Drummer!Stiles porn. That's it. That's the fic.
So basically, as with all good things, this is all Fizz’s fault. I HOPE YOU’RE SATISFIED WITH YOURSELF! HAPPY LATE FREAKING VALENTINES DAY!
Props to Vangoghstars for the beta.
It starts with chopsticks.
The Pack has descended on the newly-renovated Hale house, armed to the teeth with bad takeout and worse movies and they’ve somehow turned the entire living room into a swamp of blankets, pillows and flailing limbs. As Jackson leans over and snatches the last egg roll out of Stiles’ hand to loud protest, Derek can’t help but wonder why the hell he’d actually missed them all this semester.
“Good to know college hasn’t mellowed your epic douche-baggery, dude,” Stiles says with a sigh.
“I called dibs,” Jackson says, before swallowing three quarters of the roll in one bite. Derek would be impressed but he’s seen Stiles down two of the things at once.
Derek watches as Stiles rolls his eyes before snapping the flimsy wooden chopsticks apart with a flourish that shouldn’t work as well as it does. Leaning over, Derek grabs up the lemon chicken before Erica can steal it all and is just spooning a generous helping onto his plate when the tapping starts.
Stiles is drumming away at the coffee table, chopsticks loose and comfortably tucked between his long fingers. The rhythm is sure, obviously practiced and Derek’s going to get right on being annoyed by it just as soon as he can focus on anything beyond the way Stiles’ right index finger is curled over the fucking stick.
“Oh hey,” Scott says around a mouthful of cashew chicken. “How’s the band thing going?”
Stiles grins and nods, and Jesus, even that’s in rhythm. “Yeah, really good,” he says. “I’ve got good time apparently - I just have to work on my technique.”
“How is that working on technique?” Jackson says, tapping his own chopstick on the table as Stiles switches rhythm. “You aren’t even speeding up.”
Stiles shrugs and Derek only notices because his wrists twist slightly with it, middle finger slipping down one of the chopsticks and fuck. Derek feels his face heat up when he realises he can’t stop staring. “You need to keep it smooth and controlled,” Stiles explains, and Derek swallows. Hard. “Speed comes from good technique, not the other way round.”
Derek’s brain very helpfully asks what other things might come from Stiles’ technique and he almost drops the takeaway container in his hand.
“Oh hey, lemon chicken!” Stiles says, ceasing his impromptu practice session to snag the food out of Derek’s grip.
Derek’s so thrown that he lets him.
Stiles starts bringing drumsticks to Pack gatherings, sitting himself on the edge of the group to tap out maddening rhythms on his knees as the werewolves train. The first time he’d pulled them out, spinning one stick in a showy twirl between his fingers, Derek had actually staggered a little, missed a basic move, and ended up on his back blinking up at fucking Jackson, of all people.
It’d taken three hours and a lot of bruises to beat that little victory out of the asshole.
When the drumsticks aren’t rubbing frustratingly between Stiles’ fingers, they’re shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. Something Derek’s developed a love/hate relationship with because they tend to catch Stiles’ shirt as he’s walking, hiking the material up over his belt in a way that's both hilarious and really, really distracting. Seriously, Derek could have lived his whole fucking life without knowing Stiles has three moles dotted across his goddamn hip.
He also could have lived his whole goddamn life without Stiles ever, ever figuring out Derek’s little fixation.
They’re watching a movie. Which is to say, Scott and Lydia are watching a movie; Jackson, Boyd, Isaac and Erica are engaging in a vicious looking game of go-fish; and Stiles is… driving Derek to goddamn distraction.
He’s tapping away at his knees again because Jackson had thrown a pretzel at him when he’d attacked the coffee table earlier. Derek doesn’t know what’s worse, the way his legs are propped open slightly so that creases in his fucking jeans are now on Derek’s hate list, or the way the muscles in his forearms bunch and shift as he drums.
Derek couldn’t even tell you what movie’s on the screen, because for every one second he glances un-seeing at it, he spends another two watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye. It’s probably a miracle that Stiles takes as long as he does to notice.
It happens during one of those mind-melting little flourishes Stiles likes to pepper through his practice routines. Stiles double-taps with one stick before twirling the fucking thing like a baton, which is a lot less band-camp and a lot more sex-act according to Derek’s traitorous libido. Derek shifts slightly, wetting his lips, and Stiles- Stiles drops the stick.
Derek’s eyes snap up and he feels himself freeze, because Stiles is looking back – mouth a shocked O as he glances between Derek’s lips and his eyes. It’s like a train wreck. As one, they both look down at the drumstick on the floor and Derek sees the exact moment Stiles gets it. Because of course he does. Stiles rarely misses anything, which Derek used to think was a good thing because it’s saved all their lives more than once. Screw it so hard now.
Derek wrenches his eyes back to the tv and slouches violently his seat. It’s a fucking sad state of affairs when he realises they’re watching Lady and the Tramp and it’s the second worst thing to happen to his day.
dededos
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
