[ Making sure that Stiles is comfortable, and his arm isn't at risk of being bumped against anything, Derek sinks into his seat and lets himself relax further. Though Stiles is all limbs and lack of coordination, far from being a fighter, he feels safe. Anchored. Like he spent years lost in the dark, only for the moon to finally reach through the clouds to show him the way back home. (And all he can think of is that story, gold chasing silver over and over and over again, constellations spread across white.)
Though relaxed, almost at peace with everything, his body bristles a little as Stiles lolls his head away. But there's no aggression, no threat to the lupa as he bares himself.
Instead, he simply drags his nose down from his hair and behind the curve of his ear, following some unmarked path until he can brush his lips against pale skin, soft and barely there. ] I don't know what you're talking about, they like you.
[ There's no real vitriol behind it, though. He hums at the feeling of Derek's mouth, tiny and flustering, enough to make his chest constrict with butterflies--kind of a ridiculous sensation, but there's no better word for it, like he can barely breathe with the force of the affection he's starting to feel for the faoladh. That he's been feeling for a while. They have yet to do anything even remotely romantic, and it doesn't really matter; it made things feel natural instead of rushed, like the undeniable chemistry that'd been there from the first day evolved into something real.
It's sure as hell helped things along, anyway. He shakes his head minutely and snorts, grin turning up soft and affectionate, something private he'd never share with anyone else. ] There's a fine, fine line between "like" and "tolerate", oh wise Alpha. You of all people toe it better than anyone.
[ That is, of course, said against Stiles' neck, which negates any namecalling that he might partake in completely. It's sort of funny that they can sit like this, affection shared in banter and slow growth. A part of him wants to open his mouth to Stiles' skin, the wild instincts that thrum in his blood, so that he can leave a mark on the warm, pale neck beneath his mouth.
But he doesn't. Instead, he sits and enjoys the quiet of the moment, closing his eyes and letting himself smile. Even if Stiles can't see it, he knows he'll feel it.
And he doesn't care. Not when they've come to the point they have. ] Funny, I feel like you've perfected that yourself.
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[ Making sure that Stiles is comfortable, and his arm isn't at risk of being bumped against anything, Derek sinks into his seat and lets himself relax further. Though Stiles is all limbs and lack of coordination, far from being a fighter, he feels safe. Anchored. Like he spent years lost in the dark, only for the moon to finally reach through the clouds to show him the way back home. (And all he can think of is that story, gold chasing silver over and over and over again, constellations spread across white.)
Though relaxed, almost at peace with everything, his body bristles a little as Stiles lolls his head away. But there's no aggression, no threat to the lupa as he bares himself.
Instead, he simply drags his nose down from his hair and behind the curve of his ear, following some unmarked path until he can brush his lips against pale skin, soft and barely there. ] I don't know what you're talking about, they like you.
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[ There's no real vitriol behind it, though. He hums at the feeling of Derek's mouth, tiny and flustering, enough to make his chest constrict with butterflies--kind of a ridiculous sensation, but there's no better word for it, like he can barely breathe with the force of the affection he's starting to feel for the faoladh. That he's been feeling for a while. They have yet to do anything even remotely romantic, and it doesn't really matter; it made things feel natural instead of rushed, like the undeniable chemistry that'd been there from the first day evolved into something real.
It's sure as hell helped things along, anyway. He shakes his head minutely and snorts, grin turning up soft and affectionate, something private he'd never share with anyone else. ] There's a fine, fine line between "like" and "tolerate", oh wise Alpha. You of all people toe it better than anyone.
no subject
[ That is, of course, said against Stiles' neck, which negates any namecalling that he might partake in completely. It's sort of funny that they can sit like this, affection shared in banter and slow growth. A part of him wants to open his mouth to Stiles' skin, the wild instincts that thrum in his blood, so that he can leave a mark on the warm, pale neck beneath his mouth.
But he doesn't. Instead, he sits and enjoys the quiet of the moment, closing his eyes and letting himself smile. Even if Stiles can't see it, he knows he'll feel it.
And he doesn't care. Not when they've come to the point they have. ] Funny, I feel like you've perfected that yourself.