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Stiles is wearing an eye patch, which is a hundred times more attractive than it has any right to be. He hasn’t lost an eye or anything quite so drastic, but he does have a two-inch long gash above his left eye that was so very nearly almost losing his eye, that Derek will forgive him for his whinging. The whinging is also in part because of the butterfly stitches holding the cut together, carefully put in place by Derek who’d had great difficulty not getting Stiles’ ridiculously long eyelashes all caught up in them.
He’s sprawled out on Derek’s bed now, wearing a pair of Derek’s old sweatpants slung too low on his hips. He has forgone a shirt only because all of Derek’s are in desperate need of being washed and his own had been covered in the surprising amount of blood that had come from Stiles’ eyebrow.
Derek’s gaze follows the sprawl of Stiles’ legs, the butt you could bounce a nickel off, and the trail of moles that dot his skin from the band of his sweatpants in a lazy pattern upwards towards his hairline. He’s got his face turned to one side, the undamaged side smushed into the pillow, one arm under it and the other flopped out over the edge. Strong wrists and long nimble fingers. Derek has heard Stiles say he’s weak, that sarcasm is his only defence, but Derek knows that isn’t true.
He knows Stiles can fight with the best of them—and sure, he is a human amongst wolves, and maybe he tells himself he is weak in comparison but Derek still won’t bite—he can tell from the shift of bone beneath supple skin that Stiles is stronger than he looks at first glance. Knows, intimately, that Stiles can hold his own, can meet Derek push for shove.
‘Are you just going to stand there and stare or do something about it?’ Stiles asks, waggling his butt in the air. There’s a smirk on his face now, and Derek rolls his eyes even though Stiles can’t see him. Stiles raises his head as if to prove Derek wrong, propping his chin up on his hand. ‘Come on, grumpy.’
‘I thought you were in too much pain,’ Derek says scathingly, unbuckling his belt and shimmying out of his jeans. Stiles watches the movement, gaze appraising—Derek is assuming appraising, it’s either appraising or sleepy, it’s hard to tell with one eye covered. He whips his shirt over his head and throws it in Stiles’ direction.
It lands expertly on Stiles’ head, and he swats it away as Derek slides onto the bed and straddles Stiles’ legs. He kisses his way up Stiles’ back, following the trail of moles up to Stiles’ nape, smirking against his skin when Stiles drops his head and stretches out beneath him.
‘Aw yeah…’ Stiles breathes, arms stretching out, fingers spread wide. Derek runs a hand down Stiles’ arm, tracing muscle beneath seemingly delicate skin, twining their fingers together and bending Stiles’ arm up so as to kiss his knuckles. ‘Ohh… we’re having one of those nights are we…’
‘What nights?’ Derek says, pecking a kiss to Stiles’ smirk before dipping his head back down to lick his way up Stiles’ wrist.
‘You have a wrist fetish, or a hand fetish or something…’ Stiles says, disentangling their hands. He pushes Derek back softly, just enough that he can turn around onto his back and look up at Derek.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Derek says, fingers wrapping around one of Stiles’ wrists, thumb rubbing a circle at his pulse point.
‘Not complaining,’ Stiles says, reaching out towards Derek, his left hand swipes too close to Derek’s eye and he shifts away before Stiles can accidentally take his eye out. ‘Oh Jesus, sorry,’ he says, biting his lip. His right hand squeezes at Derek’s neck, pulling him in closer. ‘Depth perception…’
‘You could take off the eye patch,’ Derek says, poking at the cotton covering half of Stiles’ cheek. ‘It’s just a cut.’
‘It’s just in case I tear the stitches off while I sleep, or during any other strenuous nightly activities,’ Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows, which is definitely much less effective with one eyebrow out of commission—supposedly out of commission, he’s clearly attempting to raise his left eyebrow anyway, despite the stitches. ‘Ow.’
‘That’s what you get,’ Derek says, placing a hand over Stiles’ eye, leeching some of the pain. ‘You’re an idiot. And I think you’re telling yourself that so as you can pretend to be a pirate.’
‘And yet…’ Stiles says, wriggling underneath him, hands trailing down Derek’s chest and pausing at the band of his boxers. Derek reaches down and grabs Stiles’ wrists, bringing them both to his mouth and pressing kisses to the pulse point of each in turn. ‘Seriously dude, what is with the wrists? Is this really a power thing, am I weak and breakable?’
‘Strong,’ Derek murmurs, pressing his palms up against Stiles’ and twining their fingers together again. Stiles’ mouth goes slack in surprise.
‘Oh…’
‘I don’t know where you get the impression you’re weak from,’ Derek says, thumbs rubbing against the bones on the outside of Stiles’ wrists.
‘That might be the getting my ass kicked six ways to Sunday all the time.’
‘I dunno,’ Derek says, pressing kisses down one of Stiles’ wrists. ‘You held that omega off pretty good all by yourself tonight.’
‘He almost took my eye out,’ Stiles says. ‘And it’s pretty well.’
‘Smartass,’ Derek grunts, surging forward to kiss Stiles on the mouth. Stiles keens into him, drawing the kiss out long and sweet as he swipes his tongue into Derek’s mouth and slides their tongues together. Stiles loosens his grip from Derek’s hands, sliding one hand up into Derek’s hair, the other sliding around to his back, digging his blunt fingernails in.
‘So… does that mean I get to top tonight?’ Stiles asks when they pull apart, Derek resting his forehead against Stiles’.
‘You really think that’s smart, with an eye patch on and limited depth perception?’
‘I can take the patch off!’
‘I thought you said you needed it in case of strenuous nightly activities…’
‘Are you going to smash my face into the pillows?’
‘No.’
‘Then let me take this off,’ Stiles says, reaching up to his eye, poking about at the tape. ‘Oh god, I’m going to rip half my eyebrow off.’
‘You’re not going to rip your eyebrow off, I put the tape above your eyebrow,’ Derek says, brushing Stiles’ fingers away and pulling the tape away gently and peeling off the cotton eye patch. ‘Ta da.’
‘Even your ta-da’s are sarcastic,’ Stiles grumbles, sliding his hands down to Derek’s waist and flipping them over. He lays himself out on top of Derek, plucking the cotton eye patch from his hand and putting it on the side table. ‘Just in case. How do I look?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘Don’t make me punch you,’ Stiles says, poking Derek in the side. He squirms and grabs a hold of Stiles’ wrists again, lightly restraining.
‘You look like you won a fight with an omega,’ Derek says. ‘Your eye is a highly unflattering shade of purple.’
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘Little bit.’
‘Such a weirdo,’ Stiles says, pressing a kiss to Derek’s lips. ‘You’re lucky I like you.’