Hope you enjoy, @azaraven!

“Please work, please work, please work, please work -”

Stiles’ fingers fumble the last quarter into the slot and he waits anxiously for a dial tone. He’s still looking over his shoulder, trying to see past the aged fog on the plastic of the telephone booth - trying to see if that stranger is anywhere close. He can’t see anything through the dark and the rain, though.

And he should have been paying attention to what his fingers were doing.

When he hears the other end of the call picked up, his heart kicks into overdrive, relieved and insanely frightened all at once. He bulldozes through any tired greetings - he knows it’s two in the morning and he doesn’t have the courage or patience at the moment to hear Scott bitch about it.

“Scott - listen, I’m sorry I probably woke you up, but someone - someone is following me. The Jeep broke down on Kennedy and it’s on the side of the road, but my cellphone’s dead and I can’t get a fuckin’ tow truck and this is a fuckin’ horror movie opening, Scott! It’s raining and it’s dark, my cellphone’s dead, I’m alone, my car broke down and now I’m being followed by someone and I am not interesting enough to be the main character of a horror movie, Scott! I’m a secondary character at best! And everyone knows first guy on screen dies! Please, please, please come pick me up - I was able to walk to the annoying intersection between Calhoun and DeRenne where the left turn light only stays green for like point two seconds - you know the one -”

He hears something loud outside the phone booth, but it’s definitely not thunder. He presses the phone closer to his ear and huddles more in on himself, looking out of the damaged plastic phone booth casing despite his inability to see anything of substance.

“Scott,” Stiles whispers, “Scott - I think he found me. I gotta, I gotta hang up, I think? I should probably stay quiet… please get here as soon as you can. I really don’t wanna be the dies-before-the-opening-credits-even-start-rolling guy. Please get here. Fast.”

-

“Okay, you can come out now.” Stiles says, offering his hand for the puppy/wolf cub to sniff, trying to stay calm and at a safe distance just how Scott taught him all those years ago. “It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The puppy finally comes out from under Stiles’ car, careful at first but after taking a sniff at Stiles’ stretched out hand, he comes closer until he’s practically trying to hide under Stiles’ shirt, whimpering and shaking.

“It’s okay.” Stiles pets the puppy’s fur. “I’m going to take you inside and call my friend Scott.” He rambles, taking the puppy in his arms and walking back to the house. “And then we’ll find you a great home!”

Stiles has years of hanging around Scott, and one might say his best friend is a puppy himself – with or without taking Scott’s full moon ‘condition’ in consideration – but he has no idea how to handle an actual dog that can’t ask for food or pee at the right place a.k.a the toilet.

“Do you wanna eat something?” He asks the puppy once they are in the kitchen. The puppy barks happily, jumping around Stiles’ legs. “I’ll take that as a very enthusiastic yes.” He snorts, turns to the fridge to get some leftovers he hid from his dad. When he places the plate in front of him, the puppy wrinkles his cute nose and turns his face away from the food.

“What?” Stiles asks. “I’ll have you know I’m a great cooker.” The puppy huffs out, the noise sounding a lot like a laugh. “Oh, doggy’s got jokes, huh? I think I’m gonna call you Funny for now, what do you think?” The puppy huffs again and eyes the milk Stiles is drinking hungrily. “Really? You’re such a weirdo.”

The puppy barks like he agrees.

Anonymous said: 27

[Two prompts in one. I did not mean for things to turn out like this but I can’t control my stories anymore]

-

He’s stillwearing his tux as he makes his escape from the church. There’s nopoint in taking it off, it’s not like Kate is going to run after himanyway, the dress is going to slow her down. Her father though, herfather might just shoot him and that’s why Derek needs to get thefuck out of there as fast ashe can.

“Needa ride?” Someone asks from behind him, and Derek freezes before herealizes the voice is not coming from any of his bride’s relatives,but actually from his own best friend. Thank God.

“Youcame with Scott.” He points out, smiling. Derek can always count onStiles to help him do crazy things, like run away from his own wedding.

Stilessmirks, waves the car keys at him. “He can catch a cab.” Hewinks, motions for Derek to follow him towards the parking lot. “Soyou really did it, uh?”

Dereksighs. “Yeah. I don’t know how I even though about going through withthis.”

“Shesaid she was pregnant, you were afraid of her dad.” Stiles shrugs,opening the car. “It happens.” He stops then, looks at Derek.“You – do you still love her?”

“God,no.” Derek closeshis eyes. He can’t find a way to say he never did – that the onlyperson he ever loved is helping him run away now – so he justaverts Stiles’ eyes and gets in the car.

Stilesfollows him, turns on the car. “So where to?”

Hedidn’t think that far through, he just wanted to leave that stupidchurch, leave Kate and her lies and finally stop making baddecisions. “Fuck if I know.”

Stilesthrows his head back laughing. “I think I have an idea.”

“So, you didn’t go for the ginger hair at all, dudes, so I think we win.” Stiles gave his best grin. “I’m Stiles, this is Stuart, and this is hilarious to me in a very strange way. Right, Stu?” Stuart only mumbled, though even Stiles couldn’t tell who it was directed at.

One of the guys held out a hand toward Stiles, giving him an energetic handshake and a broad grin. “I’m Dale and the grumpy one beside me is Derek. You guys freshmen?”

OMG thank you so much!  I really needed this!  And since you’ve been an angel, have some words:

–

Stiles hasn’t slept in… a long time.  A long, long time.  He can’t actually remember the last time he slept peacefully through the entire night.  These days, if he sleeps long enough to wake up screaming and crying, tormented by the memories left to him by the nogitsune, he almost counts that as a win.  Mostly, though, he’s so damn scared of what he’ll see if he lets himself sleep hard enough to dream, that he does the head-bobbing nod-off-wake-up thing that people do when traveling in cars driven by people whose driving ability they don’t trust.

So when he’s over at Derek’s, sitting next to Lydia on the couch while the three of them pour over old-ass journals trying to find any mention of whatever the fuck the three-eyed tentacle monster is that’s terrorizing the town this week, he doesn’t even bother making a pot of coffee.  It’s not like he’s going to fall asleep, right?

And if he does fall asleep, he’s certainly not going to stay asleep, so.  He’s fine.  He’s got this.  He’ll become one with the googliness of the universe and…

…and wake up on Derek’s couch, body absolutely incapable of movement, face half-numb from how hard he’d been sleeping.  

The sun is cutting through the wall of windows from a high enough vantage point that Stiles just knows without even moving toward his phone that it’s somewhere near late morning.  And considering he doesn’t remember anything after about, oh, eleven o’clock the night before, a thrill of disbelief mingled with exultation sings through Stiles’ veins.  

He slept.

He slept the entire night, with no horrifying dreams, no screaming himself awake, no sudden jolting of last-minute-before-sleep wakefulness.  

It’s while he’s laying there, nearly moved to tears at the fact that he’s finally been able to rest that he realizes he’s, uh… not quite alone.  The whole-body numbness he’d been experiencing wears off just enough for him to realize that while’s he definitely on the couch still – where he’d obviously been when he fell asleep – there’s something protecting him from the lumpy sofa cushions.  Something warm and alive, something firm enough to support him but soft enough to keep him from feeling any pain.  Something…

Oh fuck it.  Derek.  It’s Derek.  He fell asleep on Derek.

Hale.

The guy with the claws and the grr and the rwarrr face who’s been looking for a reason to rip his throat out for the past three years.   

And for one bright, shining moment – probably he’s still a little drunk on the headiness of a solid eight plus hours of sleep – Stiles manages to convince himself that he’s going to survive this.  That he’s going to be able to move off the couch and get the fuck out of the loft without waking Derek up.  

It’s a really kind of lovely moment, broken only by the way Derek’s entire body goes all stiff and unyielding before Stiles is flying across the room, ejected from his comfy spot cuddled up to Derek’s chest by what appears to be a knee-jerk reaction on Derek’s part.  

‘S not gonna save his face when it smashes through the wall, but hey.  He gets it.  He does.  He doesn’t even blame Derek… much.

But then somehow Derek is there, grabbing at him and pulling him back just before his face has an unfortunate encounter with the wall, and there’s a lot of grumbling and grunting and shiftyness on both their parts.  A lot of avoidance of eye-contact too, which is why it takes so long for Stiles to notice that the dark circles beneath Derek’s eyes are…

Well, they’re not gone, not by any stretch of the imagination.  But they’re a lot lighter than he thinks he’s ever seen them.  So maybe….  Maybe he’s not the only one who needed that little nap.

Standing at the open door, ready to make his escape, Stiles turns back to Derek and it just pops out of his mouth.  “Thanks.  I haven’t really slept like that in… just.  Thanks.”

A low, rumbling growl chases him from the loft, but not before he notices how Derek’s ears flush a stupidly adorable shade of pink.

–

Three days later, Stiles is ready to beg.  Or cry.  Or probably cry while begging.  And not pretty tears, either.  These will be gross, snot-bubbly tears.  

Because all that sleeping he did?  Apparently it woke his body up – hah, pun – to the fact that he requires sleep.  So now that he’s back to not sleeping through the night, his body is all drained and painful and woozy and he’s pretty much completely certain that the only way he’s going to get any sleep is by reconstructing the events of that night.  Specifically: Derek plus couch equals sleep.

So Stiles drags his sorry ass over to the loft, crawls up the stairs, and then leans face-first against Derek’s firmly-locked door while feeling utterly sorry for himself.  Because apparently, judging by how very much Derek is not answering his door, Derek isn’t home.  

Stiles hadn’t even considered that Derek wouldn’t be there.  He’d just… gone.  To Derek.  The giver of sleepy times.

Eyes stinging with tears – brought on by sleep-deprivation, shut up – Stiles reverses course, his exhausted brain nearly convincing him to roll down the stairs instead of walking down them.  On the way, he sends off a brief text to Derek to let him know Stiles had stopped by.  He’s so tired, he doesn’t even really pay attention to the message, just lets his fingers fly across his phone’s keyboard of their own volition.

He gets home.  He’d be way more concerned over the fact that he doesn’t really remember getting home, but he doesn’t have the energy to spare for that level of freak out.  So instead he just gives his Jeep a cursory inspection, checks his phone for any screaming messages from his dad, and figures it’s all good when he doesn’t see any new scratches on his baby or dozens of missed calls on his phone.

When he finally stumbles into his room, he doesn’t even have the energy to jump out of his skin when he finds Derek lurking there like a creeper.  Instead he just moans pitifully and grabs hold of Derek, tugging and whimpering until Derek – looking slightly freaked out – is stretched out on Stiles’ bed like a body pillow taken much too literally.

Stiles face-plants on that chest and welcomes the darkness that engulfs him.

–

The too-familiar sound of a gun’s hammer being pulled back snaps Stiles back to consciousness some indeterminate amount of time later, and he rolls his gummy eyes around in their sockets until his gaze blearily focuses on his dad.  The sheriff is standing next to his bed, his steely-eyed gaze locked with laser-like focus on something a few inches above Stiles’ head and…

Oh, right. Derek.

Derek Hale.

Of the aforementioned claws and grr and rwarr face.

The guy that Stiles had dragged to his bed for some much-needed sleep.  

Probably Stiles should correct whatever mistaken impression his dad’s freaking out over, but… Well, honestly, now that Stiles has managed to sleep again, his humor is all nicely restored and he’s finding this whole scenario just a little bit hilarious.

Okay, a lot bit hilarious.

Come on.  His dad looks about two heartbeats away from unloading a few rounds in Derek’s face for … what?  Deflowering his innocent son?

Oh, god, this is priceless.  Stiles wants to rewind time and set up video cameras to capture this moment.

But then he sighs because it occurs to him that if his dad shoots Derek in the face, Derek will probably not let Stiles use him as a pillow again ever.  Not that Derek is likely to let Stiles use him as a pillow again anyway, but definitely not if he gets shot for being said pillow.  

“Dad,” he says, and then has to spend a few seconds clearing his throat because whoa, it’s all sleep-scratchy and husky and, ahahaha, sounding a lot like he’d used his throat for something not-so-innocent before passing out on top of Derek.

Hale.

LOL.

Shuffling around, Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, collecting the drool and sleep-crust and other gross shit while trying to get his mostly-boneless body to accept the notion of sitting up.  But nope.  That’s not happening any time soon.

With a sigh, Stiles waves his hand weakly, drawing his dad’s attention, but not succeeding in getting his dad’s service revolver pointed anywhere but at Derek’s face.  Still.  

“Seriously,” he slurs out, his tongue all scuzzy and teeth feeling sticky in his mouth, “stoppit.  As,” a yawn so big and wide that it nearly makes his face crack takes him by surprise, interrupting his attempt at speech.  “As amusing as this is–”

Derek’s chest starts vibrating under his cheek just before a low growl begins to rumble through the room.

“Chris Argent gave me a whole case of wolfsbane rounds,” his dad says, voice all gravel, and he’s not even acknowledging Stiles.  Which.  Rude.

“Oh my god, Dad, what the hell?!  What on earth do you think happened here, anyway?  I still have my fucking hoodie–”

“Language.”

“–on!  I mean, okay, good job, you’ve threatened the big bad wolf on my behalf.  But seriously, Dad, what is this?”  

Derek starts to move under him, but Stiles slaps a hand to his chest at the same time his Dad’s finger moves from the trigger guard to the actual fucking trigger and Stiles begins to rapidly panic that the situation is going to end in tears all around.

“There is a twenty-four year old adult in the bed of a minor while said minor is occupying said bed.  That’s what this is, Stiles.”  And then his dad turns his narrow-eyed look from Derek to Stiles and uh, no.  Just no.

“Hey, no!  You don’t get to do this.”

Derek tries to interrupt with a murmured, “Stiles,” but Stiles cuts him off with a hand over his mouth.  

Which he’s probably going to regret, what with Derek’s renowned rwarr face and all.

“You know what we did last night?  We slept.”  Glancing at his clock, Stiles does a double-take and then lets out a shaky breath.  “For thirteen hours.”  Lifting suddenly watery eyes to his dad, Stiles whispers, “No nightmares.  Thirteen hours with no nightmares.”

His dad’s whole body sags at that, the weight of his gun dragging his limp arm back to his side, and a look of mingled pain and hope flares bright on his weathered face before he looks to Derek for confirmation.

But Derek is stiff as a board under Stiles, prompting him to finally get his muscles and joints working together enough to push him up from where he’d still been sprawled all over Derek’s body.  What he sees is a look of blank shock on Derek’s face, his lips parted just enough to show the tips of his teeth between them.

“Thirteen hours?” he breathes, looking back at Stiles for confirmation.

“Yeah.”

His dad shifts enough to draw even Stiles’ attention then, and he’s looking guilty enough that Stiles just knows, if he had a werewolf nose, he’d smell it rising thick in the air.  “You…”

“I didn’t wake up screaming, Dad.  Not even once.”  Patting Derek, he tries on a grin, and it feels natural for the first time in way too long.  “He’s like, the perfect pillow slash guard dog combination.”

Derek rumbles out an irritated-sounding growl at the dog joke, but the familiarity of that just makes Stiles laugh, loud and bright.  And something about that makes his dad blink back tears before he turns to Derek and points at him with the hand not holding his service revolver.  

“You.   Make arrangements.  You’re staying here for the foreseeable future.”

“But–”

“Don’t argue with me, son,” the sheriff says, breaking into what was sure to be a really riveting argument.  “You need the sleep just as much as he does.”  Stiles’ dad starts to move away, then pauses at the door, his face going through some really painful-looking expressions.  “And if he tries anything, just let me know–”

“Dad, he’s not gonna–”

“That was for Derek, son.  Don’t forget, I’ve met you.”

Stiles’ jaw drops open, a protest forming on his tongue before it dies at the look his dad is directing him.  “Okay, fine.  Fair enough,” he grumbles, holding his hands up.  

When his dad pulls the door shut after one last, pointed look in Stiles’ direction, Derek mutters, “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people?”

happy birthday to my dear friend, attoliancrown. just some fluff to make you smile on your birthday! <3 love you!!!

*

Stiles watches the diner boredly from behind the counter while Lydia reties her apron for the four hundredth time in an attempt to achieve the perfect bow and Allison refills sugar containers. He’s waiting for table 12’s order from Scott and Isaac, and from their laughs floating in from the kitchen, that’s not going to happen soon.

His eyes cut over to the door when the bell jingles, and two ridiculously attractive men walk in. “Mine!” Stiles nearly yells, rushing around the counter before Lydia even has time to look up from her crooked bow.

“Hey, no fair! It’s my turn!” she hisses, and Stiles feels no remorse at all when he stops in front of the table, out of breath and red-faced. The two guys look up at him, and even with the one look of confused amusement and the other of pure disdain, it is so worth it. God, Grumpy Beard is the hottest thing to ever enter this diner. Or maybe enter planet Earth. And, oh god, he’s wearing a fitted black button up uniform shirt like his companion. A fireman. Stiles tries not to pop a boner right there.

“Hey, welcome to Wolf Road Diner. I’m Stiles, I’ll be taking care of all of your needs, well, food wise, I mean, um…would you like anything to drink?” Stiles flicks his pen nervously against his pad, his face burning with embarrassment. Grumpy Beard’s friend, who is only slightly less attractive, gives him a creepy closed-lipped smile. Grumpy Beard looks like he wants to murder Stiles in his sleep.

“Two waters, and two burger plates,” he says, and wow, that voice is not what Stiles expected. It’s almost…soft. As Stiles nods and takes the scribbled order to the window, he briefly imagines what it’d sound like in his ear, with the fireman’s long hot –

“You ass!” Lydia slaps his arm, hard. “That was my table, and you know it!”

“Lydia, I…I had to. Did you see the dark-haired one? He’s like every wet dream I’ve ever had come to life. After this, I’ll have spank bank material for at least two months.”

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Ew, Stiles, really? You’re disgusting. I don’t know why I talk to you.”

“You love me, shut up.”

Stiles manages to not embarrass himself in front of Grumpy Beard and Hot Friend, and he learns that Vernon Milton Boyd IV is the friend, and Grumpy Beard is a caveman who is afraid of debit cards. But he leaves Stiles a four dollar tip on an eight dollar meal, so Grumpy can stay in the stone age for all Stiles cares. Plus, stone age means no shirt, score.

*

“What is that?” Stiles asks, as he peers cautiously into the shallow box his dad has set on their kitchen table.

“It’s a mini!alpha,” says his dad, looking pleased with himself.

The little creature (Stiles guesses it’s a mini!alpha, maybe) inside growls and spits, flashing tiny fangs and little pinprick claws. Stiles’ brow creases in confusion. “I thought they were supposed to be, um, cute?”

The little thing is awfully hairy. And angry. It does have a big foofy tail, Stiles supposes that’s kind of cute.

“You don’t like him?” His dad asks, sounding shocked, surprise halting his after work ritual of peeling himself out of his Sheriff’s jacket and grabbing for a box of Ho Hos up in the cabinetry.

Stiles points an accusing finger at his Dad’s outstretched arm. “They’re not in there,” he warns dangerously. “And wait,” Stiles’ brain catches up with the implications of his father’s previous question, “you mean, he’s for me? He’s mine? I can keep him?”

Today my coworker told me a story about how she lost her wallet, and a guy returned it to her with his business card in it. So of course my brain went, STEREK, and here ya go:

Derek is having a bad day. He hops onto the subway, exhausted after a long day at work. Luckily, he finds one open seat and slides into it appreciatively. Until he sees an elderly woman pull herself onto the train.

With a sigh, he gets up and offers his seat to her. It’s the right thing to do, and despite his bad day, he knows she needs it more than he does. He’s got a half hour ride back to his apartment ahead of him, so he grabs a pole and settles in for the ride.

Thirty minutes later, the previously crowded subway car is empty, other than him. It pulls up to his stop, and he walks over to the doors before they open, ready to get home. As he’s about to step off, he spots something black underneath one of the seats. He leans down to pick it up, and discovers that it’s a wallet. He looks around, but seeing no else in the car, he pockets it as he walks off of the subway car.

He forgets about the wallet entirely until he gets home. When he goes into his room to change out of his heavy work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants, he takes off his slacks. They fall to the floor with a louder thunk than usual, reminding him about the wallet inside of them.  He tugs on his sweatpants, extracts the wallet, and sits down on his bed to take a look through it.

He checks the cash pocket first, finding $24 dollars inside. Derek doesn’t even consider taking any of it, he has enough money as it is. He fumbles through the rest of the wallet, pulling out random items as he goes. A few of them are standard items; a credit card, a library card, and a driver’s license.

He starts pulling out items on the other side of the wallet that are a bit more interesting; a frequent customer card at a coffee shop that Derek’s actually been to a few times, a comic strip, and a faded photo of a soft-eyed woman holding a child.

He takes the driver’s license out and looks at it more closely. The name on the license is something he can’t even begin to try to pronounce. Maybe the guy is foreign? He checks the birth date and sees that the guy is only a couple years younger than Derek is.

Derek brings the license closer to his eyes and studies the picture closely. The owner is pretty good looking; he has brown hair, light brown eyes, and a very charming smirk that shows off an angular set of cheekbones.