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The first time Stiles notices is when he’s looking for his blue Without Me it’s just Aweso shirt, and he’s kind of frustrated, because Scott got it for his birthday, and Stiles thinks it’s the most accurate thing ever. Maybe it’s still somewhere amongst the pile of dirty clothes; it’s his dad’s turn to do the laundry and he didn’t have time to tend to it yet. Stiles grabs the first shirt that he can get his hands on; it falls loosely around his shoulders, and fits him as well as a tent. He doesn’t bother though, it’s comfy and that works just fine with him.
***
It’s Ms. McCall’s birthday, and it’s tradition that the Stilinski men are invited for lunch.
“Stiles!” his father yells up the stairs for what feels like the millionth time. They’re late. So late. Despite the knowledge about that, Stiles refuses to leave the house without his I support single moms tee. He’s worn it for her birthday for a couple of years now, never mind that it started out as an accident; he didn’t pay attention when he threw it on for the first time.
He can’t find it now, however. Stiles has looked virtually everywhere, and it’s nowhere to be found. Admittedly, he doesn’t particularly keep track of his clothes but it’s not like there are many places his shirts can go. There are three options: one, they’re in the laundry; two, they’re clean and therefore in his closet; and three, they’re worn but rated clean enough to wear again and strewn somewhere across the floor of his room. None of these apply to his beloved I support single moms shirt though.
Stiles wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the missing of his tees is somehow linked to an unknown supernatural force.
“Stiles, for the love of god, if you aren’t ready to leave in fifteen seconds I’m going to leave without you!”
Stiles mutters, “Stupid werewolves,” under his breath, because really, in case of doubt blame it on the werewolves, and doesn’t it always come down to them. (That’s utter bullshit, he’s aware, but he’s allowed to be grumpy.)
He slips into a random shirt, throws on a plaid and storms down the stairs, missing a step and almost faceplanting (un-)gracefully into the rug.
***
This is getting ridiculous. Seriously.
“Dude,” Scott says bewildered and takes a step sideways when Stiles moves past him to check the next corner of his best friend’s room. “Don’t you think I would’ve told you if you left your sweatpants here?”
Stiles takes a pointed look around the room before he pins Scott with it. “You probably don’t even know,” Stiles claims, throwing his hands up and continuing his search. “It’s not like you go looking for my sweatpants. How you keep track of your things here is a miracle but that is another topic entirely. Just help me find them.”
“How do you even know they’re here?” Scott asks. Half-heartedly, he lifts a pile of clothes off his desk chair and drops it again. If this is Scott’s understanding of ‘helping to find something’ Stiles will think twice about asking next time.
“Well, they’re not at my place—don’t look at me like that, I’ve looked everywhere. And I spent the night here the other day when I last remember wearing them, so. Only logical conclusion.”
Scott doesn’t seem particularly convinced but he doesn’t complain either. “How do they look like then?”
“Like sweatpants.”
“Who would’ve guessed,” Scott replies flatly. Stiles’ sarcasm starts to rub off on him, and he’s not sure whether it’s an improvement, or something worth worrying about. He can’t have Scott sassing him. That’s Stiles’ job.
“Can’t you just sniff them out?”
“Ew,” Scott answers, scrunching up his nose.
“Oh my god,” Stiles complains, flailing his arms around. “It’s just sweatpants, dude. It’s not like I stored them in a place full of rotten fish.”
They don’t find Stiles’ sweatpants. Scott assures him several times that he can’t smell any of Stiles’ clothes in his room—or anywhere else in the McCall house; and Scott looks shamelessly relieved when Stiles leaves, cursing under his breath.
***
“You have got to be shitting me.”
Seriously. Seriously.
Stiles ploughs through his clothes that are lying around on the floor, and distinctly ignores Erica’s shit-eating smirk. She sits on the chair by his desk, crosses her legs and watches obviously amused, how Stiles’ desperation grows with every second.
She fishes a black shirt from the floor and lets the hem of it dangle off the tip of her index finger. “That’s not yours,” she points out, clearly enjoying herself. Stiles shoots her a dirty look.
“You’re cheating with your freaky werewolf nose,” he grouches before diving to take a look under his bed. This time, he’s looking for his red shirt that has Keep Calm and Move Along printed across its front, with C3PO and R2D2 on top of the letters. It’s gone now too. Magically disappeared, although he could’ve sworn he’s seen it just yesterday. Sorcery.
“I don’t need a werewolf nose to see that this,” Erica shakes the shirt pointedly, “fills out at least twice the amount of muscle you have. And everyone knows you and Derek are boning, anyway.”
“We’re not boning,” Stiles scoffs, and gracefully adds, “We’re having responsible, adult, mind-blowing, dirty, creative sex.”
He pins her with a look. She flashes a dangerous grin at him.
“Tell me more,” Erica purrs encouragingly, and Stiles flings a small stack of post-its at her.
He goes down on his haunches and lets his eyes wander around his room again. Again, he can’t find his shirt anywhere. Someone’s been freeing the house elves with his stuff. Stiles considers consulting Deaton for some information on clothes-stealing supernatural creatures, because if this continues to be a thing, he’s going to be out of t-shirts rather sooner than later.
Erica chuckles, her red lips pursed, and appears to be enjoying this way too much. She throws Derek’s shirt at him but Stiles manages to catch it mid-air. It makes her grin even wider, cooing over his mad reflexes theatrically.
“Define ‘creative’,” she prompts. Stiles suggests that they could reenact it, and Erica whacks him around the head with staged disgust.
***
It’s ass o’clock and Stiles needs to pee. He stumbles around Derek’s room drowsily, throwing on the first shirt he can grab and his boxers; he’s not leaving this room naked, even if it’s some ungodly hour at which no one should be awake if not fighting shady supernatural creatures. He ran into Isaac once, in the middle of the night, naked, and Stiles has learned his lesson. Unsurprisingly, he still doesn’t know why Isaac has been up but neither of them is going to bring that night up again.
When Stiles falls back into bed, Derek slings an arm across his waist, effectively pinning him down to the mattress. Stiles is asleep before he can even think about shedding the shirt.
Stiles squints against the sunbeams that are directly hitting his face through the window. Yawning and stretching, he sits up on the bed. He’s alone in the bedroom, with the door slightly open, and the beats of Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now are coming from out of the living room. Stiles scratches the skin above the waistband of his boxers as he gets up and tries to find shirt he’s had on yesterday. Instead, he discovers his Without Me it’s just Aweso tee—which is casually hanging off the backrest of an armchair in Derek’s bedroom. Stiles gapes somewhat confused. He can’t remember leaving the shirt here. That doesn’t explain where the shirt from yesterday went, though. Stiles will just ask Derek.
Turns out he doesn’t have to, because Derek is wearing his shirt. It’s unfair that it looks so good on him, even though it’s at least one size too small and hugs him like a second skin, and the way the imprinted outline of a muffin and the word “stud” above are stretching across Derek’s chest shouldn’t look as good as it does. That doesn’t stop the laughter that is bubbling up inside of Stiles, and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs at Derek’s sleep-tousled hair, the toothbrush in his mouth and the fact that he’s wearing a too tight t-shirt that says, Studmuffin.
It isn’t until Stiles has reigned himself in that he gets flustered while Derek watches him intently, brushing his teeth completely unaffected by Stiles’ little outburst.
“Why are you wearing my shirt?”
“Why are you wearing my shirt?” Derek counters around the mouthful of toothpaste foam and toothbrush. It shouldn’t be so endearing.
“I put on the first thing I could get my hands on!” Stiles exclaims, gesturing uselessly with his hands. “It was in the middle of the night, I wasn’t picky about it.”
“Well,” Derek says and leans down to clean his mouth. “I did the same. Except you were wearing my shirt at the time, so I took yours.”
Naturally.
“You have a closet full of your own shirts,” Stiles points out.
Derek shrugs lazily, and says, “I like it.”
What.
“Huh,” Stiles manages, otherwise stunned into silence. It takes a few moments until it hits him, his eyes going wide and his mouth slack. He jabs his finger at Derek. “You are stealing my stuff.”
“I’m not stealing anything,” Derek answers defensively, however half-assed. He walks past Stiles, planting a soft kiss against his temple in the process. Stiles trails behind him.
“I’ve been wondering for weeks where all my stuff went,” he wails while Derek makes his way to the kitchen. He doesn’t seem bothered; he even has the audacity to not look guilty at all. “You took it!”
Derek turns to him, and there it is: his usual sour face. It looks embarrassed around the edges, though. “It’s not like you don’t take my things,” he says. “I’m missing at least four shirts.”
Stiles sputters for a second there. He hasn’t noticed taking Derek’s shirts. Well, there are a few in his drawers at home, yes, but…
Oh. He’s been taking Derek’s clothes.
“Plus, I didn’t steal your stuff. Either you left it here, or I had to put on something when I left your place, and maybe you haven’t noticed but you have the weirdest habit of putting on my clothes before I can myself.”
“Uh,” Stiles says intelligently. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Derek rolls his eyes. “What am I supposed to say? I’m not exactly annoyed or grossed out that you wear my things.”
“You’re not?”
Derek gives him his best are-you-serious eyebrows.
“So, uh, you’re wearing my stuff, because I’m wearing yours,” Stiles sums up, and feels incredibly dumb. “Despite the fact that most of it probably doesn’t even fit you.”
Derek shrugs again. “Smells like you,” he says easily, and Stiles ogles smitten how his shirt moves a little with Derek’s movements. “It’s nice.”
Derek moves until he has Stiles crowded up against the fridge and noses along his jaw, dropping his mouth to Stiles' neck and brushing his lips along the skin down to where the collar of his shirt is. Stiles feels warm and fuzzy when Derek quietly says, “Smells like you and me. That’s nice too.”
“You’re ridiculously corny,” Stiles informs him.
“Ridiculously corny is your secret guilty pleasure,” Derek replies simply.
“I don’t have guilty pleasures.”
“You wouldn’t mind then if I told the others?”
“I dare you,” Stiles says when Derek leans back to look at him. He smirks.
“What do I get if I do it?” he asks, brushing his knuckles tauntingly over the exposed skin of Stiles’ hipbone. Stiles glares at him but Derek’s smirk just gets wider.
“Sexile,” Stiles answers threateningly. Derek only chuckles at that.
“Like you would last a day,” he counters, deadpan. He takes his hands off Stiles and takes a step back so they’re not touching anymore. Stiles pouts and makes grabby hands at him, he doesn’t even care that he’s belying his own threat right now.
Grinning, Derek steps closer again, and Stiles slides his hands under his shirt, pushing it up.
“Shut up,” Stiles orders when Derek laughs against his lips. “Let’s get you out of my shirt before you wear it out.”
Derek snorts, and loses Stiles’ shirt, pulling at the hem of his tee. “Let’s get you out of my shirt before it shrinks.”