Frantic Familiarity
@soakedinsmoke
[from]
Stiles’ head tilts, his whole body leaning sideways to wind his sight around the gum-popping girl in his way; he’s not going to miss Derek walking away, that’s for sure. He’s shameless, alright? Sue him.
“Good game,” he says abruptly, slapping the girl on the back of shoulder like they’ve just gone head to head in a playoff game when he scoots by.
He hears her scoff when he strides after Derek, swerving around other waitresses carrying enormous trays loaded with food. Fuck, it smells so good, but Stiles’ mouth is watering for an entirely different reason.
The bathroom door gives easily, swaying inward with a push of Stiles’ palm. Then they’re face to face. Derek looks even better under flickering fluorescent lights, the overgrown five o'clock shadow carved around his facial features is more prominent than Stiles thought.
He should hesitate, probably, but all hope is lost when Stiles’ shoes take the last few sticky steps to close in on Derek’s space.
The bristles of Derek’s beard sting his fingers when his palms tuck to either side of his defined jaw. Stiles thumps their foreheads, rolls his tongue over his lips and breathes low into the space between them.
“Please tell me you’re not actually a germaphobe and this is what you meant.”
Derek’s breath drags in quick as Stiles closes the distance between them, his scent overwhelming the faint sourness of the restroom and making Derek lean closer, greedy. He feels drunk on contact and they’re just barely touching. Just foreheads, just hands on his cheeks. Just his own hands, now, curling possessive into Stiles’ hips, getting lost in the familiar-newness of contact.
Fluorescent brightness cuts shadows over the angles of Stiles’ face, highlighting cheekbones that Derek wants to scrape red with beard burn.
“I’m repulsed by you, actually,” he deadpans, dipping closer. Drags Stiles’ next exhale hungry off the ghost of his lips.
And fuck, they shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Anyone could walk in, and... hell, they’d hardly been subtle. Anyone who might realize what they’re up to probably already knows.
It’s ridiculous how that only makes it better, makes the anticipation spike sharper up Derek’s spine. There’s something forbidden about Stiles that he can’t begin to explain, that sings out to him in a ways he’s not sure he could ever understand. And Derek doesn’t do things like this, doesn’t do dirty bathroom hookups. He’s a first date, kiss at the door kind of guy but it’s like his body’s forgotten that now. Like he’s moving off a whole different playbook that screams out for grit and roughness and a being little bit desperate.
Because, fuck, screw first dates. He’s wanted Stiles forever.
When their mouths crash together Derek actually groans with relief, his knees half-buckling in a greedy push that slams Stiles back against the closed door.
“Sorry” tears out from some deep place inside him, and he’d meant for the push but means so much more than that somehow, too. Derek’s sorry, he’s so goddamn sorry and he needs to make it up to Stiles somehow. Do something to earn back those lost years of aching and the broken look in his eyes and-- And Derek’s pushing in too rough, palms pushing rough up Stiles’ sides, drinking in the lithe muscle through his too-loose tee. He’s starving for this and he doesn’t understand why, doesn’t even want to right now. He just... he has this, has him, and he can’t let himself lose it.
