the one where Stiles is an actor and Derek is his bodyguard

The First Time

Almost before the bullet punches through the double-plated glass living room window, shattering it spectacularly, Derek has Stiles under him on the floor, shouting, "Everyone get down!"

Face-planted on the waxed wood paneling, Derek's arm tensed against his chest, Stiles says, "That was fucking loud." He peers up at the two hundred pounds of muscle and hypothetical two pounds of fat holding him down and tries not to panic. "That wasn't a prop gun, was it. Oh my god, someone's trying to kill me again."

Derek goes, if possible, even tenser around him. "It was one bullet," he tries.

Derek is terrible at reassurances.

"Jessica never tried to kill you," Lydia corrects from her crouch behind Stiles' giant leather couch. "She wanted you to be her boyfriend."

Lydia is also terrible at reassurances.

"With a gun," Stiles reminds her. "She wanted me to be her boyfriend with a gun. And a distinct lack of consent on my part."

If Derek were any tenser, he'd be a steel pillar. Which Stiles isn't entirely sure he isn't already. A huge, warm steel pillar. With really amazing arms. And a really amazing chest. And amazing hair. And an amazing, amazing smile. And laugh. And—

"Dude, I think I'm developing a new kink. A you-tackling-me kink. I'm pretty sure my dick thinks this is Round 3."

"Dude," Scott groans, peeking out from behind the giant, incredibly expensive, and hideous sculpture Patrick Adley gifted Stiles for his twenty-sixth birthday. "The sharing. Don't."

"You don't wanna hear the newest development in the long and complicated story that is my journey to sexual self-discovery? I'm pained, man. Pained."

"Fine. Have I told you about that time Allison and me tried—"

"Uncle!" Stiles shouts immediately. "Truce! She's like a sister to me, man, you know that."

"Is no one going to address," Allison speaks at last, "the bullet that shattered Stiles' window less than two minutes ago?"

Derek rises from Stiles, fingers still tight around his gray henley, and looks around warily. Stiles untangles from him and stands to survey the damage.

The window is shattered to shit. Glass shards pepper the floor below. Some have actually embedded in the wall. Not to mention—

"Holy god," Stiles mutters. The giant, hideous sculpture has always been giant and hideous, but it's never had a bullet embedded in it before. (Stiles assumes. Although, who knows? Maybe the whole thing is the result of a shootout at a junkyard.) "Ohhhkay. Okayyy. This is a very real bullet. That is a very real bullet, people."

He knows props. Blanks. He has police procedure down, thanks to six years of playing a troubled but gifted cop with a past. Hardison Dixon takes no shit, except for his name, which has inspired a wide variety of opportunities for media, fans, and critics to make the same four "Hard Dick" jokes until even they were tired of them.

Of course, Stiles' bisexuality—and current male/male relationship—has done nothing to help matters.

Derek's reaction has always been priceless. He knows how to play bodyguard, but boyfriend—or at least, boyfriend of "teen heartthrob" (gag) Stiles Stilinski—is a whole different bowl of minestrone. Nothing could have prepared him for the intense focus of Stiles' more... enthusiastic fans, not to mention the paparazzi. As a bodyguard, he'd been pretty much invisible to them, a buffer ruining their candids and rushing Stiles along before autographs and hugs could devolve into shameless groping and innuendo. As one-half of Hollywood's most popular pop culture couple, he was a rising star. Even his deer-in-headlights reaction to the lights and buzz and catcalls was more than the internet could handle, judging by the gifs and flailing hashtags.