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januarylight) wrote2012-01-02 11:02 pm
januarylight) wrote2012-01-02 11:02 pm
Entry tags:
headlong 70/?
It stays perfect for a little while, minutes and minutes of kissing that seem to stretch to hours, held close together, Derek’s balance the only thing keeping them from crashing to the ground, one foot against the floor, one against the half-open cutlery drawer, tall stool barely under him as Stiles scrambles for more skin, more access, more.
Lydia’s bitten-off screech startles Stiles into biting Derek’s tongue, sends Derek surging beneath him. Stiles rides it out, raising his head to acknowledge Lydia groggily. Derek takes longer.
“Lydia,” he says, and Stiles feels the rumble of Derek’s chest under his palms. “What can we do for you?”
“Why does everyone have a key?” Stiles asks, annoyed. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Lydia grits out. There’s a tic in her jaw that has Stiles worried. “So you’re doing this?” she says to Derek.
“Yes.” His fingers tighten on Stiles’ thighs.
Lydia jerks her chin up, eyes pinched. “Good luck.” She smiles at Stiles, serene and lovely if that’s all he lets himself see, and walks back out the door.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, baffled. Derek sighs, and deposits Stiles on the floor.
“Yeah,” he says, wandering over to his bedroom. Stiles follows, hovering in the doorway, watching as Derek loosens the drawstring on his pants, drops them to the floor before he goes searching through his underwear drawer. Stiles isn’t creepy, though; Derek’s the only one who’s creepy here. It’s okay that Stiles knows which drawer is Derek’s underwear drawer, because Derek is his— His. Derek is his.
Stiles tries not to think as Derek pulls on a clean pair of boxer-briefs, as Stiles doesn’t let himself look, moves into the room cautiously, grabs his courage with both hands and moves into Derek’s space, moves until Derek is just warmth against his chest. “Hey,” he says.
Derek turns around against him and Stiles pushes up on his toes, pulling Derek down to meet him in a kiss. His heart is skittering, panic almost too much, but he keeps kissing, eyes squeezed shut. His hand is on Derek’s shoulder, and he moves it down deliberately, petting Derek’s skin hopefully, because he can.
He reaches around Derek’s waist, tracing his spine down to the waistband of his underwear, past it, determined. A shiver works through Derek; he shakes under Stiles’ touch. They’re hard against each other and Stiles can feel Derek getting harder, growing. It’s swimmingly good, and it takes Stiles too long to resurface when Derek pulls back, laughing into his mouth.
Stiles feels stung, but Derek’s mouth is wide and smiling, and his eyes are crinkled, gleaming down at Stiles. He can’t hold on to the doubt.
“We have to go,” Derek says, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, turning them around and pressing him against the open drawer. It slides shut with the force.
Derek kisses him again, lingering and soft. “I thought we had to rush?” Stiles doesn’t realise he’s smiling until Derek draws a finger down the apple of his cheek.
“Those are mine,” Derek says, plucking at the elastic of his boxers, letting it snap back against Stiles’ stomach.
“Yeah,” Stiles says shyly. “Sorry.”
“I think you should wear them.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t know why he’s shocked by that, after everything else they’ve done. “You wore them yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Derek’s watching him, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “I’ll, uh—I’ll put them back on after my shower?”
“You don’t need to shower,” Derek says, dipping his nose to Stiles’ shoulder, breathing in. His eyes are black when he lifts them to Stiles’.
“No,” Stiles says firmly, even though he doesn’t feel it. “I am in serious need of a shower, I’m really— And, uh— Lydia could smell that, huh? She could smell you?” Derek doesn’t answer, just breathes him in again, but— “You like it.” Of course he does. Stiles can’t help the giddiness that moves his hands without his permission, back onto Derek, down onto his ass, yanking him back in. He’s allowed. He can do this whenever he wants; he doesn’t even need a reason. Derek will let him do this. Derek wants him to.
Derek steps back, laughing teasingly. “Shower, then,” he says. “If you think you have time.”
Stiles scrambles, because he really, really doesn’t have the time. Derek’s laughter follows him into the bathroom, echoes in the silence in his mind. He has to force himself to turn the water on, not to spend his time on something more satisfying. He has to take care of himself. He has to go to class today, he can’t just— He wants to, though, wants to go back out there and ride Derek down onto the destroyed bed, pin him and keep him, touch him and touch him and find his way through this thing until he’s comfortable again, until he won’t have to worry about any of this. Derek would let him.
He steps into the shower instead. He soaps up, gets the suds everywhere, repeats, like the shampoo bottles say. He doesn’t feel clean even after the second rinse, still slick and sticky inside, lube and come beyond his reach. It’s his imagination, probably, but he feels it in his gut, another instinct telling him to go back out to Derek feeling like this, use it the way they should. He wonders if Derek could fuck him again now, just like this, without even needing to use his fingers first.
He dries himself roughly, drags Derek’s boxers up over his sticky skin, and walks quickly to his own bedroom. He’s leaving for class, he’s going. Derek trails into his room after him, touches him while he’s dressing, not with any purpose or direction, just a reminder, reassurance maybe. Stiles hadn’t thought Derek would need that.
Derek follows him to the door, hands him his bag, kisses him almost chastely and shoves him through it.
Stiles goes to class.
Lydia’s bitten-off screech startles Stiles into biting Derek’s tongue, sends Derek surging beneath him. Stiles rides it out, raising his head to acknowledge Lydia groggily. Derek takes longer.
“Lydia,” he says, and Stiles feels the rumble of Derek’s chest under his palms. “What can we do for you?”
“Why does everyone have a key?” Stiles asks, annoyed. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Lydia grits out. There’s a tic in her jaw that has Stiles worried. “So you’re doing this?” she says to Derek.
“Yes.” His fingers tighten on Stiles’ thighs.
Lydia jerks her chin up, eyes pinched. “Good luck.” She smiles at Stiles, serene and lovely if that’s all he lets himself see, and walks back out the door.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, baffled. Derek sighs, and deposits Stiles on the floor.
“Yeah,” he says, wandering over to his bedroom. Stiles follows, hovering in the doorway, watching as Derek loosens the drawstring on his pants, drops them to the floor before he goes searching through his underwear drawer. Stiles isn’t creepy, though; Derek’s the only one who’s creepy here. It’s okay that Stiles knows which drawer is Derek’s underwear drawer, because Derek is his— His. Derek is his.
Stiles tries not to think as Derek pulls on a clean pair of boxer-briefs, as Stiles doesn’t let himself look, moves into the room cautiously, grabs his courage with both hands and moves into Derek’s space, moves until Derek is just warmth against his chest. “Hey,” he says.
Derek turns around against him and Stiles pushes up on his toes, pulling Derek down to meet him in a kiss. His heart is skittering, panic almost too much, but he keeps kissing, eyes squeezed shut. His hand is on Derek’s shoulder, and he moves it down deliberately, petting Derek’s skin hopefully, because he can.
He reaches around Derek’s waist, tracing his spine down to the waistband of his underwear, past it, determined. A shiver works through Derek; he shakes under Stiles’ touch. They’re hard against each other and Stiles can feel Derek getting harder, growing. It’s swimmingly good, and it takes Stiles too long to resurface when Derek pulls back, laughing into his mouth.
Stiles feels stung, but Derek’s mouth is wide and smiling, and his eyes are crinkled, gleaming down at Stiles. He can’t hold on to the doubt.
“We have to go,” Derek says, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, turning them around and pressing him against the open drawer. It slides shut with the force.
Derek kisses him again, lingering and soft. “I thought we had to rush?” Stiles doesn’t realise he’s smiling until Derek draws a finger down the apple of his cheek.
“Those are mine,” Derek says, plucking at the elastic of his boxers, letting it snap back against Stiles’ stomach.
“Yeah,” Stiles says shyly. “Sorry.”
“I think you should wear them.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t know why he’s shocked by that, after everything else they’ve done. “You wore them yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Derek’s watching him, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “I’ll, uh—I’ll put them back on after my shower?”
“You don’t need to shower,” Derek says, dipping his nose to Stiles’ shoulder, breathing in. His eyes are black when he lifts them to Stiles’.
“No,” Stiles says firmly, even though he doesn’t feel it. “I am in serious need of a shower, I’m really— And, uh— Lydia could smell that, huh? She could smell you?” Derek doesn’t answer, just breathes him in again, but— “You like it.” Of course he does. Stiles can’t help the giddiness that moves his hands without his permission, back onto Derek, down onto his ass, yanking him back in. He’s allowed. He can do this whenever he wants; he doesn’t even need a reason. Derek will let him do this. Derek wants him to.
Derek steps back, laughing teasingly. “Shower, then,” he says. “If you think you have time.”
Stiles scrambles, because he really, really doesn’t have the time. Derek’s laughter follows him into the bathroom, echoes in the silence in his mind. He has to force himself to turn the water on, not to spend his time on something more satisfying. He has to take care of himself. He has to go to class today, he can’t just— He wants to, though, wants to go back out there and ride Derek down onto the destroyed bed, pin him and keep him, touch him and touch him and find his way through this thing until he’s comfortable again, until he won’t have to worry about any of this. Derek would let him.
He steps into the shower instead. He soaps up, gets the suds everywhere, repeats, like the shampoo bottles say. He doesn’t feel clean even after the second rinse, still slick and sticky inside, lube and come beyond his reach. It’s his imagination, probably, but he feels it in his gut, another instinct telling him to go back out to Derek feeling like this, use it the way they should. He wonders if Derek could fuck him again now, just like this, without even needing to use his fingers first.
He dries himself roughly, drags Derek’s boxers up over his sticky skin, and walks quickly to his own bedroom. He’s leaving for class, he’s going. Derek trails into his room after him, touches him while he’s dressing, not with any purpose or direction, just a reminder, reassurance maybe. Stiles hadn’t thought Derek would need that.
Derek follows him to the door, hands him his bag, kisses him almost chastely and shoves him through it.
Stiles goes to class.
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