headlong 85/?
Jan. 23rd, 2012 05:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
januarylightHe doesn’t remember most of it afterwards, hours and hours in bed blending together, flashes sticking with him: the ache in his legs as he wrapped them around Derek’s neck; Derek’s hands compensating for Stiles’ awkwardness as he rode him, crying out with it, crying out for it; long kisses that had Stiles pinning Derek down so he could get some action; every single time he came; and every time he made Derek come.
He remembers scrabbling for more at the end, too weak to get it, too weak to take it even if Derek would give it to him, remembers Derek painstakingly cleaning him off with his tongue, sweat and come both, and then making him get into the shower before going to sleep, like what’s the point of licking him clean if he’s going to have to shower anyway, and then he wakes up.
His phone is on the locker beside the bed. It’s late, and he curses as he hurls himself upright, going to the dresser—drawer, he has a drawer, he can’t believe it, he has two, he needs more space—and throwing stuff on, glad after all that he’s clean and ready to go.
Derek is on the phone when Stiles gets out, leaning on the counter, speaking to his cell two feet away. “—fine, Lydia,” he’s saying, sounding annoyed, “and you should have said something at the time if you were worried about her. Everyone is coming, and—“
Stiles doesn’t care about Lydia’s pangs of conscience, so he insinuates himself between Derek’s arms, leans up to snatch a kiss and then snatches his breakfast. It actually might be Derek’s breakfast this time, but that counts. Derek lets him, anyway.
Lydia has taken the opportunity provided by Stiles’ distraction. “—should tell him not to come,” she’s saying. “It was his inability to deal that caused the problems to start with, and that isn’t going to get better now that she’s dumped him. If he can’t get over himself and be a team player here, same as I did, shut up Stiles, I can hear you, then he should lose the right to be present until he does.”
Stiles chokes. “Hi, Lydia,” he says. “Looking forward to tonight?”
Derek frowns at him. “Stop trying to teach me my business,” he tells Lydia sharply, and overrides her when she tries to backtrack. “I’ll take care of it. Make sure she’s here.”
“Fine,” Lydia says, and Stiles stretches to reach the phone.
“Bye, Lydia,” he says, and disconnects. Derek lets him do that too, so he must be more annoyed with Lydia than he is with Stiles.
“Sorry,” Stiles says. “I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
Derek’s still scowling, but he shrugs. “Would’ve happened eventually,” he says, and opens his mouth to Stiles’ kiss.
Stiles hoists himself up on the counter, pulls Derek in between his legs, and it isn’t that late, they can probably both come before Stiles has to leave, or at least before it would make him too tardy, but Derek hauls Stiles off him when Stiles goes for his belt.
“No,” Derek says, amused, and stuffs the last of his waffle in Stiles’ mouth. “You had plans for today, right?”
“Did I, do I have to?”
“Yes,” Derek says. “You can wait.”
Stiles suspects that has ceased to be true, but he decides to give it a try and stops trying to climb Derek. “Fine,” he says sulkily and bites his tongue when he realises he sounds like Lydia. “Ow.”
Derek licks the blood from his mouth, keeps licking long after it’s gone, and Stiles feels virtuous when he pulls away first. “I’ll see you later,” he says, shooting for casual, only looking back at Derek once on his way out the door, standing where Stiles left him, picking the blueberries out of Stiles’ porridge before he eats it. Stiles regrets it once he’s out in the hall, regrets not eating the food Derek made him, not looking longer, leaving at all, but if he doesn’t keep going he’ll never get anywhere at all, so he rushes down the stairs and out into the warm air, the blue skies, and tries not to wish the day away.
*
He remembers scrabbling for more at the end, too weak to get it, too weak to take it even if Derek would give it to him, remembers Derek painstakingly cleaning him off with his tongue, sweat and come both, and then making him get into the shower before going to sleep, like what’s the point of licking him clean if he’s going to have to shower anyway, and then he wakes up.
His phone is on the locker beside the bed. It’s late, and he curses as he hurls himself upright, going to the dresser—drawer, he has a drawer, he can’t believe it, he has two, he needs more space—and throwing stuff on, glad after all that he’s clean and ready to go.
Derek is on the phone when Stiles gets out, leaning on the counter, speaking to his cell two feet away. “—fine, Lydia,” he’s saying, sounding annoyed, “and you should have said something at the time if you were worried about her. Everyone is coming, and—“
Stiles doesn’t care about Lydia’s pangs of conscience, so he insinuates himself between Derek’s arms, leans up to snatch a kiss and then snatches his breakfast. It actually might be Derek’s breakfast this time, but that counts. Derek lets him, anyway.
Lydia has taken the opportunity provided by Stiles’ distraction. “—should tell him not to come,” she’s saying. “It was his inability to deal that caused the problems to start with, and that isn’t going to get better now that she’s dumped him. If he can’t get over himself and be a team player here, same as I did, shut up Stiles, I can hear you, then he should lose the right to be present until he does.”
Stiles chokes. “Hi, Lydia,” he says. “Looking forward to tonight?”
Derek frowns at him. “Stop trying to teach me my business,” he tells Lydia sharply, and overrides her when she tries to backtrack. “I’ll take care of it. Make sure she’s here.”
“Fine,” Lydia says, and Stiles stretches to reach the phone.
“Bye, Lydia,” he says, and disconnects. Derek lets him do that too, so he must be more annoyed with Lydia than he is with Stiles.
“Sorry,” Stiles says. “I didn’t mean to make trouble.”
Derek’s still scowling, but he shrugs. “Would’ve happened eventually,” he says, and opens his mouth to Stiles’ kiss.
Stiles hoists himself up on the counter, pulls Derek in between his legs, and it isn’t that late, they can probably both come before Stiles has to leave, or at least before it would make him too tardy, but Derek hauls Stiles off him when Stiles goes for his belt.
“No,” Derek says, amused, and stuffs the last of his waffle in Stiles’ mouth. “You had plans for today, right?”
“Did I, do I have to?”
“Yes,” Derek says. “You can wait.”
Stiles suspects that has ceased to be true, but he decides to give it a try and stops trying to climb Derek. “Fine,” he says sulkily and bites his tongue when he realises he sounds like Lydia. “Ow.”
Derek licks the blood from his mouth, keeps licking long after it’s gone, and Stiles feels virtuous when he pulls away first. “I’ll see you later,” he says, shooting for casual, only looking back at Derek once on his way out the door, standing where Stiles left him, picking the blueberries out of Stiles’ porridge before he eats it. Stiles regrets it once he’s out in the hall, regrets not eating the food Derek made him, not looking longer, leaving at all, but if he doesn’t keep going he’ll never get anywhere at all, so he rushes down the stairs and out into the warm air, the blue skies, and tries not to wish the day away.
*
