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Stiles Stilinski is an absolute menace.
Derek had had his doubts when Cora first suggested their family play host to a foreign exchange student from Poland, but it wasn’t until the kid arrived that Derek really began to resent the entire program.
Sure, Stiles Stilinski cleans up after himself – never not a perfect gentleman around the house – and gets straight A’s while still somehow managing to make friends insanely fast. But he's also cocky and sarcastic; quick witted in a way that can tangle Derek into a neat, flustered little bow with only a few choice quips.
The worst part is that English isn’t even Stiles’ native tongue, and he still manages to be better with it than Derek. Bested at his own damn language.
(Laura says this is because Derek is originally from Mars: “Making your native language Martian, duh.”)
Which brings Derek to his next issue: Stiles and Laura get along swimmingly. It’s ridiculous – Laura doesn’t even live here. She’s been off living the life of a dutiful college student and only ended up meeting Stiles when she returned home on summer holiday a week ago. The way the two act together, you'd think they grew up together. Derek just knows she’s slipping Stiles some kind of insider information only a sibling would know, namely how to get under Derek’s skin. Stiles is always smirking at Derek like he knows something he doesn’t, or finding new ways to make Derek blush and then commenting on the rosy tips of his ears.
The fact that Stiles is incredibly attractive only makes it all the more insufferable. He carries this air about him like nothing can touch him, but everyone should want to. And Derek doesn’t, okay, he wants to make that point clear. Even if Cora teases him about too long and too intense stares across the room where Stiles happens to be.
Derek is just trying to figure him out.
That’s it.
“Riiiiiight,” Cora drawls from where her head is submerged inside the fridge, “of course it is.”
“Of course what is?” Stiles has picked himself up from the couch in the living room and is halfway to the counter where Derek’s math homework is sprawled out. He leans his forearms on the surface above Derek’s notebook and smirks. His hair looks loose and soft. He hasn’t bothered with gel on account of it being Saturday. No school, no fuss.
“Nothing is,” says Derek pointedly, glaring at Cora as she kicks the fridge closed and comes over to drop an armful of sandwich makings all over his Algebra work. He picks up his textbook from beneath it all before it can get splattered by mayo.
“Oh,” Cora starts casually, undoing said mayo cap with a quick twist of her wrist. (Case in point.) “Just how oblivious Derek is when it comes to love.”
Stiles’ smile ticks up, like lips often do when they’re part of the joke. Whatever the fuck the joke is, anyway. Derek never knows with Stiles.
“I mean, he sort of has to be oblivious with those eyes,” Stiles says in a mischievous way. “Otherwise he'd be a borderline narcissist.”
Derek huffs and turns back to his work. Which isn’t that much of a turn. Stiles has planted himself in front of his notebook, after all.
God dammit.
“Don’t you have a chemistry test to study for?” Out of his peripheral vision, Stiles shrugs.
“Harris is a dick. Also? It’s the weekend, I thought I might live a little instead.”
“And, does living a little include bugging me while I work?” Derek lifts his gaze without raising his head, brows arched.
“Always,” Stiles smirks, the lilt of his accent rolling the word low.
Derek’s gaze flickers down – and then quickly refocuses on Stiles’ eyes. “I think something got lost in your translation of what ‘living a little’ means.”
Stiles tilts his head, “How about you show me what it means, then?”
Cora groans loudly from beside them, startling Derek since he’d actually managed to forget she was there.
“Ugh, stop,” she says, voice distorted by food. “Do you two have to do that while I’m eating?"
Stiles snickers and Derek shakes himself. He always does that when he argues with Stiles, falls into this weird push and pull that he can’t get out of. He glances back at the clock hanging over the fridge.
“Shit, I have to go.”
“Go?” Stiles asks, suddenly at full attention.
Derek regards him as he packs up his things. “As in, to move from one place to another. Is the translator in your brain broken today or…?" Making a shrug motion, he backs away towards the back door. Stiles reaches two fingers into the open pickle jar and flings one at him; Derek bats it away with his binder and it thwacks against the kitchen tile.
Cora makes a noise of exasperation.
“I’m meeting Erica,” Derek explains, fighting a grin.
“They’re having one of their lame sundae dates.” Cora couldn’t sound more bored if she tried. Derek roll his eyes and looks back at Stiles, catching something quick and flighty flickering in his expression before it's gone again and his winning smile returns.
“Oh,” he says, voice weirdly cheerful, “Have fun!”
“You too," Derek says, gesturing expansively, "With the whole, living a little thing,” and steps out into the heat.
–○-
“I think you’re overreacting.” Erica slowly draws her spoon out of her ice cream, plopping the whole thing in her mouth and declaring around the plastic, “Stiles seems cool."
Derek sinks lower in his seat, muttering, “He’s annoying.”
“I don’t know about you, but when I find people ‘annoying’, I don’t rave about them on hot fudge sundae dates with my friends.” She picks up her cherry and plops it in her mouth, emphasizing said sundae date they just so happen to be on. Derek narrows his eyes at her. It doesn’t have any more of an effect now than it did when they were kids, but he does it nonetheless.
“I’m not raving.” He says the last word like it tastes bad on his tongue, nose scrunching as he ducks his head to poke at his own sundae.
In front of him, Erica sighs. The table top leans as she props her forearms on the surface. “Look, Stiles is clearly a shameless flirt; you need to either get over it, or get with the program.”
Derek petulantly folds his arms over his chest. “I’m the only person he treats that way.”
“Ok, let me rephrase that,” Erica sits up straight, “He’s a shameless flirt for you.”
Like all the other times Derek has broached the subject with Erica – not to rave, just to vent, thank you very much – she is absolutely no help.
Gesturing to her sundae bowl, he grumbles, “Done yet? The movie starts soon.”
Erica rolls her eyes. “Unclench your ass cheeks, will ya?” She takes another slow bite. “Andrew Garfield will still be there if we’re a few minutes late.”
–○-
Hours later, Derek arrives home to find a party in full swing.
He parks – watching the crowds of people mill about, thumping music and technicolored spotlights raving in the backyard – and doesn't know why he expected anything less. Not only are their parents out of town for another day, but Laura has, every year without fail, managed to throw a rager behind their backs when she’s home from college. Most people in this town look forward to it, at this point.
Grumbling out a few half-formed curses, Derek kills the engine of the Camaro – which his parents let him borrow when they leave town, because he behaves, unlike some of his siblings – and steps out to go track down the source of all the ruckus.
He finds Laura in the middle of a drinking circle, sprawled out on top of the jacuzzi. A fiery redhead is licking away the salt on her stomach and Cora, standing off to the side, looks two seconds away from a crime of passion. It’s not hard to guess the girl now giggling with Laura is who Cora has been crushing on for the last three years of her high school career.
“Laura,” Derek calls over the thumping of the music.
Laura swings towards her name, smile blinding when she spots him. “Derek!” She hops down from the Jacuzzi and slings an arm around his shoulders. “You’re just in time for body shots!” The surrounding people erupt into a chorus of cheers, but Derek just shakes his head. “C’moonnn,” she coaxes, poking his sides, but the irresistible persuasion she usually has is lost in her drunken state.
He stands his ground.
She walks two fingers up his arm and sing songs, “We’ll get Stiles.”
Derek’s heart turns sharply in his chest - the sudden image of Stiles’ long, creamy white torso laid out beneath him, pliant and willing – he jerks himself back from the fantasy. Damn her.
“Laura.”
“Whaaat?” she asks innocently.
“We’re supposed to be looking after him, not getting him wasted at a party.” For a moment, she has the clarity to look a little guilty. Derek sighs. “Where is he?”
“Haven’t seen him in hours,” Cora offers. The redhead is leaning heavily against her; probably the reason Cora, beer-pong-extraordinaire, looks stone cold sober. “Not since he got a couple drinks in him and started mooning about unrequited love or some shit.”
“Poor little guy,” Redhead murmurs, half conscious.
Cora looks down at her with a soft expression on her face. “I’m gonna take her home.” Her and Derek’s eyes meet, and he nods. He can handle this.
After Cora has lead Redhead back around to the front of the house, Derek returns his attention to Laura, who is starting to look a little dazed herself. He lets her lean on him and looks out over the crowd, searching for Stiles. But it’s too dark. He can’t make any faces out. Sighing, he pats Laura on the shoulder and leads her into the house.
Luckily, she had some sense to lock the place up. The walk from the back door and down the hall to her old room is free of horny party goers and red Solo cups.
The backyard, though, is a whole other matter.
He deposits Laura on top of her covers. She smacks her lips and grabs for his face, patting it twice and saying, “You’re my favorite brother.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Derek intones, trying to extract himself from her hold. Instead, it tightens. She pushes her elbows underneath her and nearly head butts Derek in her haste to sit up.
“God, Laura – “
“Stiles s’a good dude,” she says, looking serious but sounding ridiculous with her drunken slur.
“Okay,” Derek drawls, feeling weirdly pressed with the mention of Stiles.
“Good,” Laura nods to herself. Seemingly convinced, she lays back down and closes her eyes.
Derek covers her with her blankets and stands. She mumbles something else as he exits the room, but it’s too distorted by her pillow to make it out.
–○-
Even after Derek manages to wind the party down and send everyone home, there’s still no sign of Stiles.
He’s checked all the places he could be: his room, by the bookshelf in Derek’s mom’s study, on the window seat tucked behind the table in the kitchen, behind the shed, hell – Derek even checked the roof. He has half a mind to call the police. Cora says Stiles was drinking; what if he stumbled out of the party and into the woods? Derek may have grown up in them, but a lot of people – usually at Laura’s ragers – get lost if they wander.
The thought has him up the stairs and through his bedroom door, flipping the switch to look for his flashlight –
“Jesus fu –” Derek jumps back, nearly braining himself on the doorway when he sees something move underneath the covers on his bed. That something groans, and a moment later Stiles’ head is peeking out.
When he sees Derek, he flashes a bright smile. “You! You’re home!”
Derek blinks.
Then again, but Stiles doesn’t disappear, instead becoming more awake from the nap he’d been taking in Derek’s bed.
"Why are you in my room?” Derek asks, when he’s able to find words.
“Cos it’s yours, duh.”
Duh. Derek never should’ve let him meet Laura.
“Why are you in my bed,” Derek clarifies.
"Why aren’t you in your bed,” mumbles Stiles. His eyes are going in and out of focus.
"You’re drunk.”
Stiles' hand snakes out from underneath the covers to tap his nose, the implied ‘correct’ left unspoken.
Steeling himself, Derek moves towards the bed. “C’mon, let’s get you –” his voice cuts off into a strangled noise when he pulls the covers back to reveal Stiles completely naked. Not at all manly, he squeaks out, “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”
Now without the covers, Stiles stretches, blinking down at himself. He seems relatively unfazed, a fact that feels wildly unrealistic to Derek, who’s nearly choking on his own spit.
“Was waiting for you,” says Stiles, answering the question Derek forgot he even asked. Sprawled and obscene, Stiles reaches for Derek; long, slim fingers wrapping around his wrist. Laying under Derek’s thick comforter in mid-May weather has left Stiles flushed high in his cheeks. His eyelids are low. Heavy.
Derek’s eyes are everywhere: Stiles’ long, alabaster limbs; the beauty marks, like on his face, scattered over the rest of him too; toned arms and jutted hip bones and the stark hair leading down -
Derek wrenches up from where he'd unknowingly been bending over Stiles, and Stiles lifts with him, not letting that little distance grow. Slow fingers move up Derek’s arm to his face, rendering tingles on his skin and he manages a strangled: “Stiles – “
Stiles smiles. He looks so fucking beautiful that something obvious pangs in Derek’s chest as if to say: you can’t deny me, now.
Lowly, triumphantly, Stiles says, “I’m living a little.”
Their faces are so close. Stiles’ parted mouth tilts up and brushes Derek’s upper lip, smirking when Derek’s breath catches. Derek’s fingers, clutched in the front of his jeans, begin to shake. He closes his eyes.
Derek wants to kiss Stiles.
The thought shouldn’t be so sobering, considering the circumstances; but there it is, crashing through Derek like a stampede.
He wants to kiss this infuriating, beautiful boy. Kiss, and kiss, and kiss until they’re both stupid with it. Wants to press every inch of their bodies together and revel in the push and pull they do so well.
I have a crush on Stiles Stilinski, Derek thinks with astonishment, and reaches to stop Stiles’ traveling hands.
“You need to get dressed,” Derek forces out, eyes opening to see the smallest of folds between Stiles’ eyebrows. He wants to press it away with his lips; but not now. Not like this. “You need to get into your own bed.”
Silence.
Derek watches slow clarity move through Stiles’ alcohol ridden brain, a sheepish mixture of shame and hurt following.
“Shit…” Stiles shifts away. He takes his hands back and it’s like Derek falls out of his gravity; body jolting as it tips forward. “I knew you didn't like me, I just –”
And – it's awful. Because through it all, all these months of reinforcing the idea that Stiles is a menace, Derek never considered that Stiles would actually believe Derek didn't like him. He didn't know it would hurt Stiles, and he didn't know how fiercely he would want to reassure him of the opposite.
And so, too quickly, Derek says, “I do like you.”
Stiles looks away. He starts to shakily wrap himself in Derek’s comforter, standing and teetering like he can't quite find his balance.
He says, “Not like how I like you.”
Derek’s heart thud– umps. “And how do you like me?”
Stiles shrugs, body slow. “Dunno. Like – sometimes I just try to listen for your voice, if I’m in another room in the house… I like your voice… I like teasing you because your ears get all pretty. Like your dumb eyes and… teeth.”
“My teeth,” Derek repeats, dumbfounded.
“Cutest shit ever,” Stiles nods emphatically, and sways closer. “Dunno how to tell you, though. You, I’m –” When he sways this time, Derek’s hands impulsively cup his elbows to steady him, and it makes Stiles gasp. The sound, a quiet exhale, shoots molten through Derek’s veins.
God.
Stiles mutters something in slurred Polish and scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes as he pulls away, stumbling out the door and back down the hallway towards his own room.
–○-
Derek can’t sleep.
His mind is whirling into chaos, and his sheets smell like Stiles. He slinks under them and pulls the top down over his head. Then he replays what happened with Stiles over, and over again. The heat cupping Stiles’ cheeks, the vulnerability he'd trusted Derek with, his eyes - underneath long, dark lashes - so distant as he walked away.
And he replays other moments, too: Stiles being a cocky little shit, always teasing him and baiting him into banter.
Flirting.
He’d been flirting.
And Derek, as oblivious as Cora has always said, had brushed him off as being a menace. It makes his stomach churn; knowing, after tonight, just how quickly he would have jumped at the opportunity to flirt back.
Footsteps sound in the hallway. Derek freezes. He reaches for his phone underneath his pillow. It’s 5 am, and there’s a text from Cora:
staying @ the martin’s. back in the afternoon.
So, it’s not Cora, and he doubts it’s Laura: it’s been long enough that she should be well into hangover territory. She shouldn't be mobile for hours.
That leaves...
Derek's heart kicks into his throat. Is Stiles coming back to talk? He lays there, frozen, as the footsteps walk towards his room, scuffing carpet, hitting the unmistakable groaning floorboard in front of Derek's door –
And passes.
The footsteps pad down the stairs, hardwood creaks in the kitchen, and, quietly, the back door opens and shuts.
Derek turns from under the covers, back hitting his bed as he opens his eyes. Of all the things he'd expect himself to feel, disappointment wasn't one of them.
Morning is trickling in through his window. The fleeing darkness has left grey dust on every surface of Derek's bedroom: The mangled shape of his laundry at the foot of his closet; his backpack, strewn open across his desk; Beo’s leash, draped over the end post of his bed –
Oh, shit.
Beo.
Derek is off his bed and out through his door in the next second. Dammit. He'd forgotten to let him out of the laundry room last night to go to the bathroom.
He flies down the stairs, across the kitchen, some unrealistic part of him hoping that it he just gets there fast enough... He opens the door. Beo is curled up and comfortable on his bed, and a few feet away, stark against the white linoleum, is a puddle of pee.
“Beowulf,” Derek groans, crouching in the doorway.
The wolf pup in question flops to his feet in his excitement, a goofball of an animal whose tail wags so hard it almost knocks him off balance as he jumps up at Derek. He runs a hand down his back to steady the jumping, already feeling forgiving. Beo is one of the many pups that his parents bring home from their family’s wolf sanctuary when there's a complication. Beo hadn't been eating, but after a week of living with Derek’s mom, he's a few days away from going back to his pack. Derek was put in charge of watching him while his parents are away.
“Sorry, bud.” Derek scratches behind Beo’s ears as he licks his face. Seems he’s feeling forgiving, too. “Let's get this cleaned up.
There's a reason they put the pups that haven't been house trained in the laundry room at night, and here it is in action: easy clean-up.
Beo licks Derek's ear as he crouches over the mess with cleaning materials. He bats him playfully away after he's finished and stands. Pee rag in one hand, disinfectant in the other, Derek turns and meets Stiles’ eyes from across the room.
He’s halfway through the backdoor, both of them freezing when he spots Derek in the laundry doorway. The atmosphere is still grey, shadowed, and with a room separating them, they’re allotted a few seconds of composure before their eyes adjust to detail in the dim light.
Derek takes Stiles in with eager eyes: His bare feet and baggy sweatpants, a loose and thick-strapped white tank top that exposes his throat. Shoulders. A peek of the smooth skin of his rib cage. He’s wearing his denim dad cap backwards over his hair, the one with ‘chill’ spelled across it in bold white.
Derek stands stupidly in the doorway, body too busy buzzing to do much more.
“I’m not going to bite you,” Stiles says after a few more moments of strained silence; his voice is raspy and low, and his accent is practically undetectable. He steps the rest of the way into the house and closes the door. “Look,” he starts, tucking his hands into his pockets, not really meeting Derek’s gaze, “nothing has to change. We can just pretend I didn’t act like a drunken idiot and go back to the way things were.”
Derek imagines it. Imagines they'd stop talking. No more bantering. Back to normal? How could either of them, how could Derek, now that he knew?
“No,” says Derek, the word coming out before he can think.
Hurt flashes in Stiles’ eyes. Shit.
“I mean – ” Derek moves forward, wanting to clarify, but only makes it a step before Beo barks loudly at his knees. He probably needs to go again.
Derek quickly turns to deposit the cleaning supplies still in his hands, going to wash his hands after when Stiles starts to slink towards the stairs.
“Stiles –” Derek calls, but Stiles doesn't stop. He walks faster, shoulders bunching slightly. Infuriating boy.
Derek goes for a towel to dry his hands and in the next breath pops the back door open; Beo bolts out, contained by the fence around their property. Derek doesn't pause to close it. It swings wide as Derek dashes after Stiles, sunlight cresting the mountains and pouring through in a wave.
He bounds up the stairs, stopping a little too quickly on the step above Stiles. He startles backwards, making a high-pitched squeak as his arm flails towards the railing. Derek’s arms come around him before he can grip it, left foot dropping down to Stiles' step to steady them.
“Sorry, sorry,” Derek says hastily, fingers burning where they’re pressed to Stiles’ waist. He feels the heat of him, and pulls them up to the small landing in the middle of the scissor switch staircase.
Derek snatches his hands away when neither of them are at risk of falling down the stairs.
“I like you,” he says, the words rushing out of him in one breath.
Stiles looks up at him. “Yeah,” he says, “You said that last night.”
It catches Derek off guard. After last night, he wasn't expecting such a flippant response. “Okay,” he drawls, “So... don’t you like me?” There’s no way he misinterpreted what’s happening between them; Stiles must be hesitating for another reason.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yes, but – “
“So, what’s the problem?” Derek asks, stepping closer.
Stiles makes a frustrated noise, his entire body rolling with it. “You're not –” he exhales sharply. “You don’t need to say that just because I’m living here and you feel obligated –”
It hits him: Obligated? That’s what Stiles thinks this is? Some pointless martyr complex to preserve household harmony?
Stiles is still talking, but Derek’s heard enough. He grabs the hand Stiles is flourishing in the air, stepping forward to cage him against the wall and thrilling when it earns him a gasp.
Then he turns and brushes a kiss against the fluttering pulse point on Stiles’ wrist.
Stiles’ reaction is devastating: his entire body shakes in surprised pleasure, his breath quickening and a sweet, shaky noise leaving his lips. Derek can't believe he's doing this – he can't believe Stiles is letting him do this. Their eyes meet, Stiles watching Derek with astonishment. No objections, then.
Derek moves up Stiles’ arm.
He feels wild and uninhibited with every wet kiss he drops. The thumb of his free hand shakes as he brushes it over Stiles’ rising and falling collarbone. He lifts it to cup Stiles’ neck; holding him in place when Derek’s mouth reaches his neck. His lips drag over the long expanse of skin, nipping under Stiles’ jaw and when goosebumps rise, bending his head to suck hard at the hollow of his throat.
Stiles’ head drops back, “„Ja pierdolę…”
It’s like a cattle rod to the spine; hearing Stiles moan the rolling, foreign words. It spurs Derek forward and without meaning to, his hand on Stiles’ wrist squeezes so hard that he can feel the vibration of Stiles’ next groan against his lips.
“Derek –”
Stiles’ fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck and pull.
Derek lifts away with reluctance, looking down at the red and purple bruise bursting on Stiles’ throat. His gaze flicks up. The sun is shining over Derek's shoulder, golden light catching in Stiles' lashes as he blinks at him with dark eyes.
God, he's beautiful.
“Obligated,” Derek breathes, “isn't exactly the word I would use.”
This makes Stiles shiver, his body tilting forward before he's catching himself and pulling away. “What about Erica?”
It's so entirely not what Derek is expecting to hear, that he takes a step back.
“Erica?” He repeats, brows furrowing as he tries to connect the relevance of his best friend in a situation like this.
“Your… girlfriend?” Stiles says, not sounding as sure as he had a second ago. He squints, voice going up an octave: “Possibly your girlfriend?”
Derek can't help it. He laughs.
“Me and Erica are not dating,” he says emphatically. “We’re strictly platonic.” With growing amusement, Derek watches Stiles’ face go slack in confusion.
“Then why, exactly, do you two go on a date every Sunday?”
Baffled and two seconds away from asking Stiles where exactly he’s getting his information, it clicks. “Our sundae dates?”
Stiles mhmms and lifts an expectant eyebrow.
“Stiles,” Derek starts slowly, smiling as he's overwhelmed with fondness. “Sundae as in S-U-N-D-A-E. Also, yesterday was Saturday.”
Stiles freezes, eyes looking off like he's trying to remember – “Oh, fuck.” He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I can’t believe I mixed those up, fucking, sobota i niedziela.”
Then, to Derek’s absolute delight, a blush blooms at the apples of Stiles’ cheeks, rolling down his chest and dusting the tips of his bare shoulders.
And, ok, if that’s how Derek looked any of the times Stiles has teased him, he understands why he does it so often.
Not able to contain the illicit desire to tease him even redder, Derek says, “Is this why you were naked in my bed?” Stiles avoids his eyes. Giddily: “You were jealous.”
That does it. Stiles goes beet red, groaning and flattening his hands so that they cover his entire face. Derek laughs and gently pulls Stiles’ wrists away, wanting to see what he looks like when he's flustered. It's not a very common occurrence, after all.
“You totally were.”
“Only because you never made a move any of the other times I tried to flirt!” Stiles states indignantly.
Derek gives him a look. “I think something got lost during my translation of your attempts at flirting.”
“Ugh.” Stiles gently pushes Derek’s face away; looking like he's trying not to smile.
Derek, already losing that battle, pokes and presses at Stiles until he’s smiling just as wide.
“Stop!” he laughs as Derek tickles him, his fingers digging into the skin of his sides and slipping underneath the thin fabric of the tank top.
The tickling morphs without Derek meaning it to. In between a second and the next, it turns slow and exploring, Derek’s hands sliding around to Stiles’ back. Their bodies press flush together. Their foreheads touch. Derek watches Stiles, drinking in the sight of his parting mouth and fluttering eyes as Derek's knee glides between his thighs.
Derek brushes their lips together, urging lowly, “Kiss me.”
Stiles crashes forward.
His fingers are tight and desperate in Derek's hair, pressing their mouths to bruising. It's an intoxicating pain. The sudden fantasy of kissing Stiles’ lips blue and purple so incendiary that heat surges through Derek like a strike of electricity. He falls forward, pinning Stiles and grinding against him, hard.
Stiles hisses, mouth dropping obscenely wide. Derek takes the opportunity to dip down and capture his pliant mouth into a deep, dragging kiss –
And a throat clears behind them.
It shatters Derek's focus. In the next second, he's springing away from Stiles, eyes wide and caught as he spins around.
Laura is standing down in the kitchen. Aspirin in one hand, black smudges of makeup under her eyes, she’s looking up at them with a smug and partially pained smirk.
Stiles and her share a look.
Derek knew they were in cahoots.
Huffing, he grabs Stiles’ hand and pulls him up the stairs, ignoring Laura as she laughs. He leads them into his room, locking the door and turning.
“You let her get to you,” Stiles smirks.
Instead of replying, Derek gently pulls off Stiles’ hat, immediately running his fingers through the soft strands underneath.
Stiles’ expression goes so tender that it makes Derek blush.
Which, in turn, makes Stiles croon, “You're so cute,” and laugh at Derek’s resulting eyeroll. Then he takes Derek's hand, looking for resistance in his eyes, and walks them to the bed when he finds none.
They roll together on top of it, legs tangling, hands going into hair and Derek thinking, for the second time, I can't believe I'm doing this. As he's kissing Stiles’ jaw, as he's poised over Stiles and looking down into his glazed eyes, as Stiles’ hands go to the bottom of his shirt and he whispers, “I want to see you.”
When they’re both shirtless, Derek lays on his back with Stiles draped over him, He presses searing kisses to Derek’s shoulder. His breath stutters out. Stiles lifts away when he hears it, mouth wet and parted and so, so red – and yawning widely.
Derek snorts. “Tired?”
“Could you tell?” Stiles’ lips twitch. Then, quieter, “I couldn't sleep.”
A zing of tenderness goes through Derek at knowing the night before had affected Stiles like it had affected him.
It makes him brave enough to admit, “Me neither.”
A shit-eating grin from Stiles. “You like me.”
“I was surprised too.”
Stiles laughs in delight.
Gently, Derek shifts Stiles over so that he can sit up and pull the sheet over them.
This feels so unfamiliar to Derek, like he's exposing an even deeper part of himself than he had by realizing and confessing his feelings for Stiles. To have this boy in his bed, in his arms, shifting chest to back and shaking from the newness and the anticipation and the overwhelming thought that keeps saying: thisthisthis.
With considerable effort, Derek asks, “Comfy?”
Stiles huffs a strained laugh. “My heart’s racing.”
Derek hides his smile against Stiles’ skin. He reaches his arm around and stars his hand over Stiles’ heart, rubbing soothing circles. “Better?”
“Oh, now that you're touching me more?”
Laughter bubbles through Derek. “Do you want me to stop?” He grazes his hand softly down Stiles’ sternum.
That wonderful blush from before colors Stiles’ cheeks now. He pushes his face into Derek’s pillow, voice muffling out, “No.”
So, Derek doesn't.
But they're both feeling the night’s lack of sleep, so it doesn’t progress further. His eyes are closing when Derek, forehead against Stiles’ nape, whispers, “When did it start?”
For a minute, Derek thinks Stiles has fallen asleep, but then he's slowly shifting toward him. Derek tucks his chin into the crook of his neck.
“What," he huffs, "Liking you?"
“Mmm.”
Stiles blinks his eyes open, looking up at the ceiling. “Probably that first morning after I got here.”
“That Sunday?” Derek asks, trying to remember it.
Stiles had arrived a bright Saturday afternoon, and the next morning Derek’s parents pulled out everything they had to welcome him with Sunday breakfast. With two teenagers in high school and an entire wolf sanctuary to run, it was traditionally the only day of the week when they could eat breakfast as a family.
Stiles had been bright and curious and eager. Excited by everything he ate, eyes constantly traveling around the room and out the window as he talked, and talked and, now that Derek’s remembering it, continued to flick his eyes across the table at him.
Oh.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, smiling. “That Sunday morning.”
-Fin-