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“Who do you think designs these?” Stiles asks, sitting on the bed to pull on his fluorescent green ski pants. “Is there a purpose? Is it to warn off predators? Are there bloodthirsty monsters out here on the ski fields?”
He looks over at Derek who has just finished dressing. “Well that’s not fair,” he whines. “How come you can wear that ridiculous outfit and still look hot? I mean, look at you.” He waves his arm in a loose gesture at Derek before tugging on his own puffy jacket. “Meanwhile, here I am looking like the Michelin Man.” He tugs at his zip, trying to get the worn plastic fasten properly.
Derek snorts, pulling Stiles to his feet. “Rental gear never looks good on anyone,” he reassures his boyfriend, reaching down to help Stiles with the zipper. “Actually—" He pulls the tab, fastening the jacket right up to Stiles’ nose. “You know what, this is a good look on you.”
“Ha.” Stiles wrestles the collar down under his chin. “You can’t silence me!”
“Shame.” Shrugging, Derek turns to find his boots, ignoring Stiles’ sharp gasp of mock outrage.
“I will not stand for this,” Stiles declares, pouncing on Derek’s turned back and wrapping his arms around the werewolf’s neck. “I will not take this insult lightly.” He draws his legs up to wrap them around Derek’s waist. “You better sleep with one eye open tonight, buddy.”
“Is that so?”
“Mhm.”
“Your objections are noted.” Derek tells him seriously. “But have you considered this?” He drops backwards onto the bed, squashing Stiles beneath him.
“Oh my god,” Stiles shrieks, arms flailing. “You brute.” He shoves at Derek’s shoulders. “I will get you for this."
“You can’t beat me,” Derek teases, twisting to pin down Stiles’ arms. “You’re not strong enough to push me off.”
“Maybe not, but I play dirty,” Stiles smirks, digging his fingers into Derek’s ribs. He uses the distraction to scramble out from under Derek and throw his leg across the werewolf’s hips. “I win,” he gloats, sitting back on his heels. “And now I shall claim my prize.”
He bends forward to capture Derek’s lips with his own.
“Look at you in your orange jacket,” he groans, sitting back to admire the view. “So fucking hot.”
The next time he leans down, Derek lifts his head to meet him halfway, dragging him down into a long hungry kiss, that leaves them both a little breathless. “You’re one to talk,” he growls, his hands coming up to grip Stiles’ hips. “I’ve been wanting to tear that ridiculous puffy jacket off you since you first put it on.”
“Go on then.” Stiles is already reaching for the zip, tugging at the crinkly fabric and shrugging his arms out of the lurid sleeves.
“We’re supposed to be meeting up with the others to go skiing,” Derek murmurs, his lips tickling against Stiles’ cheek. He helps Stiles discard the offensive article of clothing, dropping it on the floor beside the bed.
“We can catch up with them later.” Stiles gets to work removing Derek’s jacket. "And the snow will still be there tomorrow."