i have a thing for out of control berserker!derek who can only calm down with stiles’ voice and touch ~~
please direct me to fanfics
With art this good?! I’ll do my best to provide what you ask for.
everything about this post is glorious
“If he was dead, there’d be a body,” Stiles insists.
“You’re holding the body,” Deaton tells him, as gently as you can say that type of thing.
But the wolf in Stiles’ arms is heavy and warm, panting and looking around the vet’s with bright, interested eyes.
“We can change him back,” Stiles says, tangling his hands in the wolf’s rough fur to heave the huge animal back onto his lap. “There’s a spell. Or we can find one.”
Deaton shakes his head. “Stiles, that’s not the problem. The witch severed the magic that made Derek a werewolf while he was fully transformed. When that magic was cut off, his human side was lost too; his memories, personality, knowledge - an animal brain can’t contain those things without supernatural assistance. It is not Derek. Not in any way you would recognize. Even if we could somehow undo the transformation and restore his human form, it still wouldn’t be him. The only intelligence he has now is that of a normal wolf.”
Deaton’s wrong. It can’t be true. Stiles feels his chin trembling, but he won’t break down. Crying would make this real.
“I don’t mean to be cruel,” Deaton says, softly. “But you need to understand. The man you married is gone.”
Oh God, I know that I have read fics with Derek pining, but I can’t remember their names for the life of me.
Folks, do you remember pining!Derek fics?
List under the cut. You’re welcome.
edited for sterek purposes :>
Laura’s in the middle of one of her lectures when Derek catches sight of Stiles walking through the door. Every nerve in his body immediately stiffens, and he forces himself to relax before Laura notices. Unfortunately, Laura’s not the type to let anything pass her by. She pauses.
Stares him down.
Derek can feel his eye twitching, but he doesn’t break, and, he doesn’t look over to where Stiles is rocking back and forth on his heels, rubbing his hands together as he peruses the menu.
Okay, so he might not be looking over at Stiles, but he is aware of every movement Stiles is making.
He doesn’t whimper when Stiles swivels on his feet and catches sight of him and Laura. He doesn’t.
He also doesn’t notice the way Stiles purposefully strides towards them and plonks himself down onto the table over. Laura, however, does.
She kicks Derek under the table. “He’s cute,” she hisses, ignoring the way he grimaces. Derek scowls at her, reaching down to rub at his shin, and not-so-subtly glances over. Stiles is the picture of innocence, but Derek knows he heard Laura, because there’s a smirk that’s tugging at the corner of his mouth, his face carefully turned away so Laura can’t see.
“Laura,” Derek warns, and she makes a face.
“Oh come on, when was the last time you got laid? Like, six months?”
Derek inhales sharply. “Laura,” he whispers angrily, as Stiles chokes, and Laura turns to eye him suspiciously, but Stiles has his phone out, and he looks like he’s laughing on the screen, so she turns back to Derek, whose face is bright red at this point. He didn’t really need Stiles to know that he’d been on a fairly lengthy dry spell before they met nearly two months ago.
A dry spell Stiles had helped him relinquish. Multiple times.
“What? It’s not like it isn’t true,” she shrugs, unconcerned, and Derek clenches his jaw.
“You’re not exactly talking quietly,” he says, still angry. She makes another face, and stabs her fork into an innocent tomato slice.
“I’m just saying,” she mutters petulantly, dropping her gaze down to her plate, and Derek feels the sudden urge to apologize. He hasn’t done anything wrong though, so he shovels a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth to stop himself from saying anything. The mood has gone quiet and somber, and Derek’s wracking his brain for something to say that isn’t an apology, when Stiles clears his throat loudly, and Derek’s phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. He turns to him, sees Laura do the same in his periphery, and wrinkles his brow in confusion when Stiles is tapping his fingers in an irregular rhythm on the countertop, completely oblivious. Derek doesn’t pick up, because duh, Laura, but Stiles doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, his whole face brightens up when he reaches Derek’s voicemail. He settles in more comfortably in his chair, before he catches Derek’s gaze briefly, and he’s suddenly worried about the manic gleam his eyes.
He doesn’t know why, but he has the sudden feeling he should run far, far away.
“Hey,” Stiles’ voice has gone flirty, quiet enough, but still loud enough for both Derek and Laura to hear. Derek can feel his palms start to sweat. “I was just thinking about last night, and,” he pauses and laughs, low and pleased. Derek suddenly feels too-hot in his skin, and he knows he’s blushing. “So I thought I’d tell you now that you better not have plans on Saturday night, because I’m going to sit on your face.”
Derek feels a flash of lust zing through his belly, and he’s staring at Stiles in disbelief when Stiles hangs up, turns to him, and has the gall to wink. Laura, who misses the wink, looks both scandalized and impressed. She mouths ‘wow’ at Derek. “Oh my word,” she says softly, fanning herself. She glances at Stiles then back at Derek again, and a thoughtful look crosses her face.
“No,” he says, before she even opens her mouth.
“You could really use some pointers,” she argues, and before Derek can stop her, she leans over to tap Stiles on the shoulder. “Hi, I’m Laura.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Stiles,” he offers, then laughs when Laura looks absolutely confused. “It’s a nickname. Don’t ask.”
“Alrighty then,” she relaxes into her seat with a smile, before kicking Derek in the shin. Again. “This idiot is my brother, Derek,” she says, not unkindly, and ignores the way Derek scowls at her. Stiles turns and directs a smile onto Derek. It’s hard to miss the way his eyes flick up and down his body as he blatantly checks Derek out, but Laura’s still talking, oblivious. “He’s a bit… Well, tragic is a bit mean, so we’ll stick with horrifically ungifted in the art of being smooth,” she was saying, and Derek wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill her, or himself.
Stiles bites a lip, looking like it’s killing himself not to laugh. “Is that so?”
Laura nods, and she pins Stiles with her most effective puppy dog expression. “I overheard you on the phone -“
“Did you?” Stiles asks, eyes wide, like it’s any news to him, and Derek falls a little bit in love with the smirk curling across his face. “I’m so sorry about that.”
Laura waves the comment away.
“No big, I was just wondering if you could give him some, I don’t know, pointers or something?” Stiles’ eyebrows flew up, and this time, he couldn’t hold back the snort. Laura sighs, put upon. “I know it sounds silly, but I just want him to be happy, you know?” Despite it all, Derek feels a rush of fondness for his older sister. “I think he’s forgotten how.”
Or maybe not.
“Didn’t you have a meeting to get to?” Derek butts in rudely, watching in satisfaction as Laura glances at her watch and swears.
“Please, at least think about it,” she begs Stiles, as she’s standing and double checking she has everything in her bag.
Stiles shrugs. “I don’t see why not? I’m free right now, so if Derek’s not busy…” he trails off, and Laura squeals in delight.
“He’s free until six!” she hollers, before bending down to hug Stiles quickly. “Thanks, cutie,” she winks, and leans over the table to kiss Derek on the cheek. “Try to remember how to flirt, grumpy puss,” she teases, but her voice is fond, and she laughs when Derek scowls at her. “Love you.”
“Yeah, you too,” he sighs, and she disappears, leaving him with the check. Again.
He belatedly remembers Stiles, who’s watching him with a soft look on his face. “I’m so sorry about her,” he says lamely, and is totally not expecting the way Stiles throws his head back to laugh.
“Are you kidding? That was hilarious,” he says, glancing out the window to where Laura’s disappearing into a cab, shooting them a final wave. “You’re not smooth?” he asks, before he hums thoughtfully. “I seem to recall you being pretty smooth when we met.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles can tell he’s pleased. “Laura is Laura. She has her own ideas about things,” he says, and hooks his ankle around Stiles’ under the table.
Stiles bites his lip, and smiles up at Derek slyly. “I really am free right now, if you wanna?” he waggles his eyebrows, and despite how ridiculous he looks, Derek can hear the heat underneath the words, and he nods.
Stiles beams at him.
When Derek brings Stiles to dinner the next Friday, Laura’s smug for about ten seconds before they tell her they’d been dating the entire time.
She kicks Derek in the shin, and he doesn’t even say a word.
"Excuse me, uh, is this seat taken?"
Derek looks up from over the top of his book, tries not to scowl at the extremely attractive young man blinking at him expectantly. He’d been hoping for a quiet eight hours, not to be dealing with a constant desire to jump somebody all the way home.
"No," he says flatly. "But, I’ve been told I snore when I inevitably fall asleep."
The man laughs, juts his chin at Derek’s book, “I would, too, if I was reading Kafka.”
Derek arches an eyebrow, considers the cover of The Castle, “It’s… It’s a classic.”
"Sure," the guy shoves his bag above Derek’s head. Derek tries and fails not to let his gaze be drawn to where his t-shirt rides up and reveals sharp hipbones and dark trail of hair leading down into his pants. Derek clears his throat, cursing himself and re-opens his book.
"It’s most entertaining," he insists.
"You keep telling yourself that," the guy winks at him as he settles in, tugs out a large pair of headphones. “I tried to read The Metamorphosis once, gave up and now I use it to prop up a photo frame.”
Dylan arriving at the M&G *
okay i’m gonna need president’s son flanked by the secret service fic stat
and the main secret service guy is Derek
And Stiles keeps flirting with Derek, teasing him, trying to provoke him, making Derek’s job about a million times more difficult, because damn, he just wants to give in. He wants all those things Stiles is trying to lure out of him, and it’s so hard to say no, but he has to. This is his job, and it’s important. He has to stay focused. He has to… But Stiles is no fool, and obviously he notices how Derek looks at him, the things Derek does for him, the way Derek’s pupils dilate when Stiles comes just a tad too closely. And Stiles is a bit reckless and young, and he’s used to taking what he wants, so he doesn’t understand Derek’s resistance, per se. He doesn’t understand Derek’s reluctance to give into his feelings, his urges.
Until Stiles calls Derek one night, from his bedroom where he’s supposed to be safe, and tells Derek in a panicked voice that he thinks someone’s in there with him, and can Derek please come over because he doesn’t feel safe? And Derek’s never ran this hard in his entire life, all the way across the White House, barging into Stiles’ room with his gun drawn, ready to kill the first person to hurt Stiles. Only Derek nearly drops his gun because there is no intruder, there is no danger. There’s only Stiles, sitting on the side of his bed, naked, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth while he looks seductively at Derek.
And Derek just snaps, but not in the way Stiles wanted him to (by falling into bed with him). No, Derek snaps by yelling at Stiles, by cursing at him for making his life oh so damn difficult, for making his job almost impossible, for exploiting his fucking feelings for Stiles, because yes, Derek wants him, and yes, Derek loves him, and he would give everything to have Stiles but he can’t. He would get fired, he would compromise Stiles’ safety (and that’s just something that he would never be able to justify) so. he. can’t.
And Stiles just… he tugs the sheet over his lap, ducks his head in shame, because he gets it now. That this isn’t a game to Derek. And he mumbles an apology as he rushes into his bathroom, dragging the sheet along with him. And when he comes back out, Derek is gone.
They avoid each other for a few days, which is harder than it seems when Derek still has to make sure Stiles is safe at all times. But he’s assigned his best men to Stiles’ security detail, and he’s keeping tabs on them all. But Stiles doesn’t know all that, and just… he misses Derek. Not the teasing or the game Stiles turned everything into. He misses the moments he talked with Derek. The moments where Derek was always by his side. The moments where he’s never felt safer. He misses Derek for who he is, not the hot Secret Service guy he could maybe try and lure into bed. And he realizes what an ass he’s been, what a complete and utter idiot, and how he ruined everything.
So he goes and finds Derek, but Derek doesn’t want to talk to him and brushes him off. Stiles starts his apology, but Derek says it’s his night off, and he doesn’t have to deal with Stiles in his free time and it hurts to even say the words, but he can’t handle dealing with Stiles right now. But Stiles wouldn’t be Stiles if he didn’t sneak off when Derek left the White House, following him all by himself, without any security around. And before he can catch up with Derek in the streets, he’s recognized, and people start surrounding him, taking pictures, wanting to talk to him. And they’re a bit pushy, but Stiles can handle it, until it gets a bit too much, and people get too close, too pushy, touching him, grabbing his shoulder to get his attention, and Stiles suddenly realizes that he’s all alone, all by himself, no one around to protect him and he doesn’t know how to handle it and he’s close to getting a panic attack and why won’t these people just go away?
And then there’s another hand on his shoulder, but it’s a familiar one. It’s Derek, who’s pushing aside the crowd, curling his arm around Stiles protectively as he guides him away, into a restaurant where he knows the owner and they get to sneak into the back, near the private entrance.
"Are you completely out of your mind?" Derek yells at him, and Stiles is close to tears, as Derek continues, "What are you even doing here? Do you realize what could have happened?"
"I just… I needed to…" Stiles says, his breathing heavy, as Derek’s hands clutch at Stiles’ upper arms, "I needed to talk to you."
"You… what?" Derek asks, trying to wrap his mind around things.
"Derek, I’m so sorry," Stiles rushes out, "I’ve been such an idiot, and I’ve ruined everything. You… you probably hate me for what I did, but I swear I… I just didn’t think. I was so blinded by how much I wanted you that I just… I never even considered things from your side." He ducks his head, his cheeks flushed, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I’m so sorry."
There’s a silence for a second, before Derek whispers, “I could never hate you. That’s the problem. I could never…”
"Tell me how to make this right, Derek, please?" Stiles pleads, "I’ll do anything. Please, I just need you back in my life, please, I can’t - "
And then his words are cut off by Derek’s lips, pressed against his, Derek’s hands still gripping his arms as Stiles grips his fists into Derek’s shirt, almost desperately. His cheeks are wet, but Stiles can’t bring himself to care as he falls into the kiss, and he’s never felt so scared in Derek’s presence before, but he’s never felt more alive.
AH YES, FIRST SON STILES STILINSKI.
"Stiles," Derek says, "oh God, Stiles."
He’s shirtless, and Stiles would wonder why, except he’s too exhausted, too dehydrated, too terrified to speak. What matters is that Derek is here, he’s here, it’s over, it’s over, Derek is—
"I’m here," Derek says, "Stiles, I’m here, it’s okay, I’m here," and he sinks to his knees, takes Stiles’ cuffed wrists between his warm hands, then reaches for Stiles’ shoulder, the cut on his cheek, the bruise on his forehead, quick investigative touches that are too reassuring, too comforting to bear, and Stiles can’t help it— he presses his face to Derek’s naked chest and sobs.
"Derek?" Stiles whispers, voice rough. "What are you— what is it? What’s going on?"
"Ssh," Derek says. "Go back to sleep." He checks the window again, checks the door, checks his earpiece. His movements are fluid, efficient, and when he finally lowers his gun and says, "Don’t worry, everything’s fine. False alarm," Stiles doesn’t doubt him for a second.
"Come back to bed," he says sleepily, patting the mattress. "It’s lonely in here without you."
(Not sure whether this is a dream or not; if so, Stiles wakes up with a jolt, half-flustered by and half-impressed with the amount of detail his subconscious provided, the dark swirls of the tattoo on Derek’s back, the way he’d almost been able to smell Derek, feel the combined heat of their bodies as they moved together. The next morning when Stiles passes Derek in the hallway, he feels his face heat up. “Morning,” he says, ducking his head, and Derek - straight-backed, immaculately suited up, not a tattoo in sight - says, “Morning.”)
The bar had been dark, smoky and hot, viciously so. Stiles had been that uninhibited drunk that meant he was tipsy, and willing to throw himself all over the place as he danced with Erica, but not stupid. He’d noticed the guy, noticing him. He’d smirked across the dancefloor at him, bitten his lip until it was raw and red and demanding the guy’s attention, draped his arms over the guy’s shoulders when he’d slunk out onto the floor finally, and pulled Stiles up against him.
They hadn’t so much danced as ground into one another until Stiles had needed to pause for breath. There’d been big, hot hands tugging up his shirt, clutching at his bare hips, pressing into him with an intensity Stiles is sure will have left bruises. The guy had been rubbing his cheek along Stiles’, making him shiver and arch into him, beard burn be damned it had felt too good to make him stop.
He’d pulled back, and the guy’s eyes had gone wide, almost panicked, before Stiles had mimed he needed a drink, tugged on his hand and led him through the crowd.
He twists back to lean against the bar, grins when the guy falls into him, their bodies melting into one another.
"What are you drinking?"
"Water," the guy shrugs, "Big day tomorrow."
"Aw, me too!"
"So, you’re out drinking?"
"Is that judgement I detect?"
"No," the guy smirks, drifts forward until his mouth is almost brushing with Stiles’, "I’m happy to be a distraction."
geekdawson and I were talking about Felony last week, and this AU idea came up when we were talking about loving Protective Tony. So I decided to write a thing. I hope you like it :)
There’s a countdown.
The people sitting around you, drunk and high out of their minds, are cheering you on to get in the closet. Cheering you on with numbers. “Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…”
The game is simple, when you’re sober. They spin a bottle, it lands on you. You go into the closet. You wait. Half a minute later, the bottle spins again, and it chooses someone to follow you in. He, she, or they gets in the closet with you. And you make out, or have sex, or awkwardly avoid hooking up. It’s your slight hesitation, the quick glance towards the door, that sparked the countdown.
You’re only a little buzzed standing up. “Ten, nine, eight….”
The voices follow you into the closet and muffle when you shut the door on shouts of “Go get it son!” and “Spin it again, Cosima.”
You lean against the door, tired, and you take it in. The closet’s tiny, but cozy. Pillows cover the floor like snowfall, with their white lace covers. Jackets and sweaters have been taken somewhere else, as the hangers are empty. The bottle is spinning outside, and you breathe in. You’re nervous, terrified actually, but you smile when everyone on the other side of the door goes nuts with the bottle’s selection. It’s probably Sarah, you think. With that kind of a reaction, it can only be your look-alike.
Footsteps, loud and messy, approach the door, and it opens suddenly just as you take a step away from it. The light from the room coats the closet in visibility for a fraction of a second, before the door closes and you find yourself face to face with someone you don’t know. A scrawny kid, probably a freshman.
"Fuckin’…shit, hi there." He says in a warm British accent as he falls on top of you. “Whoops.”
It’s just a regular Tuesday morning for Derek. He posts some letters, picks up a bolt for the bathroom door, and pops into the bank. He’s busy planning dinner in his head when there’s a loud pop, followed by several more, and three men in ski masks jump up onto the tables between the queue Derek’s in.
"Good morning everybody, this is a robbery! Now if nobody loses their head, nobody will lose their head. Simon says everybody lay down on the floor, right away, right away.”
Derek feels his mouth fall open in shock. People are shouting and starting to cry as they fall to their knees. A woman in front of him begins screaming, and the man in the mask that had been talking jogs over, “No, no, ma’am, try to stay calm, you’ll have a story to tell your friends at the end of this. People’ll invite you to dinner for weeks to hear about it.”
"Just get down on the floor, ma’am, there’s nothing to be afraid of."
Despite the mild panic creeping up his spine, Derek snorts, and the guy hears it.
Oh, fuck, he shouldn’t have done that.
"Sir!" He moves to stand in front of Derek, claps a hand on his shoulder and Derek flinches. "Hey, number two, we got ourselves a standing volunteer!" Another man with a mask comes bounding, bounding, over, and half waves his machine gun in the first guy’s face.
"Uh huh, he’s not impressed with our behaviour at all.”