Anonymous said: Prompt: (I'm not sure if you know come dine with me the UK TV show?) stiles and Derek contestants competing against each other / couples come dine with me with established!sterek competing against other people? LOVE U XX
"You know," Stiles sits down on Derek’s bed gingerly, wiggles his eyebrows at the camera, "I’ve been picturing this room all week."
There’s a lot of dark green, and dark blue like Derek’s walls have to match his dark, tortured soul. But, by god, can that man cook.
"Oh jeez," he murmurs, "These sheets are nice. Silk! Of course," he points to the camera man, "We called that, right?"
The camera man snorts and rolls his eyes, “Answer the questions, Stiles.”
"So glad it took you till our last day together to quit calling me Mr Stilinski, Scotty.”
"It’s my job," Scott hisses, forgetting the camera for a moment and batting Stiles’ hands away from where he’s still feeling up the sheets. "I have to be professional."
aufic rec - the one where stiles and derek meet online
31/M/New York. Rich, lays in bed all day, likes to read (aka Derek Hale, son of an Oscar winning actress, brother of one obnoxious reality star and one rebellious fashion designer, hates the paparazzi so much he’s a recluse)
26/M/California. Boring office job, likes to read (aka Stiles Stilinski, co-owner of a 100 acre organic farm with his dad and two best friends, writer of obits for a newspaper, has absolutely no life)
Or, where Derek and Stiles meet online, and Stiles has no clue Derek’s part of a famous family.
Based on this post.
Stiles remembers distinctly the day someone finally moved into the condo next door to his.
Mainly because he’d just come out of a weekend long binge following the absolute worst breakup of his life and hadn’t showered for the better part of three days. He smelled like Cheetos, dressed in paint stained sweats and a moth-bitten t-shirt that was thin from overuse. His eyes were all bloodshot and so purple underneath that it probably looked like he’d had his nose broken. It wasn’t even from crying. It was from staring at his computer screen in the dark for twenty-four hours straight.
Also, the dude moving in was hot like burning.
When Stiles peeked out through the dusty, plastic blinds, the new guy was standing cross-armed, biceps rounding and flexing against the seam of his sleeves, as he talked to one of the movers. He scratched at his not-quite-beard in a way that was probably illegal in some states.
In a grand display of his own maturity, Stiles hid behind the couch for the remainder of the afternoon with only a bowl full of Trix cereal in his hands and his dog, Bear, trying to snuffle awkwardly into his lap.
Despite being a year old Great Dane whose size fully lived up to his name.
The next day, Stiles started calling his neighbor “Greenpeace” after seeing him haul groceries, all bagged up in bright blue, reusable totes, into the hidden confines of his new home. Stiles isn’t sure when being environmentally conscientious became so adorably attractive, but…here he is.
It’s been a month and Stiles has yet to introduce himself outside of a polite little wave on the rare occasion that the two of them are outside at the same time. Stiles always initiates. Greenpeace waves back, stiff but polite, and Stiles kind of figures that’s just his way. He seems sort of tight around the shoulders, stretched taut like elastic.
Honestly, he looks like he could use a good massage, and that is a thought Stiles avoids entertaining until he’s alone in his room with only his own hand and a lovely down-comforter to keep him warm.
The real victim here, though, is Bear. Poor Bear who is immediately love struck. Practically sick with it really.
Over Greenpeace’s cat.
The little Persian sits on the windowsill every morning when Stiles walks his dog. Its squished, angry face stares out impassively at the Dane’s wet eyes and lolling tongue. Whether or not Greenpeace is on the treadmill holds no bearing over how long Stiles lets Bear stare longingly through the pane of glass and green, iron rails.
Except, yeah it does.
He doesn’t…he doesn’t mean to to spy exactly. It’s just that he’s the son of the Sheriff, and he can’t help but observe a few things. Like that Greenpeace still hasn’t unpacked all his belongings, as though maybe he’s dragging his feet.
And then there’s what looks like a framed family photo on the side table by the couch. It appears out of the blue one day and is laying picture-side down the next.
And despite how he looks, Greenpeace isn’t exactly a Casanova, but Stiles does see a one-night-stand leave about a month after the move-in. The person who sneaked into a cab at three in the morning with ruffled hair and shirt buttons askew was definitely not a woman. So that’s on the table.
And there’s a stack of intellectual books that go from piled on the floor behind the couch to neatly arranged on selves against the wall in a matter of weeks. Not all of them are in English, that much Stiles is certain of.
Clearly, this is Stiles’ soul mate. He feels Bear’s pain, he really does.
"Dad," Stiles whines pitifully into his phone’s receiver. "You promised no more Chinese. Melissa said she’d make you meals and everything. Do you realize how much I had to bribe her for that?”
"As an officer of the law," his father responds loftily, "I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear the word ‘bribe’ being spoken."
"Don’t play that game with me, Pops. I know your tricks. Don’t think I can be so easily distracted."
At the end of his leash, Bear lets out a long, distraught whimper. It’s unusual given that they’re in their regular spot in front of Greenpeace’s window. At this point, his dog normally proceeds to sit in silent adoration as he stares into the Persian’s half-lidded, amber eyes.
Stiles’ dad continues talking in his ear, voice a low drawl as he retorts with what is, in all likelihood, a mortifying reminder of something his son did in his teenage years. Ironically though, Stiles is completely distracted by the object of Bear’s distress.
A neat little row of various leafy, potted plants is lined up against the base of the sill.
Right where the love of Bear’s life usually bathes in the sun.
After all that ‘I don’t like to be touched’ you are sure enjoying it a lot, don’t you Derek? ehehehehehe’ they probably argued for minutes! lol
but Stiles has magic hands!
Stiles would be the worst sex droid because he freaked out about Derek’s dick hardening. ahahahaha xD (I’m a terrible human being)
(Are you checking it Ember!? XD)
Once again, treating this as the third part to what I posted last night and the night before. Cofie’s going a completely different (and better) direction with the story, but I couldn’t resist. She’s hooked me.
And Ember, it looks like you and I are duking it out for the sexy part of this story :P
Anyway, Cofie and her beautiful art is entirely to blame for this.
"Stiles," Derek called frantically as he pulled the drain on the tub, his cock still annoyingly hard between his legs. "Come back!"
“No,” came the curt response from outside the bathroom, “Absolutely not. Not until you apologize." Derek cocked an eyebrow, standing up as the last of the water gurgled its way out of the tub. He reached for a towel.
"Apologi- Me? What the the hell do I have to apologize for?" He yelled, as he aggressively dried himself, mentally berating his stupid traitor dick for heinously giving him away. It was bad enough that he was slowly, surely beginning to accept Stiles into his otherwise solitary life, a life that he’d chosen by the way, but now, with the ridiculous android actually turning him on? And knowing it? Derek couldn’t handle that. That’s not even considering the fact that despite the abject humiliation of his awkward bathtub boner, Derek was kind of, in some small way, actually sort of okay with it.
Hunh. Well he didn’t see that coming.
“You know what are you’re apologizing for!" Stiles yelled back, indignantly, snapping Derek from his oddly-timed epiphany. "For kicking me out like that!" Derek groaned, wrapping the towel around his waist and tucking in the corner securely in the hopes that the constriction would force his cock back to a normal position.