hike to expend some energy, to relieve the restlessness that seemed ingrained into the kid’s bones. It was a common occurrence for Sheriff Stilinski to have to revert back to countless websites that he had bookmarked to look for a new babysitter willing to look after his little bundle of spaz.

 It had been almost fate, meeting the Hales. A simple accident, one that the families had long since moved past seeing as a negative. The sheriff and Stiles had gone to the grocery store, his dad looking worn out and tired, staying up too late looking for a new sitter. It seemed like if a person hadn’t already babysat Stiles, they had heard rumors about the boy and his difficult to handle nature. So, for now, the sheriff took the boy everywhere, cashing in favours the receptionists at the precinct owed him when he was called out on duty. But even their patience was growing thin.

  It was in the grocery store after John Stilinski and Talia Hale had exchanged pleasant smiles that all hell broke loose. Or well, Stiles broke loose. He had managed to climb out of the back of the cart and wandered the aisle before running head first into a pair of legs. A boy of about nine or ten years looked down at the stumbling mess of a kid by his knees. The boy looked up, saw the man talking pleasantly with his mother and smelled the familial scents.

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Tell me Tomorrow

“Alright, here we go,” Derek said softly, maneuvering Stiles’ coltish limbs to get him seated on the bed without toppling both of them over in an inebriated heap. Stiles made an indignant noise at the man-handling, and Derek bit back a smile. Occasionally he regretted not being able to get drunk himself, but it was amusing enough to see his friends in this state. He knelt and started loosening the laces of Stiles’ shoes, murmuring, “let’s take these off.”

Once his charge was in sock feet, Derek got him standing again, manfully ignoring how handsy Stiles he was being. As usual. Was it a lack of inhibitions or lack of balance that made the difference? He could never tell.

“C’mon, let’s get you into some sweats,” he encouraged, hoping Stiles was at least sober enough to change his own pants.

The running commentary was as much for his benefit as Stiles’. It played into that familiar, worn persona: Derek the responsible older friend, bringing Drunky McDrunkface home safe and tucking him in because the kid didn’t know how to hold his liquor. Youths!

That was who he was supposed to be, anyways. God knows they weren’t anything else to each other. The big brother role didn’t quite fit now, if it ever had, but framing things that way still seemed infinitely preferable to coming at this situation - alone with Stiles in his dimly-lit room, helping him out of his stiff jeans and into soft sleep clothes - without any emotional barriers in place.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles stage whispered, leaning close.


Stiles snorted back a giggle, tripping over his own feet a little as he slung an arm around Derek’s shoulder, grabbing at his wrist with the other hand for balance. “Derek.”

“What?” Stiles had moved to clutching his bicep, now, face bobbing close enough that Derek could smell the crisp gin on his breath. It was gross, he reminded himself. He resented Scott for sending him home to deal with Stiles while he and Kira stayed out celebrating their new degrees. He did.

“Derek, I…” Stiles broke off in a laugh again. “I…”

You… what? Derek wondered, but he suppressed his curiosity with gritted teeth. As if Stiles’ teasing wasn’t irritating enough sober. At least then it was usually comprehensible. “If you can’t spit it out now, just tell me tomorrow when you’re sober.”

Stiles squinted at him, a surprisingly steady and weighing look. “Okay,” he said finally.

“Okay,” Derek echoed, glancing back at the bed. “Well, let’s…”

The kiss took him entirely by surprise, enough that his knees bumped the edge of the bed and buckled. 

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Happy birthday to my favorite lady, blacktofade! I’m sorry it’s so short. ;___; This is based off a prompt from a list of meet cutes she sent me a couple weeks ago - this was her favorite. ♥

When Cora had her first kid, Derek — automatically designated babysitter by way of being Cora’s only living sibling — learned a lot about babies. He learned they were much messier than he’d thought they’d be, and loud, and — once Izzy learned how to walk — fast. He loved her deeply, of course, because as she became less of a baby and more like a tiny person she developed a vibrant personality that was as sweet as can be with a little bit of Cora’s fiery temper mixed in, but still: he learned that toddlers were always sticky, and if the house went silent for more than a few minutes, he needed to track her down and clean up whatever mess she’d made.

Sometime after Izzy’s third birthday, Derek learned how strong she was. He’d always heard the phrase “appearances may be deceiving,” which he knew was true in certain circumstances, but if anyone had told him that Izzy was strong enough to break his nose, he wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, that’s exactly what she did, swinging a fucking wiffle ball bat right at his face when she didn’t want to come inside for dinner. The bat met his nose with a clean crack, which he briefly thought was the sound of the plastic, at least until pain flared hot all over his face, and blood started pouring out of his nose. 

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anonymous asked:

‘i saw you throw that wrapper on the ground when there’s a trashcan right over there, dickwheeze’ au OMG PLEASE YES I CAN JUST SEE THIS WITH STEREK

“Hey, hey! Excuse me! Douchebag in the cap!”

Stiles turns on his heel, touching his beloved Mets cap as he does, and peering in the direction of the loud voice. He’s caught off guard when he spots the owner of the tirade– super hot dude, glasses, eyebrows Tom Selleck’d be jealous of, and a worn satchel across his broad chest– and feels torn between glaring and putting on his best come hither face. 

His expression must not come off as alluring in the slightest as the dude stalks right up to him and waves trash in Stiles’ face. 

“This is a first for courting rituals,” Stiles drawls slowly. 

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restaurant au

“Hi. My name is Kira Yukimura. If you hear my name on the local news tomorrow, please give them a detailed description of the guy who shows up here later because he’s a blind date and I’ve never done this sort of thing before but I’ve heard horrible stories so please help me not get murdered?”

Derek just stares at the girl. All he’d asked was what she wanted to drink.

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anonymous asked:

sterek being reunited after surviving the zombie apocalypse unknowing if the other was alive or dead AU. my soul needs this

3rd April, 2013 2015 we had sex in a broken down car wash. can check off steamy hand prints on a window from the bucket list. FUCK YEAH.

Stiles kept a log of everything. The camp stopped counting days, calendars were useless, phones had no signal, time was measured purely in trips in and out of the gate. Footfall, heads at tables, mouths being fed, those were what mattered to the Sheriff, to everyone in charge. It didn’t make a difference if it was a Tuesday or a Thursday. 

But, Stiles needed something to commemorate the day, to have it written down, and Derek found a journal on one of their scouting trips, brought it back and tossed it on the bed. 

“To stop you scraping damn notches on the bed post,” he’d remarked. 

Stiles had laughed, smirked at him even as his eyes were fond and filled with gratitude, “Everyone else thinks they’re for something else.”

“They must think we have a great deal of stamina,” Derek had replied, dropping down on the lumpy mattress. 

Stiles had hummed, run dirty but gentle fingers through Derek’s hair, “Or, that we’re desperate and frantic at the end of the world.”

“Is that why you kissed me last year, then?”

“Nope, I would have done that eventually; I’ve always been desperate about you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Derek had repeated drily, buried his face in Stiles’ thigh, listened to him write something on the first page, his heartbeat fill the room. 

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anonymous asked:

um, if prompts are still open? high school AU, stiles was going to ask derek to prom, turns out he's already going with someone else so stiles keeps his feelings to himself, sulks at home with ice cream. this is kind of what happened to me so im hoping someone can thing of happy ending?

Someone is throwing stones at Stiles’ bedroom window. Stiles determinedly ignores it. Digs his spoon back into his chocolate brownie flavored ice cream, and turns up the television. There’s another loud crack from the glass, and Stiles jerks his head up to check Scott hasn’t actually broken the glass. 

“Go back to prom, Scotty,” he yells, loud enough for even the neighbours to hear. “I’m not sitting alone like some chump while everyone else gets their freak on.”

Stupid, dumb prom. Stiles had been psyched, originally. He thought it’d finally be his chance to try and be more than friends with Derek. To purvey his feelings. To shower Derek with all the fucking flowers in the universe and slow dance with him to Whitney Houston. Except, when he’d casually slash dramatically thrown himself in front of Derek’s locker, and declared they should go— For fun! As friends! Without Derek being aware of all the glorious, romantic surprises Stiles had planned, obviously— Derek’s face had scrunched up in apology. 

“Can’t,” he’d said shortly. “Someone already asked.”

“And, you— you said yes?”

Derek had shrugged, slammed his locker shut, “No one else asked.”

“But, I’m asking! Right now!”

“I can’t tell him no,” Derek had given him a strange look, “Besides, it’s not a big deal, right? We can hang out there, still do all the stuff you suggested.”

Stiles had been going to suggest awkward, first time, deeply romantic make outs behind the bleachers. He’s not sure that’d go down well considering Derek is actually going with a date. A date. 

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anonymous asked:

If you take prompts for Sterek, would you consider doing one where they have a fight over something stupid and it blows out of proportion, and then the next day they make up, and yay, happiness all around!!! Also, I really love all your stories and ficlets, so thank you for your awesome work!

“This,” Stiles waves a line of scarves in the air, drags them through the living room, “Is your space.”

Derek rolls his eyes, pretends to focus on the television blaring some god awful episode of a show about pretentious teenagers that had started their damn argument in the first place. 

Stiles sits down heavily on the couch, throws the end of the scarf line in Derek’s face, “And, this, is my space. And, gosh, wow, would you look at that?” He grabs the remote from where it’s sitting between them, “The remote’s on my side!”

“How convenient for you,” Derek snaps, throws his head back dramatically when Stiles turns the tv up even louder. “Stiles, for god’s sake.”

“Nope, sorry, if my choice in television is too superficial and immature for your liking then you know where to go,” he gives Derek a shit eating grin, “Your half of the bedroom.”

“Are you serious,” Derek gets up, stalks through the apartment, “You drew a line with marker pen down our bed?”

“You think I’m childish,” Stiles calls over his shoulder, “I am one hundred per cent happy to encourage that.”

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anonymous asked:

Hi! If you're still doing prompts, would you be able to do something with Derek trying to ask Stiles out, but Stiles ends up doing something embarrassing/misunderstanding Derek?

“Okay,” Stiles tips his head back so he can look at Derek, tissue covering up his face. “What were you saying?”

“Don’t tip your head back,” Derek snaps, gently pushing Stiles’ head forward. 

Stiles makes a disgruntled noise, snorts blood, it’s disgusting and gross and Derek can’t believe he was in the middle of trying to tell this dumb fool he’d brought him coffee because he wants to date him. To be with him. Derek wants to be… ugh, boyfriends, or whatever dumb term Stiles would prefer should he say yes. Except, he didn’t get a chance to agree, or break Derek’s heart, because he was too busy breaking his face against a glass door. 

“You’re a moron,” he says flatly to the top of Stiles’ head. 

“I know,” Stiles groans, shudders, “Dude, it hurts, a lot.”

Derek slips his hand down to Stiles’, squeezes it tight. 

"You doin’ your mojo thing?”

He can tell without looking that Stiles is making ridiculous innuendo eyebrows at him. “Yes, sure,” he drawls, “My mojo thing.”

“Ahh, that helps, thanks,” Stiles pulls the tissue away, winces when he looks at the dried blood, “Gross.”

“Charming,” Derek reaches up to touch the bridge of his nose gently, “Does it still hurt?”

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THIS REMINDS ME, the other day it occurred to me that I should stop making stuff up and give in to my actual destiny, which is to write a prep school AU, which quickly evolved into: Kate as Derek’s older juvenile delinquent girlfriend who sweet-talks him into all kinds of bad behavior including just like, a little minor arson. She has him do all the heavy lifting; she’s 18, she’s got a record, she can’t risk it, and he’s sixteen and blind with wanting her so he says yes every time.

He doesn’t realize that they’re targeting the dance studio where his little sister takes lessons– all those suburban houses look the same from the back, he doesn’t know– and he doesn’t realize that this one will really catch, the ground dry in a drought, flames sparking up across scattered leaves and onto the porch and the can of gas Mrs. Pressman keeps out back for emergencies. Everyone makes it out safe but Derek dreams about it every night: the last firefighter emerging with smoke-black Cora clutched in his arms, her little pink tights ripped and charred, the hack of her cough for days after. Confession doesn’t ease the burden, but it does get him sent to some reform school for fuckups and headcases.

WHICH is where he meets Stiles, who’s also sixteen and grieving his mother’s death, whose behavior has been erratic and mostly non-violent, but eventually even there was nothing a small-town Sheriff could do, too many teachers complained, couldn’t pay for the local private school, had to send him to one of his old buddies from the academy who does security at Beacon Academy for Rowdy Boys. ARE THEY ROOMMATES. Yeah, you know, I think they are. 

At first they don’t get along. Obviously. Stiles is like, they put me in with an actual delinquent, I’m just having a hard time, I don’t want to live with this nutty pyro! And Derek is kept awake by Stiles’ unending stream of nightmares, the twitching and talking and screaming. That’s what drives them together, Derek gaunt and shadow-eyed, saying “dude, you have to talk to someone about whatever’s going on in your head, I can't sleep.”

Talking about what was going on in my head is what landed me here. Not making that mistake twice.”

“I know the feeling,” Derek says before he can stop himself.

“No, you don’t.”

“Listen, asshole, I turned myself in.” Derek is across the room before he means to be, fingers twisted in the front of Stiles’ shirt, their faces too close. “I knew I was dangerous and I knew this would be a shithole, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore, I didn’t want–”

“Hey.” Stiles reaches up and untwists each finger, one by one by one. “Okay. Okay. I didn’t know.” He settles back onto the edge of his bed and Derek sinks down next to him, puts his head in his hands. 

“I said I had dreams about killing people,” Stiles says softly. “Every dumb asshole who showed up to mom’s funeral, their big dumb grinning faces, saying sorry, sorry, like it was their job to grieve her, like they knew, like they had any right to–” he sucks in a breath and unclenches his own hand where it’s buried in the sheets. “I wasn’t going to do it.” He says. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt, either.”

They start talking a little bit, sometimes, while they do homework, sitting together at meals. Derek’s family comes to visit and Stiles sees how he is with them: lost in the fray of so many voices and opinions and bodies, second to youngest and not even the baby anymore. He just looks and looks at Cora and doesn’t touch her, seething with how much he loves her, how scared he is to love her, and Stiles feels the exact same burn spreading, flames licking under his own skin. The Sheriff comes and he and Derek talk about his case, a little bit, his legal strategies. Seeing his father’s gruffness get soft loosens something in Stiles. “I miss you,” he admits at the end of the visit, bringing up the words from all the ugliness twisted up inside of him, feeling out the idea that loving someone might not always end hideously after all.

The nightmares slow but they don’t stop. At some point Derek takes to just crawling into bed with Stiles, their long bodies spilling over its edges, and it’s not like he sleeps so much better, really, except in the earliest hours of the morning, when they’re both warm and pliable and too tired to pretend, when Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s body and pulls his face against his neck, and the morning sunlight comes in through the window and somehow, for a few hours, they both feel safe.