Abby loves a lot of things about being a cop, but handling vagrancy calls isn’t one of them. The only worse option is if it ends up being a drunk and disorderly, too. Just, she hates forcing people to move along when they’re only trying to survive on the streets. And while she can’t blame those who react poorly to her thinly-veiled orders, she doesn’t love getting cussed at either.
Luckily, her partner Stiles is always willing to step up. He intuitively grasps how to balance his authority with a friendly sympathy that reads as honest respect, not pity. Most of the city’s homeless accept Stiles as at least a friendly acquaintance, at this point. Considering he’s best known among his peers for his sharp tongue and a borderline troubling disregard for social norms, it’s a bit of a surprise, but when it comes to empathizing with the genuinely downtrodden? Stiles is your guy.
Which is probably why they get called to deal with the vagrant in the woods in the first place, and that’s when all the trouble starts.
“We’re looking at a Caucasian male, early thirties, six foot three, maybe 180 pounds,” Abby rattles off. “The biker who reported him said he seemed disoriented and was staggering around. Wasn’t dressed for the weather, started shouting at her when she approached and offered to help, stuff like that. There’s a possibility he could get violent if someone got too close, so it’s good we’re picking him up. My guess is a drunk and disorderly, but might be harder drugs.” She sighs. Not how she wanted to spend her Friday night.
“Fingers crossed for anything but meth,” Stiles says wryly as he slides into the driver’s seat and starts up the patrol car.
The sun sinks past the ridge as they drive, and by the time they’re out on the trail the biker indicated, evening shadows have settled into the already-dim woods. The path is uneven and narrow. While Stiles seems to be keeping his footing relatively well – surprisingly, Abby wouldn’t have pegged him for an outdoorsman – Abby herself is devoting all her attention to not twisting an ankle.
“Jeeze,” she mutters, fifteen minutes into the hike and no sign of their vagrant. “They could install a few lights, don’t you think? Even with the moon out I can barely see my feet. Why do the crazies always pick th- oof!” she grunts, bouncing off of Stiles where he’d come to an abrupt stop right in front of her. “What gives?”
He’s staring up at the full moon, a perfect white circle shining through the branches, stark against the darkening sky. It illuminates a surprisingly wary expression on his face, one disproportionate the situation in Abby’s estimation. They’ve handled this type of thing together so often it’s routine.
“Y’know, uh, it is getting dark,” he says, the lightness of his tone belying his narrow-eyed expression. “How about you head back to the car and get the flashlights?”
“What? You’re the one who said they’d just ruin our night vision,” Abby argues incredulously. “And if I go back, it’ll be at least half an hour before I catch up to you. Longer, if you keep hiking out. What if you run into this guy alone?”
“Naw, I’ll wait for you right here,” Stiles says quickly. A blatant lie.
But before Abby gets the chance to pester him into telling her what’s really up, the sound of snapping branches distracts them both. A pale figure stumbles into view farther down the trail, his light t-shirt standing out clearly among the dark trees. The vagrant.
“Hey there, sir,” Stiles says loud and firm, stepping forward with his hand carefully resting on his holster. “This is the police, we’re here to help. Sir?”
“Stay back,” the stranger shouts, a guttural, half-human growl. The sound of it makes the hair on the back of Abby’s neck stand up, her animal brain screaming run.
Stiles edges forwards, putting himself between Abby and the stranger. His animal brain apparently isn’t working. “Can’t do that, sir. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” He unclips his gun as he speaks, every muscle on him tensed and ready.
The man’s almost doubled over, his back to them bowed and taunt, fingers gripping his own biceps with such force they almost look clawed. “Get away from me,” he shouts again, this time with something desperate in his tone. He glances back over his shoulder at them, as if to check if they’ve started running yet.
Abby gasps. For a second, the face she’d caught in the moonlight had seemed… wrong. Bulging and furred, monstrous. The man stumbles again, lets out a moan that’s half a roar.
“Stiles,” she hisses, pulling at his uniform. “Something’s off, this is weird. Let’s just go. We can block off the trail until morning and come pick him up then, with backup.”
But Stiles isn’t listening to her. His lips are parted, brows drawn in confusion. All the tense hesitation in his body has bled away, and his posture is open. His hand drops away from his weapon and he leans tentatively towards the stranger, rather than away.
“Derek?” he says in a small voice, too quiet for the man to hear from so far away.
Except the man freezes and turns his head to look at them, as if he somehow heard the name. His face looks human, now, and his voice is almost human, too, when he says, “Stiles?”
Derek wakes up in his new apartment. The birds are singing, the sun is shining, the lady next door gives him a cupcake. Then he sees Stiles shirtless. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.
‘You were singing really loudly in the shower when I broke into your apartment but then i heard you slip and crash and oh god i should probably check on you in case i get done for murder instead of just robbery’ AU
It took all of fourteen seconds for Derek to realize he was in the wrong apartment.
First, he noticed the very large and scuffed up sneakers and boots ditched haphazardly kind of near the door but half into the living room. Cora was meticulous about her shoes and kept them neatly arranged in a shoe rack right next to the door. The only time they touched the floor was when her feet were in them.
Second, the stuff. There was so much stuff everywhere; clothes thrown over the back of the couch, dishes across the coffee table and all over the kitchen counters, books on every surface, a gaming console dragging wires across the floor and surrounded by games, in cases and out of them. Cora was an unintentional minimalist, in that she threw out anything she didn’t need and lacked a single sentimental bone in her body. Derek and Laura regularly made trips to wherever she lived to save family keepsakes and memories from her ruthless cleaning sprees.
Then he noticed the manly warble coming from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and Cora’s favorite topic of rant floated lazily to the forefront of his mind.
—but my neighbor, oh my god this guy! I’m going to kill him if I ever see him in the hall! His bathroom shares a wall with my bedroom and he sings in the shower, every shower, at all hours. Literally all hours, like 4am, and he only sings Christmas carols at 4am. I’ve have Jingle Bells stuck in my head for a week!
Aww, thank you, nonnie! I hope you like it! (also onao3!)
“Dude, are you trying to turn me on?”
Derek paused mid-sit up, his hands poised behind his head, fingers locked together, buried. in his sweat beaded hair. A tiny grunt of exertion died on his lips as he stopped, holding his position as he furrowed his brows and looked around the room.
It was a Friday afternoon in the middle of spring, rain beating a gentle staccato against the wall of windows, providing a soothing soundtrack for his workout regimen. With the full moon only a few days away, he was feeling a bit restless, an itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch.
Usually, a run through the preserve would be enough to settle his nerves, the sun on his face and the wind in his hair never failing to soothe him, no matter the issue. Recently, the other members of the pack had taken to doing the same around the full moon, feeling the same restiveness and jittery uneasiness.
But with the rain showing no signs of stopping anytime soon, any hopes for a nice run through the woods were completely dashed. He knew firsthand how muddy the trails in the preserve good get and he would rather not get soaking wet.
So, he had decided to just work out at the loft, endeavoring to burn off his extra energy the only way he knew how. For hours he had been doing as many cardio exercises he could think of, from jumping rope to doing burpees, even jogging up and down the spiral staircase.
The result was a sheen of sweat over his body and a slight lessening of the pull of the approaching full moon, still feeling extremely restless no matter what he did, even when he began feeling the effects of exertion. He had switched to less grueling exercises after awhile, finding a spot on the polished concrete floor to do sit ups on, the floor cool against his back.
He was only twenty sit ups in when Stiles asked his disarming question, freezing Derek in his tracks. Taken aback by the unexpected comment, Derek peered over at the human who was sitting cross-legged on the couch.
Stiles had shown up at the loft about an hour earlier with a backpack full of spiral notebooks and heavy textbooks and the beginnings of bags under his eyes. Derek had been in the middle of doing some squats when Stiles had let himself in with the spare key he had taken the liberty of making himself.
Uncharacteristically taciturn, Stiles had explained that for whatever reason he could not focus at home and really needed to study for his upcoming finals. He had dropped his bag on the couch as he made his way to the kitchen, helping himself to the fridge and grabbing a can of soda and some leftover pepperoni pizza.
Derek had just nodded, mostly to himself as Stiles had been busy raiding his kitchen, and told him to take as much time as he needed, launching right back into his workout. Stiles had sent him a grateful salute as he shuffled back over to the couch, plopping down beside his backpack and propping his feet up on the coffee table.
Now, Derek peered over at Stiles who had his nose buried in his psychology textbook, alternating between nibbling his lower lip and gnawing on the end of a hot pink highlighter. He seemed perfectly nonplussed, occasionally scribbling something in the margins of his textbook, squinting down at the various charts and graphs on the page.
If Derek had not heard the unexpected question himself, he wouldn’t have believed that Stiles had actually said anything at all, the human not showing any signs of having said a single word. But he had heard it and he certainly wasn’t going to let it go unnoticed.
The Jeep shrieks around the corner, blue as it’s ever been, bumps a curb and misses a cone. It skids to a stop an inch from Derek’s left boot, and that’s on purpose–it always has been, after all.
“Get in,” says Stiles, and Derek does.
–
Stiles drives like he talks like he fights like he lives: reckless. He throws the gearshift like it’s the winning shot in one of those lacrosse games he never quite managed to play, and Derek keeps his eyes on the road. If he looks to his right, the countryside will stream by fast enough to make him dwell on the word fleeting; if he looks to his left, he’ll have to stare at the way Stiles’ fingers tighten and release on the steering wheel. They’re old habit, run in, the two of them in this bone-tired machine, and Derek knows there’s value in that. Derek knows that breaking patterns leads to chaos. Derek knows he doesn’t know very much.
Stiles sort of assumes that Derek doesn’t do the whole ‘public’ thing. He’s never been much on public displays of affection with anyone, not even in a friends kind of way, so he doesn’t see why this new thing between them should change anything. Furthermore, Stiles doesn’t even know what this ‘thing’ between them is. Because Derek kissed him once when he’d saved Derek’s life and gotten hurt in the process. And ever since, Derek has this habit of sneaking into his room, or cornering him into a hallway (or anywhere really) and sneaking a few kisses here and there.
They’ve never actually talked about it. Mainly because Stiles is scared that if he brings it up, it’ll break whatever spell has its hold on Derek and they’ll never get to kiss again. And Stiles doesn’t want to risk that. Because dammit, he wants Derek to keep kissing him. A lot.
So whenever they’re around the others, Stiles tries to act normal. He still teases Derek, still snaps at him sometimes, still acts like he doesn’t want to just cross the room and capture those lips in a searing kiss. Even though he’s sure Derek notices his eyes on him, pretty much all the time. And every once and again, Derek will look back, eyes lingering just a second too long. And Stiles knows that Derek is thinking the same thing he is.
Of course Stiles has to go and fuck it up at some point, when Isaac brings up the prom and Scott suggests that Stiles ask that girl from their economics class that has a thing for him.
“She doesn’t have a thing,” Stiles says, brushing it off, and he refuses to look at Derek. Instead he busies himself in the books that are stacked on the table.
“She totally does, bro,” Scott says, nonchalantly. “You should ask her. I know you don’t want to go alone, and it’s not like you’re seeing anyone, right?”
Stiles sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, looks up to find Derek eyeing him intently. But Derek doesn’t say a word, and Scott is looking at him expectantly, so Stiles shakes his head and forces a smile. “No man, of course I’m not. Single as ever, that’s me.”
“Good,” Scott says, “So ask her, and maybe you won’t be single for long.”
“Right,” Stiles says, humoring his friend.
And then Derek gets up without saying a word and stomps off into the kitchen. And Stiles’ stomach feels like a brick.
Stiles has to give Scott and Isaac a ride home, so it’s not like he can stay behind and try to have a word with Derek, who’s clearly still in a bad mood by the time they leave.
Stiles tries to just ignore it, but it’s a nagging feeling that simply won’t go away, and when he’s still worrying about it in the evening, he finally picks up his phone and calls Derek, who… doesn’t pick up.
“Derek,” Stiles says after the beep, “Okay, I have no idea why you’re being an ass right now and ignoring me, but it really sucks, okay? It was Scott that brought the whole thing up anyway, and I even looked at you, man, and you gave me absolutely nothing. I never asked anything of you! I never wanted to mess up whatever it was that was going on. I never told anyone because I know how you’re all secretive and you’d probably rip my throat out when someone found out about… about… whatever it is we’re doing, alright? And now you’re obviously pissed and I have no idea why, and I didn’t even do anything wrong, okay? What, am I supposed to go to the prom alone? Which I am, by the way! Because I have no intention of actually asking this girl that I’ve never even spoken two words to! Because of course I’d rather go with you, but I know that’s never gonna happen, not even if hell freezes over, and… Fuck. You suck, man.”
Stiles hangs up the phone, throws it on his bed, and buries his head in his hands, because damn… He was not supposed to say all that. He turns off his phone in a panic, and tries not to think of how he’ll ever face Derek again.
He takes a shower before bed, and when he arrives back into his bedroom – hair still wet and sticking out in all directions – he nearly stumbles back into the door when he sees Derek leaning against his windowsill.
“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?” Stiles asks, perplexed, and somewhat glad he put on his sleeping clothes in the bathroom.
“You turned off your phone,” Derek says, as if that’s any kind of explanation as to why he’s here in Stiles’ bedroom at eleven in the evening.
“Yeah, because I clearly should never be allowed to use a phone ever again,” Stiles sighs, looking at the object in question with a murderous stare.
“You realize you never asked me, right?” Derek says, not moving from his spot by the window.
“What?” Stiles frowns.
“To the prom,” Derek clarifies, “Or anything else, really? You’re mad at me for not accepting to go to the prom with you, but you never actually asked me.”
“Because you- !” Stiles starts, stopping himself in utter confusion.
Derek takes a few steps forward, until he’s right in Stiles’ face, staring him down. And Stiles is actually afraid that his heart might jump out of his chest.
“Ask me…” Derek whispers, his eyes fixed on Stiles.
“I…” Stiles starts, swallowing hard. And he tries to get the words out, he really does, but then he’s pressing his lips against Derek’s and he doesn’t even know how it happened.
But Derek kisses him back, slides his hands down Stiles’ back, until they’re gripping him tight around the waist and pulling him in. Stiles’ tongue pushes past the brim of Derek’s lips hungrily, searching out for Derek’s. They kiss until they stumble onto the bed together, Derek slotting his body perfectly over Stiles’, until they’re both breathless and satisfied.
When Scott brings up the girl from class the next day, Stiles simply smirks and says he’s not going to ask her out.
“Why not?” Scott frowns.
“He already has a date for prom,” Derek says as he comes to stand next to Stiles, slipping his fingers down to tangle with Stiles’. Stiles holds his breath as he looks at Scott expectantly, squeezing his hand tightly around Derek’s.
Isaac quirks an eyebrow at them, but he’s smiling. Allison and Lydia seem to be having an entire conversation simply by looking at each other. And Scott smirks as he looks down at their joined hands, and sighs, “Finally.”
inspired by this video (sfw, but a sex toy is being used as car repair, so take that as you will)
“Laura’s gonna flip,” Derek says in dismay, looking at the huge dent in the driver’s side door of the Camaro. Her most precious possession, the car she’d been saving up for forever, the car she waxes and washes every weekend, the car that she let Derek borrow to go to the Mathletes competition in San Francisco because Derek had a basketball game on Friday and couldn’t make the official school bus, the car that Laura made him swear his life on, is now forever ruined.
“Damn, if there ever was a good place to curse, that would have been it,” Stiles says, crossing his arms and looking far more attractive than he had the right to. “C’mon, Derek. Just say it. Fuck.”
Derek blushes, watching the word tumble out of Stiles’ pink mouth. “No, I… there’s gotta be a way to fix it. But if I call her insurance people she’s gonna know…”
“It’s totally my fault,” Stiles says. “I was the one who wanted to go to Tastee Freeze on the way back, and let some dingbat hit you in the parking lot. Actually, it’s their fault, whoever can’t drive.”
Derek shakes his head. It’s his fault. He’d been having too much fun this weekend; he’d spent practically all of it with Stiles. He’d had a crush on him forever— in fact, joined Mathletes at his request, and the whole year of practice, of spending afternoons with Stiles poring over math problems, watching Stiles lick Cheeto dust off his fingers— it’s been too much. Coupled with the fact that Stiles actually just plain forgot to catch the bus on Friday, and then caught a ride with Derek, meant hours in the car listening to him sing along to Hamilton and muddle through the rap bits, and sleeping next to him in the four-to-a-room motel Saturday night, and waking up with Stiles’ face smashed into his shoulder.
Derek had been too overwhelmed by it all, too overwhelmed by Stiles. Getting the chance to spend time with his friend this weekend had just intensified his feelings, and he knows there’s no chance that Stiles will ever feel the same, so he’s just drinking it all in, savoring these moments when he can.
It had been a terrible parking job, the Camaro was at a weird angle, that’s why the person rounding the turn had hit him. Derek sighs. He guesses it’s for the best. He’ll just have to pay Laura back. For forever.
Stiles is studying the door, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Actually, it’s not that bad. They didn’t even scratch it. It’s just a dent. With the right amount of leverage…”
“I’m sorry, do you happen to have a magical car-door fixer in your overnight bag?”
Somehow, this causes Stiles to turn bright red. “Okay. I have an idea. But you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Okay…?”
Derek watches, perplexed, as Stiles pulls his duffle bag out of the back seat, and then rummages around in it.
“Promise not to laugh,” Stiles repeats.
“I promise.” Derek is confused, but sincere.
Stiles pulls a bright blue dildo out of the bag. It’s springy, and jiggles a little with the movement. There’s a thick vein running along the side, and the base even has… balls.
Derek’s brain short circuits, an image of Stiles, naked, working himself on the girth of the toy, his mouth open, panting, as he tries to get the right angle, skin flushed pink from pleasure…
Summary: Stiles totally needs to make Lydia Martin jealous.
Yeah. And his best chance is to convince star lacrosse player Derek Hale to
(fake) date him.
Even though he was expecting the answer, it still hurts. He
guesses that somewhere, deep down, he was still holding on to hope. But it
hadn’t even been Lydia’s zero-hesitation no
that had really been painful. It was what she’d said next.
“You’re just not desirable at all. If you can’t get anybody
else in this school, what makes you think you can get me?” she’d said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “And I have a
boyfriend, anyway.”
Then she’d walked away, leaving Stiles staring after her,
feeling like he’d been stepped on. But little did she know: adversity just made
him more determined. He was going to prove her wrong.
You know what there’s not enough of? Canon compliant future fic where Stiles is a cop and he runs into Derek again. What’s that you say? There’s a ton of that?? Yes, true, but NOT ENOUGH.
“…. so then he says, ‘No, Officer, I swear to God this is the first time I’ve ever smoked up! I’ve never been in trouble with the law in my life! And I say, Billy, my man, you’ve been in trouble with me personally twice this month.” Stiles snorts at the memory. “Kid was so fucking high.”
Amanda must be halfway past tipsy, because she laughs uproariously into her beer at the mediocre punchline.
Stiles smiles. He’s satisfied with her reaction, with the warm murmur of the bar, with the buzz he’s got going… with just about everything, actually. After tonight, he’s looking at two full days off before he’s back on the beat, and the night’s still young. He leans back in his chair and takes a pull of his beer, savoring it.
Amanda glances towards the bar, probably considering a fourth round, and then visibly perks up as something near the front catches her eye.
“Oooh, Stiles,” she croons. “Look over at the door, like, just glance over.” She’s adjusted her gaze down at the table now, faking casual disinterest. Badly.
Stiles raises his eyebrows at her.
“This dude just walked in, he’s so your type,” she hisses. “C’mon, look! I’m telling you, six feet two inches of ‘yes, please, give it to me’ muscles, with some salt-and-pepper scruff icing. Unff.”
“Eh,” Stiles says, tipping his weight forward to hunch over the table. It’s not that he isn’t interested, exactly, but this is a cop bar and he doesn’t want to shit where he eats. Metaphorically.
“No, really,” Amanda insists. “He’s… oh my God, he’s looking over here. He’s looking at you. Oh my God, Stiles, he’s coming over here!”
“No, he isn’t,” Stiles scoffs. He’s filled out a bit from high school and he’s finally competent at styling his hair, but he’s not that hot. Only Amanda’s sitting straight like a rod, eyes fixed on a point behind him that’s about where a six foot two man’s eyes would be.
“Stiles?”
He turns then, shooting to his feet before his brain’s quite caught up, because that voice is familiar like the back of his own hand.
Stiles and Derek have been dating on the downlow for a few months. Stiles is eighteen and all, but the thing they have going is so low key that it didn’t seem worth announcing. They hang out, and sometimes they kiss, and sometimes they cuddle, and sometimes Derek sucks Stiles off until Stiles literally sees stars–but it’s not any kind of great romance, nothing like the relationships they’re surrounded by.
They’re even tentatively planning to keep an open relationship when Stiles goes off to college in the fall (which Stiles claims is ridiculous, since his school is only an hour and a half away, totally within booty call limits).
shealwaysreads 