Hi, I'm Gianna and I like you let's be friends.
Stiles leaves his red sweatshirt in the washer and turns all of Derek’s underwear pink.
A romantic comedy ensues.
ヽ(；▽；)ノ ♥ ﾟ+｡:.ﾟ
I wrote a thing, I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF. ;__;
It’s three fifty-five on a Thursday afternoon, and Derek is standing in the middle of the laundromat, staring down at the pair of damp cotton boxer-briefs in his hand. Boxer-briefs that were significantly less pink when he’d dumped them in the washer.
This is, quite clearly, not his day.
He finds the culprit at the bottom of the machine, buried beneath a heap of underwear and socks—pink, all of them pink, this was supposed to be his white load, damn it—a hooded sweatshirt that’s soft and bright red and definitely not his.
“Oh my god.”
There’s the sound of muffled laughter from his right. Derek slowly turns his head to see the guy who’d been there when he came in standing by the dryers, eyes wide above the horrified smile that he’s not quite covering with one hand. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the local community college’s logo emblazoned across the front. It’s one of those deals with your major printed underneath; whatever it used to say has been crossed out in thick black marker, with ‘Undeclared’ scrawled haphazardly above it. His cheeks are as blotchily pink as Derek’s underwear.
“I’m so … oh my god, that’s … that’s mine.” He reaches out hesitantly, like he’s afraid that Derek’s going to snap at him, and plucks the offending garment out of his hands. A pair of pink underwear falls out and drops onto the floor between them with a wet plop. “Oh my god. I’m just … I was using that machine earlier, and I guess I missed … I am so sorry.”
“I should’ve checked the machine before I tossed my stuff in,” Derek says gruffly. He can feel the tips of his ears heating up and bends down to snatch the fallen underwear off of the floor, tossing it in with the rest. “My fault as much as yours.”
“Sure. Yeah. But I mean, it’s not my clothes that got screwed up, so I sort of … I don’t understand, though, I’ve washed this before, it shouldn’t have—”
“Hot water,” Derek grits out, pulling the rest of the mess out of the machine.
“Right. Yeah.” The guy’s nodding furiously, still trying to choke back what seems like nervous laughter. “Still. Sorry.”
“It’s just underwear.” Derek closes the door to the washer with more force than strictly necessary. “It’s not like it’s anything anyone’s gonna see.”
He realizes what he’s said as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but far too late to take it back. Red-sweatshirt guy’s eyes have gone wide again, his mouth fallen open in a way that would probably be appealing if Derek wasn’t trying to will the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He turns on his heel, picks up the larger basket full of neatly folded clean clothes, and heads out the door without another word.
He can stop by the store for new goddamned underwear on his way home.
( Thanks to my 2000+ followers! This is for you ♥ Click for full size. )
Some nights Derek has nightmares.
He sees his old house on fire, his favourite toys getting swallowed by flames; hears the miserable howl he and Laura let echo over town the first night all on their own. He can smell Kate’s perfume that used to make his heart race impossibly fast; can see the darkness in her eyes and the smile on her lips the day the Argents left Beacon Hills as he watched her hidden in the shadows. He can hear the way his sister’s pulse quickens with fear whenever he’s too far out of her sight and he can smell the sickness of burnt flesh all over his Uncle Peter when he visits him at the hospital.
He wakes up with a jackhammer heart and a damp forehead; on worse nights, his claws are out, inches from ripping the sheets with his teeth sore and aching in his mouth. He gasps for air and presses his forehead into the back of Stiles’ head, inhaling the familiar scent of safety and listens to his slow and steady heartbeat, forcing his own to match its pace.
Those nights, Stiles make them switch positions.
Once Derek’s got his breathing under wrap and his head isn’t filled with smokey red, Stiles turns in his arms and nudges Derek’s shoulder with his forehead until Derek rolls over onto his other side. He wraps his arms round Derek’s waist, tangling their legs together and burying his face in the nape of Derek’s neck.
He doesn’t say anything; Derek knows it’s because he’s had his own share of nightmares in the past. He doesn’t ask if he wants to talk about or if he’s okay; he simply pulls Derek firmly against his front and doesn’t let go until the next morning. He’ll rub the sleep out of his eyes, smelling of happiness and warmth, as he chuckles and leans over Derek’s shoulder to kiss his cheek like nothing Derek does will ever drive him away. Like Stiles will always be there to comfort him and remind him what home and love is.
Derek can count on the nightmares; but he can also count on Stiles to help him through.
~ Behind closed doors ~
How. The Fuck. Did you? Are you GOD? Marry me.
Teen Wolf AU: In which Derek is a teacher at Beacon Hills High School and Stiles deliberately misbehaves to get stuck in detention just so he can ogle that fine piece of ass.
“You know, I love it when you boss me around. Get’s me all hot and bothered.”
“Stiles.” Derek Hale sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t look put out, though. He looks…defeated, in a way. “You can’t go around saying things like that.”
“I can if they’re true,” Stiles insists petulantly.
“What would your father say if I called him and told him his son was sexually harassing me?” Derek asks.
Stiles gapes. “You would never!”
“Wouldn’t I,” Derek says flatly.
“No.” Stiles isn’t actually 100 per cent sure about this. But he is, like, 99 percent sure. His self-confidence is about as high as one would expect from a gangly, awkward, sixteen-year-old spazz, but he has caught Derek staring at his ass. And his mouth. Repeatedly. Lydia confirmed it, too, and Lydia is Queen Of Everything and also Never Wrong, so there. Stiles is pretty certain Derek wants into his pants just as badly as he wants into Derek’s, which is why he doesn’t deem it below himself to get out the cheesy porn lines in he repertoire. “I know you enjoy the flirting just as much as I do. You like the dirty things coming out of my mouth.”
“This is the third time you ended up in detention this week,” Derek reminds his stiffly, ignoring his claim completely.
It’s true. He’s been in detention more often than not since Derek Hale joined the staff of Beacon Hills High School, but only when he knows for certain that the new teacher is supposed to oversee the miscreants. He’s not stupid, and the turns they take are ridiculously easy to figure out. Stiles can be perfectly well behaved when he wants to, too, but who’d want that if ending up in detention gives them another full hour of unashamedly ogling the Greek god that is Derek Hale that gives Stiles endless spank bank material for his Private Stiles Time?
“Don’t you think you have bigger problems to worry about?”
“I notice how you didn’t deny the attraction part,” Stiles points out, smug.
“If you think I’d ever get involved with a minor, who is on top of that a student of mine, you’re delusional,” Derek snaps.
“Still hearing no denial,” Stiles says, grinning, and slowly makes his way up to the front. “I hear you deflecting a lot, but I never once heard you say you don’t want this.”
Derek backs away a little as Stiles comes towards him until he hits the desk and his escape way is cut off by the wood digging into his ass. His eyes are always on Stiles, flicking from his eyes down to his mouth, down the pale stretch of his neck, follow the muscles of his arms and roam over his torso before snapping back up to his face. He doesn’t push Stiles away when he steps into his personal space, although he could do it, easily: he has at least 50 pounds of only muscle on Stiles, which is all kinds of hot.
“I don’t want this,” he says, but his voice is hoarse and his pupils blown wide and he doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t try to get away from Stiles anymore and Stiles thinks jackpot.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Stiles sing-songs into his ear as he inches closer, bracing his hands on either side of Derek’s hips, bracketing him. He can feel the heat emanating from under the torturously well-fitted shirt Derek is wearing, swears he can hear the adult’s heartbeat pick up at the proximity, at Stiles’ breath ghosting over his skin.
“That comeback only shows how much of a child you still are,” Derek huffs.
It doesn’t fool Stiles one bit. “Oh yeah?” he asks, grin spreading over his face, and drops to his knees, enjoys the sharp intake of breath above him. “Let me show you how much of a child I am not.”
canon vs. bloopers
FBI Stiles AU
The FBI is on the hunt for a serial killer who tags his victims’ bodies with triskelion tattoos. Agent Stiles Stilinski is lead investigator but gets kicked off the case when his superiors find out about his history with one of the suspects. Ignoring orders, Stiles turns to Scott to help him clear Derek’s name and stop the real killer…