#if i die miraculously and randomly im going to piss on all of you who try it from the clouds

[snekdood]

one of the reasons i didnt kill myself over all of that shit i went through is bc i didnt want any of yall disloyal ass hoes coming on to my da or some shit commenting some shit about "bwbwaa i i eyem sew soorry why dedent i listen to u snek omigod eyem so sorru u were so cool omigod why did i believe them-" while im dead, I need to be alive so I can tell you to go fuck yourself instead of have you soothe yourself with thoughts of "oh he would forgive me" or whatever tf.

[rizuno]

Write me a ficlet about Stiles finding random love poems/notes written on little scraps of paper stuffed in weird places, like between the seats in the Jeep, in the pockets of hoodie he swore he just washed so how could there be intact paper in there, in his shoes, under his pillow. Who is writing all these notes and how do they keep randomly appearing on Stiles person!?!?!

This is unbeta-d, and I am subjecting you dear reader(s?) to poetry written by me masquerading as English!Major Derek Hale. BASICALLY I’m SORRY ABOUT THE CRAP POETRY OK. also im really fuckin pissed off about the spacing of the poems but tumblr is adamant about pretending to not know what the fuck im trying to do when i try and reformat it i need to stop before i just delete this whole post in a fit of RAGE

For RachelBBY

Scraps

The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t think anything of it. He figures he just wrote it himself in English and then forgot. It’s just a neglected scrap of paper hiding amidst other papers under his desk, sacrificed on the altar of a weekly allowance with everything else he throws out as he cleans his room. He only really glanced at it anyway, he was preoccupied with being pissed off at Derek for being Derek, thinks it said something about heartbeats and irregular spaces. So that was the incident, he supposes.

The second time he’s got his hand stuffed in the crease of Roscoe’s passenger seat in a desperate search for just one fucking quarter, just one, and withdraws a crumpled piece of paper instead. “How long has that been there?” Stiles asks himself as he de-crumples it to read it. He snorts. Obviously quite a while, it’s a poem, and Stiles knows he didn’t write this one, which means it’s circa the Scott/Allison Era.

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

“Not half bad Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, not bothering to finish the rest of it as he tosses it aside and resumes the quest for one measly quarter cause he just wants a burger. Out of life, all he wants is to eat a burger right now. It’s not so much to ask? Right?

He bitches and moans to Scott about his inability to find a quarter and thus eat a burger, but forgets to ask him about the poem thing. The next time he sees Derek, Derek flips him a quarter with a smirk. “Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, but pockets the quarter and eats him that fucking burger later that night, after they have all managed, miraculously, to not die. “Victory comes in all forms,” Stiles informs Scott sagely in between mouthfuls. So that’s the coincidence, in all its glory.

The third time has Stiles paying the fuck attention, because he’s digging around his back pocket for the quarter Derek gave him, and just as he remembers he spent it already, his fingers close around what must be a receipt. Stiles heaves a grunt of disgust, no curly fries for him then, and glances at the scrap of paper uninterestedly, out of habit, as his arm moves to toss it into the trashcan across the hall. And then he freezes. It’s not some forgotten transaction, it’s a fucking poem. What the fuck. Stiles unfolds the paper and reads the words in their entirety this time, standing in the middle of the hallway as other students stream around him as they head to class. It’s not very long, but it feels like Stiles takes several hours to read it. He reads it like it was meant for him. It must be? Right?

I think

you don’t think of me

all that often

but I think of you

quite often

I’m thinking of you now

I think of you in the morning

I think of you in my bed

at night

I wonder

if you’re thinking of me now

Stiles swallows. His mouth has gone dry. He feels like he just walked in on someone watching some really hot porn. He feels…intimate. He feels…like he’s now late for science. Stiles whirls around in a flail of limbs and pelts to the science lab. But that scrap of paper he doesn’t toss aside. That scrap he keeps. So there’s the pattern.

Stiles was sorta expecting the next one but he wasn’t prepared to find it lying on his keyboard; not there when he went downstairs to grab a soda and now there when he returns.

He tells himself his fingers are shaking with caffeine intake as he reaches out to unfold it, where it lays so innocuously.

He licks his lips, then reads.

I know you’re thinking of me now

will you think of me tonight

in your bed

with your own hands upon yourself

gasping

flushed

and undone

“Ffffuck,” Stiles hisses out between his teeth. There is no way he’s gonna make it to tonight. He’s got a really great jerk off session going, standing there right in front of his desk at 3:30 in the afternoon, pants only pulled down the bare minimum. He’s like feeling it, he is totally ready for this, ‘makes his knees weak’ orgasm he’s coming up on. And then of course, Scotty has to burst in freaking out about supernatural crisis 3B or 6A or whatever number letter combo they’re on now.

“Come on, man!” They both yell at the same time, Scott throwing up his arms and facing the wall as Stiles fumbles to stuff himself back inside his pants. Scott feels the need to ask why. Stiles rants that it’s the privacy of his own fucking room. Scott mutters something about how Derek thinks they need info. “Since when do you listen to what Derek thinks,” Stiles says petulantly as he tosses Scott a bag of Doritos and moves to sit back at his desk. Scott eats the chips on Stiles’ bed as Stiles furiously looks up shit to the best of his ability. The moment is already forgotten. That sort of awkwardness has happened before, and will probably happen again. Which come on Scott, werewolf, use those supernatural senses for once.  After Scott is gone Stiles wonders what four times means. Also he mourns the loss of one of the greatest orgasms he never got to experience.

He finds the next one two nights later, under his pillow as he stretches out on his bed. He’s so relaxed and he’s in bed at a decent hour. Derek did not manage to piss him off when they came across each other briefly earlier in the evening and Stiles is ready for some nappy naps. When his fingers brush the edge of the crinkled bit of paper the first feeling he gets is surprise. It’s quickly followed by a quick dip of excitement in his gut. He doesn’t bother to switch any lights on. Too much effort. He reads it by the light of his phone.

I whisper your name to myself

after you’ve left

it’s fairly pathetic

but then last week

you trapped yourself inside your own hoodie

so at least I’m not alone

And Stiles knows. “Derek,” Stiles whispers furiously. He chucks the paper as hard as he can away from him. Which, it being paper, isn’t that far. It flutters down to rest on the bed beside him. That fucking asshole has been laughing at him this whole fucking time. So that’s what comes after a pattern. Epic fuckery.

Stiles sees Derek first thing the next morning; he’s having like, a pre-game huddle with the Erica-Isaac-Boyd triumvirate in the back parking lot behind the gym. “Stiles,” Derek greets him, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You are pathetic,” Stiles snarls at him. Derek’s jaw clenches and his expression turns cold and distant. Stiles whirls around and marches off in righteous fury. Stiles has enough fucking going on in his life without that kind of shit. Stiles thought, he’d thought…it doesn’t even matter what he thought. He was stupid and a dumbass for thinking it.

So naturally he finds the next poem sandwiched in between the pages of this month’s Great English Novel during 3rd period of that day. Stiles isn’t sure when or even how Derek got it in there, but it certainly wasn’t after this morning. He almost doesn’t read it, doesn’t want to give Derek the satisfaction, but he’s Stiles. He must fucking know. He can’t not.

I dreamed of you

it was warm

and bright

and we were safe

you took my hand

and my heart blazed brighter

when I woke

I pretended that it was the future

and if I am patient

that it will be

any day now

“What,” Stiles whispers. His own heart is sinking fast within his chest. His hand clenches down on the poem. “It was all real,” He realizes out loud.

“What?” Scott whispers from the seat behind him.

Stiles whips around in his seat to face him. “Cover for me,” Stiles begs.

Scott doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Go,” he says.

Stiles slips from the room, so preoccupied he doesn’t notice that he doesn’t trip or smack into something once.

Derek won’t be at his apartment. Instinctively, Stiles knows this. He jumps in Roscoe and heads straight for the preserve.

The burned out husk of the Hale house looks as tragic and decimating as ever, but that feeling is especially poignant for Stiles at this moment. He gives Roscoe’s wheel one last squeeze, for luck or bravery or whatever, and steps out of the jeep. He tries to repress a shiver as he looks at the charred and broken edifice before him and fails. This had seemed so much simpler, less complicated back in 3rd period. No, Stiles can do this, he absolutely can. He leaps up what’s left of the front steps and barges through the door. “Derek,” he calls.

A few moments of silence, and then a resigned sigh. “What?” Derek asks, voice flat as he materializes out of wherever he was.

Stiles waves the hand that has not once unclenched on the poem in Derek’s general direction.

“You’re serious?” He accuses.

Derek’s stone face takes on a look of frustration. “Yes, Stiles, I’m serious.”

“I…I mean…why?”

Derek sighs like it’s obvious. “I wrote you poems Stiles.”

Stiles seizes upon a detail he has the mental facilities to deal with at this moment. “Why poems though?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m an English Major, Stiles.” Which rude because, like,

“How was I supposed to know that,” Stiles says defensively.

They stand in silence. Derek doesn’t seem inclined to word anymore today and Stiles is furiously thinking.

“You wanna,” and his left hand, the one not still grasping the poem, makes an abortive movement towards Derek, “hold hands?”

After a moment, Derek uncrosses his arms and says, “Okay.” He reaches out, and then they’re holding hands, bridging a gap between them. It’s kind of…awkward. But it’s only awkward in that Stiles suspects feelings are present kind of way, because Derek’s thumb strokes gently along the back of his hand and Stiles feels kinda like, heart blazing or whatever.

“I think of you pretty often,” Stiles admits. “Like, a lot.”

Derek swallows. “Okay.”

BONUS:

First Poem

your heartbeats are

irregular spaces

I dwell there

and refuse to meet your eyes

when you glance my way

Second Poem

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

I have kept it

for myself; that laugh

longing

for your real

and intransigent

presence