One down, one to go.
SWEEEET LOOK AT HOW PRETTY IT IS!
I dragged my butt to work for my Facebook program, it started a minute ago, and no one has shown up yet.
Also, hello from on a projector
It’s just your butt. Should go fast.
I dunno, baby’s got back.
I need to get my butt into the shower so I can get ready for the 3 hours of work I couldn’t reschedule this week when I booked my holidays.
And I dun wanna.
my kingdom for a fic where undercover cop Stiles Stilinski is trolling the local gay bars looking for a serial killer and either:
A) runs into Derek, who looks a lot like the vague description they’ve compiled, and is super into Stiles (he’s here because he’s the killer’s type: white, dark-haired, twinky, kind of pretty - Lydia MADE Stiles wear lip gloss, okay) and also has a habit of kind of… smelling him? its weird. at the time Stiles totally does not find it hot, but he does feel REALLY bad when the whole police force descends upon Derek outside the club when Derek leaves with Stiles, only to find out Derek’s been out of town visiting his sister in NYC for the past two weeks.
"Uhm," Stiles says. "I’m really sorry about that? As is Beacon Hills PD, obviously, all of us, but — me especially."
Derek stares at Stiles’s face for a moment, and the shrugs his way back into his leather jacket. ”Do you ever visit gay bars in your off time?”
Stiles blinks. “Not often.” And Derek’s face falls, infinitesimally, and Stiles quickly blunders on. “I work second shift a lot! I don’t - I’m unaware of gay brunch, I guess.”
"Margot’s on Third is pretty good," Derek says, and boom, date.
(the guy they catch, later, is not as handsome as Derek, who immediately gets affronted about the whole thing)
or B) Stiles takes up a spot at the bar and ends up getting hit on by Peter, who DEFINITELY gives off serial killer vibes, big time. In fact Peter is so off-putting that Stiles actually comes around to second-guessing himself, because what kind of idiot would go home with someone this creepy?
"Get lost, Peter," someone says behind him, someone built and scruffy, damn, if that isn’t Stiles’s type wrapped up in a threadbare undershirt. Peter raises an eyebrow and exchanges a few barbs with tall dark and handsome before actually scramming.
"Thanks for the save," Stiles says, half to Handsome and half to Lydia in his ear, wondering if he needs backup. "He was…"
"My uncle’s definitely skeevy," Handsome says.
"… regular skeevy or serial killer skeevy?"
"My name’s Stiles!"
And then eventually they bone, which only gets a little awkward when Derek finds the wire taped inside of Stiles’s plaid shirt.
rozf replied to your post “sheepnamedpig replied to your post: I HAVE BOOKED MY PLANE TICKET TO…”
I will not be at BiteCon, but I will be in the area. Care to leave the con and meet an XMFC fan?
Maybe! I didn’t leave myself a lot of leeway time, but I’m sure there have to be points that aren’t entirely about TW and can be about XMFC instead C:
OKAY SO THIS ALSO HAS SOME CONFIDENT DEREK IN IT BECAUSE YOU WANTED THAT TOO SO HERE IS A THING. A THING FOR YOU.
“You’ve got a little something on your face,” Derek says, from where he’s straddling the windowsill on the other side of the room. Stiles jumps in alarm, gives a shout of surprise and sprays the ground in front of him with Doritos, his once previously empty room suddenly much more occupied.
After Stiles gets past the initial shock he registers Derek’s sentence and his hand comes up to swipe self-consciously over the short stubble on his chin.
“I just haven’t shaved in—“
“What, like a month?” Derek asks, teasing. Stiles scowls at him, bends to scoop up the snack chips on the floor, deposits them in the trash beneath his desk and straightens. Derek is still watching him, but he’s swung both legs inside the window, like he’s been invited.
“Does anyone know you’re back yet?” Stiles asks, leaning against his desk chair and watching Derek uncertainly.
“Just you,” Derek replies, and he starts swinging his legs a little softly against Stiles’ wall.
“Wow, I feel honored,” Stiles says, uncertain what to say to someone whose been gone on a six month sabbatical to who knows where.
“You should,” Derek tells him, and he stands then, ducks into Stiles’ room. Stiles gives him a questioning sort of look and raises a brow. “I came back for you.”
Stiles opens his mouth, but he gapes soundlessly, eyes wide. He wishes he could detect the bullshit in it, or get the joke, but Derek is looking at him with an intensity that makes his skin feel hot all over, prickles beneath his armpits and makes something in his chest go fuzzy. He laughs uncomfortably, smiles too wide, barks too harshly, “yeah, okay!”
Derek just smirks at him then, steals a Dorito from the half empty bag Stiles still has clutched in his hand and leaves.