Apparently when I am stressed and stuff, I do the written equivalent of sucking my thumb.
Derek/Stiles, pre-slash, PG-13, maybe season 2 or 3 ish.
For one man’s life
Derek is a big, lumbering, stupidly angry and even more stupidly socially awkward dude but right now he’s watching a hyperactive vicious terrier of a human with amusement and lust. Eventually, when the yapping dies down, Derek will do something nice for him.
Like a back rub.
That’s nicely physical and full of contact that does good things Derek does not like to think about (other than: good things, he gets to have them for half a second). Before Stiles finally unwinds and lets Derek do this, there is the by-now familiar routine of flailing and what seems almost like jumping jacks, while accusing Derek of literally anything he can think of.
Which is a lot.
Most of it really funny.
But Derek can wait him out. Derek… well, no, Derek can’t wait out much of anything, but he can wait out this: flying words that don’t hurt no matter how well-placed the barb; he can watch as the hectic red along Stiles’ jaw-line blooms and withers; he can wait until Stiles finally stares at him, chewing on his lip because he’s seventeen and doesn’t understand what the hell that does to people.
He can wait because finally, magnanimously, Derek is given permission to run his hands over a body that is a lot more lean, a lot stronger than the infinity layer of shirts implies. He can feel it ripple, listen to blood beat and a heart boom cavernously from something far too fast, hiccuping too often, into a slow, steady rhythm that Derek feels in his dick.
Eventually, Derek is going to reach a point where he can turn Stiles around and rub over prominent collarbones and the notch at his shoulders. He’ll be brave enough to undo the jeans that are occasionally pressed against him, enough to know that Stiles is thick and heavy and so warm sometimes Derek dreams of fire even as he dreams of opening his mouth wider.
Eventually, Stiles will realize that Derek want this and maybe, just maybe, he might say yes.
For now Derek says nothing and concentrates on the mole-dotted skin landscaped in front of him, of muscles that lose the hectic twitch of too much energy into a lax stillness that no one beyond maybe Scott has ever really seen. That most elusive of creatures, a Stiles relaxed, calm and content.
Derek breathes in slowly enough that the dozing boy beneath him won’t hear it and accuse him of smelling him.
Even if he is.
Because that smell, warmboymusksweatcome, is worth waiting for. It’s enough.