It starts innocuously enough, Derek reaches under the bed to pull out an errant sock and along with that and the flurry of dust bunnies something pink emerges as well.
Huh, thinks Derek as he examines the bright object although it occurs to him that Lydia would probably call the colour Fuchsia. Shrugging, he tosses the panties along with the sock into the pile of laundry he's been collecting. Most likely they'd been left behind by one of his overnight companions when he'd been in his slutty phase.
10 years after he'd returned to Beacon Hills, Derek is almost indistinguishable from any other resident of the town if you didn't consider the taut body and artfully groomed facial hair. He has a house and a job, his own business in fact: Hale Auto Repairs. "Just like a real boy!" Stiles teases him on numerous occasions. Mundane domesticity now accounts for the larger proportion of his time, supernatural activities...not so much anymore.
It has taken a while to get to this point and Derek has tried out a number of lifestyle choices since his decision to settle in the town of his birth. There was the self-sufficiency phase where he'd spent the nights hunting in the forest and the days tending the vegetable plots and fruit trees he'd planted in his garden. That went along with an unkempt look which had earned him the nickname, 'Wild man of the woods' – no prizes for guessing who had christened him that!
He'd found that lifestyle a bit solitary ultimately and it had slowly morphed into hipster phase as he'd spent more time in the town itself getting to know his neighbours and taking a few classes at night school.
Derek still can't help a cold shiver of embarrassment any time he recalls the day Stiles found him in the organic coffee shop, glasses perched halfway down his nose, deep in a copy of Infinite Jest. Stiles laughed until he couldn't anymore. "Dude", he croaked out between long indrawn breathes, "You've really got to get a hold of yourself before you disappear up your own butt!"
Derek thinks the panties might have been left behind around then. Slutty phase is a neat shape right in the middle of the Venn diagram of hipster phase and real boy phase which is pretty much where he is now.
The dull drag of domesticity finds him taking the dry laundry upstairs to put away. There's a pack get together tonight and of course Derek's is the only house that's suitable as a venue being both large enough and free of sleeping children. Real boy likes to keep a clean house and not leave his smalls about the place for the pack to find.
He folds his t-shirts and sorts his socks into pairs and there, in amongst the relentless palette of blacks and greys of his wardrobe is a flash of colour. He pulls the panties from the pile and holds them in both hands, the waft of laundry detergent rising up to tickle his nose with jasmine.
They're so soft, silk, he thinks, with lace edging the waist and legs. He turns them over in his hands, running the fabric through his fingers, not that there's much fabric there. A thong, he decides. Jeez, he's been spending too much time with Lydia. He brings the panties up to his nose and sniffs the fresh washed aroma. They feel unexpectedly good against his face, the silk so thin it ripples like water on his skin. He covers his face with them, letting them drift down gently, their delicate material catching on the rough stubble of his beard.
He pulls them away, not wanting to catch a thread on this fragile new discovery. He wears cotton boxers or briefs depending on mood but he wonders what the panties would feel like if he wore them. He's never had anything so soft against his skin before. Although they're tiny they're obviously not made for a petite woman. Derek's tastes when he was in slutty phase tended towards the Amazonian. He's a large man, powerful and even though he always tries to be a gentle lover with women he likes someone who can match him – as much as he lets them.
Without thinking, acting purely on impulse he strips off his jeans and sheds his regulation black boxers. He shakes out the panties and steps through them. Slowly he drags them up his legs, pulling them gently over his calves. They whisper against him, like a ghost touch over his knees until the breadth of his thighs fills the panties and he can feel the smooth fabric drag over the dusting of hair on his skin.
Finally, he has them on, they're a little snug and the thong part is slightly uncomfortable but the slight breeze from the open window that drifts across his naked buttocks is unusual and he thinks he likes the contrast between seeming covered and yet being bare at the same time.
He looks down to the unexpected sight of bright pink on him. He likes the colour against the tone of his skin, the olive of his body making the pink pop. Christ, Lydia, get out of my head, he pleads to himself. His cock is contained in the gossamer garment but his balls, weighty and full hang without, there being no thong in the world that could contain them.
He catches a glimpse of himself from behind in the wardrobe door mirror and turns to consider his reflection fully. The innate masculinity that he is used to seeing in his muscular and hairy body doesn't exactly look wrong against the filmy pinkness of the panties, just different. He pretends he can't see his balls slung low underneath but he likes that the bulge of his cock is visible. He puts a hand down and strokes over it, the silky texture grazing gently against his most intimate body area is a sensation unfelt until now. He sucks in a sharp breath as it causes his stomach to sink and his cock to chub up a little.
He contemplates himself for a while, holding himself within the gentle caress of silk and lace. Turning around to check out his rear view, he admires the way the lace of the thong graces his butt crack as it swoops up to join the waistband. The sinking feeling returns and the hairs on his ass cheeks stand on end a little which really isn't helping as his brain processes this unexpected dichotomy between masculine and feminine.
They feel so good and they look good to him as well. He realises he wants to wear them; he wants to know what it would be like to carry out everyday tasks while they were beneath his normal clothing.
Laundry forgotten, Derek is existing in an unreality bubble consisting only of the possibility of the panties. He scrambles to pull his jeans back on, over his legs and up until they cover the brightness of the underwear. The whisper of the cotton against silk is like the telling of a secret and Derek luxuriates in knowing that the secret is his, only he knows what he is wearing and what it feels like.
He presses a hand to his groin again, just inside the unzipped fly of his jeans. He needs to press hard because the panties have made him feel very turned on, very horny and he has no idea where any of this has come from or indeed what he's going to do with it.
A cacophony of noise pierces Derek's bubble and he jerks suddenly as reality comes cascading back. He looks down to the flash of fuchsia at his groin and zips up his fly quickly as he realises that the pack have started arriving and he doesn't have the time to change back into his usual underwear. He pulls his shirt down, well over his waistband, he doesn't know if the panties will peek out above but he thinks the shirt is long enough - providing he doesn't bend over too far of course.
Derek takes a deep breath and tries to shake off the heady feeling that the panties have caused in him and goes downstairs to greet his guests.
