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Stiles’ Thursday nights are sacred, especially now that he’s officially finished with high school and no longer required to be awake before ten on Friday mornings. They are reserved specifically for time with Derek - time that the pack is not to interrupt, barring life-threatening injuries, supernatural attacks they can’t handle on their own, kidnappings, and other extenuating circumstances. Sometimes, Derek and Stiles go out. Most of the time, though, they each put on their most comfortable sets of never-wear-in-front-of-people clothes and sit together on the couch to watch tv until they can’t keep their eyes open.
The pack has, between them:
- Four Hulu accounts (Isaac absolutely must have the latest SNL as soon as possible, or he gets cranky)
- Five Netflix accounts (Stiles has had one since they sent DVDs by mail)
- Six Amazon Prime accounts (for the free shipping, primarily, but the streaming is a bonus - in addition, no one wants anyone else to see what they’re buying on Amazon, so everyone gets cranky about sharing)
- Two CBS All Access accounts (Jackson and Stiles both have an unhealthy addiction to Star Trek: Discovery, but apparently can’t share an account like adults)
- Two Crunchyroll accounts (Scott’s anime phase never ended, and, to the shock of everyone, neither did Peter’s)
- And one Youtube Red account (It’s Scott’s, and though they laughed when he got it, they do use it on occasion).
All of these are completely accessible on Derek’s Roku, as well as Stiles’ XBox One, the pack Playstation 4, and Erica’s Apple TV - which are all hooked up to or can easily be hooked up to the not-obscene-but-pretty-damn-big television in Derek’s living room.
Which is why it makes no sense that Stiles can’t find one single stupid thing to watch.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, clicking through yet another menu. “Did Netflix get rid of Moana ?”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m not watching it again.” Derek plops down next to Stiles, sets the cold sodas on the table and throws his arm over the back of the couch. “I still have ‘You’re Welcome’ stuck in my head.”
“It’s the best of the Revival Era Disney movies, Derek,” Stiles says, flipping through the animated movies. “I think they did! Those bastards. Now if I want to watch it, I have to put the DVD in instead of just pushing a button, and I think we both know that I’m way too lazy to be satisfied with that.”
If Stiles were to glance over, he would see the exasperated fondness written all over Derek’s face. It’s a pretty common expression, one that’s been nicknamed by the pack as the “Stiles Face,” and is apparently the most obvious indication of just how smitten Derek actually is over Stiles. Somehow, though, Stiles never seems to catch it - probably because it becomes less exasperated and more fond when Stiles actually looks at Derek.
“Ugh, what’s on the list to watch later?” Stiles finally clicks away from the animation, dissatisfied with the offering. “I guess we could just watch Brooklyn 99 ?”
Derek shakes his head, drops his arm off the back of the couch to curl around Stiles’ shoulder and nestle in a little closer. “You’re a full season ahead of me. We could keep going with Great British Baking Show .”
The disgusted sound Stiles makes is obviously exaggerated, and completely offset by the way that he shamelessly tucks himself into Derek’s side. “Derek!” he cries dramatically. “If I watch Mary Berry critique a soggy-bottomed technical challenge, I will eat everything in your kitchen. And then, when I get home tomorrow, I’ll eat everything in my kitchen too!”
“Okay, then, what about Nailed It ?”
Stiles grins, then, all pretense of negativity gone. “Have I ever told you that your addiction to baking shows is adorable?”
Derek knocks his head back against the sofa, fighting a smile of his own. “You tell me every single Thursday.”
“It just really amuses me considering how much of a challenge baking is for you.” Stiles’ grin goes from enamored to shit-eating. “You could probably actually be on Nailed It , if you wanted.”
“Alright, no baking,” Derek says with a faux-annoyed growl and a grin he can’t quite hide. “Move over to Prime, we can watch the Star Trek movie with Zachary Quinto again.”
“Oh, now, that’s not fair,” Stiles snorts, clicking the buttons to lead him away from Netflix and over to the other streaming app. “You’re using my weaknesses against me. Just because I have a thing for his eyebrows - which, by the way, aren’t even really in the film - doesn’t mean that you get to use my love for this masterpiece of a reboot movie as foreplay.”
“I would never, Stiles,” Derek says, indulgently, as the movie starts up. “It doesn’t mean anything that we can’t even get through to the end without making out. Probably just a coincidence.”
“You’re damn right, it’s a coincidence.” The feeling of Derek’s shirt under his cheek is a familiar, comforting one. Stiles settles in, and knows for a fact that he won’t make it all the way through the movie this time either. Derek’s fingertips on the skin of his arm below the t-shirt sleeve are already far too distracting. “You know, I just like Zachary Quinto because his eyebrows remind me of yours. Hey, does that mean you’d make a good Vulcan?” Stiles rolls his head to shoot a winning grin at his boyfriend.
Derek looks at him, arching an eyebrow in a very unimpressed manner. “Well, Captain Stiles, I just did some calculations, and I’ve been able to determine that you’re full of shit .”
The fingertips that had so nicely been skating across Stiles’ arm descend very suddenly on Stiles’ ribs, and if there is one thing that Stiles has learned in the course of dating a werewolf, it is that supernatural strength and supernatural speed combine to make sure that he will never win a tickle fight. His only hope is to beg for mercy or distract, and so Stiles clambers onto Derek’s lap with a shriek of laughter and plants as big and sloppy of a kiss that he’s capable of on Derek’s lips (and actually also gets some of Derek’s nose, if he’s being honest).
Derek’s hands curl around Stiles’ waist, fingers flexing in the threadbare fabric of his pizza slice pajama pants in a way that clearly says he will mightily object if Stiles tries to move now. Stiles bites back laughter as he lifts the hem of his t-shirt to wipe at Derek’s face and nose before giving in and dissolving into what could probably aptly be described as giggles. The werewolf tilts his face with a grin, and Stiles obliges, leaning forward and pressing a much more civil kiss to his mouth.
“We didn’t even make it through the destruction of the Kelvin,” Derek murmurs when Stiles pulls away, just far enough that Stiles can still feel the breath of Derek’s words against his own lips.
“I told you this movie was foreplay,” Stiles says, and kisses him again.