Sketchy post-apocalyptic McCoy and Kirk for schwarzbrot, because we both have a thing for it- one of the first few topics we’ve talked about. Thanks for being so cool.
i need a fic where derek is bad at carpentry. like he’s a failboat. and despite buying a fixer-uper, he just spends nights reading carpentry books and that hole in the wall is actually a carpentry fix-it gone wrong. so maybe stiles and his hands decide to help
It’s always been Derek’s dream to be a small town Sheriff’s deputy, buy a quaint fixer-upper, and live five miles down the road from his mother.
None of these things are true, but his previous job had started questioning his monthly absences, the local Alpha had been tolerant at best, and Derek’s last relationship had literally caught fire.
He hadn’t been home to Beacon Hills in ten years, but his mother made a few phone calls and got him an interview with Sheriff Stilinksi, a man who’d been serving and protecting Beacon Hills for nearly as long as Derek could remember and who—incidentally—knew all about the local werewolves and was pleased as punch to have one on his force.
Then there was the house. Thanks to Kate, his credit was shit. Derek would have loved a place clear across town from his family—maybe with a moat—but the small, historic homes near the downtown area were more in his price range. The houses could charitably have been called cottages if he squinted.
He wound up with a foreclosed fixer-upper on a quiet, older street.
And the street had potholes. Of course it did.
Derek discovered this the day he moved in and bit straight through his lower lip when his car drove over a pothole deep enough to lead to Hell.
The neighbors were thrilled to have a deputy in their midst, and his mother was thrilled that Derek was back home and only lived ten minutes away.
Derek was less than thrilled about the entire situation.
That wasn’t to say he was ungrateful, he just—he just wanted to bitch about it to a sympathetic ear.
He should have known better than to call his sister.
"Ha ha ha," Laura says over the phone. Derek can hear waves crashing in the background. “You are living the dream, little bro."
She’s in SoCal with her hippy werewolf surfer boyfriend and Mom and Dad don’t seem to have any expectations of her. It’s all ‘Laura needs time to sow her wild oats, she’s going to be Alpha some day’ and ‘We trust Laura can handle herself so far from home.’
Derek resents the implication that he isn’t just as capable.
"It’s not that, honey," his Mom says later that night, patting his hand. She leans over and spoons some casserole onto his plate. “It’s just that we know how you like to be comfortable."
Comfortable, Derek thinks with a grumpy snort, digging into his home cooked meal. Comfortable. He’s a grown werewolf, dammit, and his mother still thinks he’s five years old.
He chews angrily and swallows. The food gets stuck sideways and sends him into a coughing fit that has his mother jumping up to pat him on the back.
"Do you have any milk?" he wheezes, his eyes watering.
"Of course, baby," his Mom says, giving his hair a fond ruffle on her way to the kitchen. “It’s the whole milk kind that you like, too."
This is everything I ever wanted and more.