Work Text:
• • •
It's been weeks since Stiles last saw Derek, and he's…well, he wouldn't call it pining, exactly, but he's definitely excited that Derek is back in town. It had been difficult at first, when Derek stole away to the city to pursue his acting career, but after years of hard work and dedication, it's finally paid off. Tonight marks the premiere of his first major role, and Stiles couldn't be more proud. No, really. He marked it in his calendar and everything.
Two minutes to nine o'clock, Stiles comes bounding up the stairs, arms laden with all manner of sugary snacks, and dumps them in a pile on the bed. He kicks off his slippers, scoots to the middle of the mattress, and clicks on the television with seconds to spare before the opening credits start to roll. No less than a minute into the pilot, he's already whipping out his phone and sending a flurry of rapid-fire texts, and Derek's phone lights up on his nightstand like a strobe at a blacklight party.
Stiles can't help it. Every time Derek comes on the screen, he feels like one of those gifs of a dog tonguing the glass. Normally, he needs a hell of a lot more liquid courage than just two Angry Orchards to be this bold, but for Derek, his one working brain cell makes an exception. He may not be drunk, but he sure as hell is thirsty.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:01PM: Dude. I know I'm only a minute in but this is AWESOME. So proud of you, Sourwolf.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:05PM: Damn, you look good.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:07PM: Sorry, I know that shouldn't be the focus here, but it needs to be said.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:10PM: Did they let you keep the glasses, by any chance? Asking for a friend who may or may not be into professor/grad student roleplay.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:15PM: That ass in a skin-tight super-suit.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:15PM: That's it, that's the whole text.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:20PM: I know I said you looked good in all black, but holy fuck dude, the plaid is just…unf. You should wear plaid all the time.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:25PM: The way the collar of your shirt blows back and shows that little bit of chest hair? Mmm. The wind out here doing god's work.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:30PM: I want you to lift me like that truck and pin me against a wall.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:40PM: Hi, yeah. I'd like to place an order for pick-up. I'll take three of you with a side of extra sausage.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:45PM: I would lick literally anything off of your abs.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:46PM: Chocolate, cheese, you name it.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:48PM: It doesn't even have to be the good shit. Get me a can of cheez whiz and I'm all set.
Text Message From Stiles At 9:50PM: Hell, give me a packet of parmesan, I'll snort that shit right off your pecs.
After the fifteenth text in a row, there's a low, throaty chuckle from right next to him, and Stiles glances up from his phone with a sheepish grin on his face.
"Stiles, I am literally laying in bed right next to you," Derek laughs, clutching his phone to his chest.
"Why are you texting me when you could just tell me all of this to my face? My—" he pauses, squinting down at his phone to read the latest text. "—'stupid, ridiculous, handsome face with a chiseled jaw that looks like it's been carved out of a marble statue of a Greek god and cheekbones so sharp they could cut a man if I turn my head too quickly.'"
Derek barks out a laugh, reaching behind him and bopping Stiles over the head with his pillow. Stiles lets out a high-pitched squeal and just barely dodges the attack, retaliating by sticking his ice cold feet into the legs of Derek's shorts.
"First of all," he says, wiggling his toes against Derek's thighs for maximum warmth distribution. "If I were to tell you all of this to your face, you'd have me pinned to the mattress in two seconds flat, and then we'd never make it through the episode."
Derek scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he knows damn well he can't refute that.
"Two," Stiles continues, his tone slipping into something softer. "I figure, this way, you'll have a little something from me to make you smile the next time you're on set."
They've been together for years, and still, the shy little smile that curls at the corner of Derek's lips makes Stiles's heart leap into his throat. Warm fingertips trail across the palm of his hand before lacing with his own, golden band clinking against the matching one on his ring finger. Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath, sighing happily on the exhale.
"Man, that proposal, though," he says, rubbing gentle, soothing circles against the back of Derek's hand with the pad of his thumb. "I think if you proposed to me like that, I'd swoon on the spot."
"Stiles, we are literally married," Derek laughs, gripping Stiles's hand in a gentle three-pulse squeeze.
"Yeah, but I never got carried through the clouds like that," Stiles protests with a melodramatic whine. "I want a do-over."
"Fine, I'll take you sky-diving," Derek concedes with a long-suffering sigh, playfully nudging Stiles's shoulder with his own. "Now, put down your phone and come cuddle me, asshole."
Stiles snorts with laughter, dropping his phone onto the little table on his side of the bed, and burrows under the covers, snuggling up next to Derek and laying his head in his usual spot against his chest.
"So," Derek says as he flicks aimlessly through the channels, nuzzling his nose in the top of Stiles's hair and breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of home. "What should we watch next, Love and Monsters or The Maze Runner?"
• • •