januarylight: (out together)
[personal profile] januarylight
The arm thrown over him tightens when he squirms around, and that’s a sign, right? That has to be a sign.

“Hey!” Stiles pokes at Derek until his eyes flicker open, hazy and distant in the seconds before he wakes properly.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“That’s me,” Stiles says, trying not to look Derek up and down too obviously, but come on, the guy is gorgeous and half-naked, and if he didn’t want Stiles checking him out he would remove his arm, right?

Maybe he hasn’t noticed, maybe he’s just embarrassed, Stiles thinks, but then he catches the quick flick of Derek’s eyes down to his own bare chest and lets himself relax.

Sleep-rumpled is a good look for Derek, creases on his cheek from the pillow, hair tousled in a way that doesn’t look as if it took the better part of an hour and the entire contents of Lydia’s bathroom cabinet to achieve. It looks better this way.

Stiles reaches out to tug on a strand of hair, and Derek makes a small, surprised noise in his throat.

“So,” Stiles says. That’s his entire sentence, all he’s got, because although he’s never actually been in this situation before, he’s pretty sure there’s no good way to ask, So, what happened last night?

“Yeah,” Derek replies.

“Right,” Stiles says knowingly.

“So,” Derek says, and it sounds like it’s the start of something more, but Stiles has other things on his mind.

He grabs Derek’s chin and leans forward to kiss him.

It’s different with the sunshine spilling across the bed like this. Stubble scratches at his cheeks, and there’s enough of it that Derek must have had it last night, must have come to Jackson’s party without even shaving, probably in jeans and a tshirt like always. He thinks he remembers that, Derek glaring down at him when Stiles tried to force a brightly-coloured hat onto his head in retribution for wearing his usual black uniform to a St. Patrick’s day party.

Arrogant doucheface, Stiles thinks, and he tells himself it isn’t affectionate.

Derek makes that sound again, and rolls onto Stiles, heavy over him in the bed.

Stiles is naked, but Derek is still wearing his boxers. It’s easier when Derek is taking charge, because Stiles doesn’t have to worry about the kissing, about getting that done right; he can let his hands slide down Derek’s warm, broad back to those annoying, useless boxer-briefs, slide his fingers beneath the elastic without much idea what to do there, aside from get them off, get them gone.

Derek stops kissing him when he pulls at them, though, draws back to look at him and says, “I’m hungry.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “I’m hungry too. We should do this first.”

“We need to eat,” Derek says, and somehow Stiles finds himself picking his discarded clothing up off the floor and trailing Derek down to the kitchen in last night’s clothes.

“I’m not doing any kind of walk,” Stiles decides out loud. Derek looks blank. “You’re driving me home,” Stiles tells him. “And walking me to the door.”

“Oh,” Derek says, surprised again. He smiles. “Marmalade?”

Most of the food Derek owns is gone by the time he drops Stiles home. Stiles wants to stick around, but Derek is kind of insistent about him needing to call Scott this morning.

Derek walks him to the door, but only after Stiles walks around to his side of the car and wrestles him out, because they talked about this, and Stiles is not willing to be embarrassed so Derek can look cool. It’s already embarrassing enough that he’s pretty sure half his street is witnessing this.

When they get to the door, Stiles pulls him down for a goodbye kiss, and that feels familiar, but then Stiles hops up on the step for a better angle and forgets about it.

His dad opens the door just as Derek is pushing his hand underneath Stiles’ jacket.

“Nothing!” Derek blurts out.

“So I see,” Stiles’ dad says, with a pointed looks at Derek’s concealed hand, his wet, red mouth, and Stiles would be distracted by all that if this weren’t quite so embarrassing. Humiliating, even.

“Dammit!” Stiles says, detaching Derek from his person. “Not the plan!”

“I’m not thrilled either, kiddo,” his dad says, hauling him inside the door.

“Goodbye,” Derek says robotically. “Just bringing home to go for goodbye.”

“Your chip is broken,” Stiles says, and decides to go for broke, because there’s no way this can get any worse. “Don’t do anything with that, I’ll swing by later and fix you right up.”

“Come later,” Derek says, and Stiles is torn between laughing and diving behind the coat-tree for protection from the imminent nuclear fallout, yet still somehow genuinely curious to know what mess of horribleness is going to come out next, but his dad makes a face at Derek that Stiles is not willing to acknowledge, and shuts the door in his flushed face.

Which is probably for the best.

September 2012


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