that Isaac/Allison scene was ridiculous or, fiveyearmission, ebrooklynw: this is all your fault.
When Stiles first met Derek he was a lurker: always hanging around the edges of things, watching, slinking into and out of shadows like being cinematic about it would hide the fact that he was a grade-A creep. He's since graduated to hovering: over Stiles' shoulder while he works, currently, but sort of generally, too, like a low-hanging fog of leather and stubble always misting around in the atmosphere. It's not a great metaphor. Stiles has trouble concentrating, when Derek's close enough to feel running wolf-warm along his back.
"Are they goblins, maybe," Stiles says. Or. He starts to say it. When he turns so that he can indicate the relevant illustration Derek's face is like, right next to his face, and Derek's not even reading over his shoulder, really, he's just-- there. Derek's chin tilts just perceptibly, the sharp line of his jaw angling towards Stiles', his eyes flickering, just once towards Stiles' mouth. It's unbearable.
"Are you going to kiss me," is what Stiles says instead. It comes out more indignant than disbelieving, which is probably why Derek startles away from him and stands. "Were you?" Stiles asks again.
"Uh," Derek says. "I thought you wanted me to?"
"I didn't want you to," Stiles starts. He doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence, to say I wanted you to want to: Derek just huffs out a frustrated sigh and strips off his shirt and if Stiles couldn't concentrate all that well before he's sure as hell not going to be able to find a lot of coherent language at his disposal now. Holy jesus. It's just. A lot of muscles. In one place.
"Fine then," Derek says. "I won't kiss you."
Stiles feels like he's lost control of his limbs: he stands, too, and before he can think about it he's shirtless, too, fingers clenched desperately around the bundle of cotton in one hand. "This isn't a joke," he grits out. "Don't tease me, okay, you have to know how I-- that I-- and I know what I look like, okay, so. Uh. Look your fill. And stuff. Because I'm not ashamed. I get it. I know you don't--"
"Stiles." Derek is washed pale by the moonlight pouring in the open window and brushed orange by the lamp on Stiles' bedside table, just color and shadow and shape: his eyes are wide and serious, the pupils blown, and Stiles watches his chest move, pulling in a series of shallow breaths.
"I thought you were kidding," Stiles says, soft.
"You--" Derek says, and then he's just a swift shadow, moving to kneel at Stiles' feet. He reaches up to palm across Stiles' nipple, the other hand gripping at his hip, mouth brushing warm and wet against the skin of his navel. "Jesus, you look-- I'm not--"
Stiles has never been an exceptionally lucky person: the first time he tried to lose his virginity a girl died of it, and the girl he did lose it to left him for his best friend's ex-girlfriend and a life of lesbian wolf-hunting, and when he went to college and hooked up with a dude that dude turned out to be just like, a liiiitle bit of an incubus. So it shouldn't be a surprise that when Derek Hale presses a single, searing kiss just above the button of his jeans his father takes the opportunity to burst into the room without knocking.
"Oh absolutely not," he says, covering his eyes with one hand and groping blindly back out of the room with the other. "I am not listening to a second of this. Kiddo, I'm going over to Melissa's. Call me when you're done."
