okay but what if Derek was a hug deliveryman and Stiles ordered a hug
Stiles looks up, his mouth dropping open when he reaches the pinnacle of stubbled beauty that is the man’s face.
“Oh wow,” he says, “wow, I would not have called the leather.”
Stiles kind of wants to marry his eyebrows. There’s something kind of Bronte about them, dark and brooding, like they could carry him across a windswept moor. He might be wearing a dress in this scenario. He’s comfortable in his masculinity.
“You’re a little later than I was expecting -” he raises an eyebrow, his pause expectant.
“Derek, right. I am running late for forensics, Derek, so we’ll do the whole getting to know you thing next time, okay?” Stiles pushes his chair back with a hideous screech and regards him for a second. He figures, first time, he should probably go with the clasped hands back pounding bro-hug, only under the leather jacket there’s a forest-green henley that just looks like it smells really good, and Stiles has never been good with temptation. He slides his arms between the henley and the jacket, steps in close, presses himself against body heat and a certain rigidity that melts pretty quickly into Derek’s arms around his back, perfect pressure, snuggly bliss.
Stiles steps back and beams.
“That was - shit, perfect. Thanks, Derek.”
“Yeah,” Derek says. He looks bemused, almost dazed. Stiles’d go in for round two only he catches sight of a clock over Derek’s shoulder and swears, slings his bag over his shoulder, runs.
He honestly does know better than to hang out on Craigslist, Scott, he does, but where can you go wrong with a hug delivery service? That’s like hating puppies, Scott. Why would you hate the puppies?
Scott, sounding frustrated and a little worried and kinda reluctantly amused, insists that he doesn’t hate the puppies.
Right, Stiles agrees, because all of his plans are amazing and a hug delivery service couldn’t possibly be wrong. Right?
It’s so much easier to read agreement into everything Scott says when they’re only calling. There are unexpected advantages to college.
(There’s a weird email, apologising for the mix up at the coffee shop.
Hey, Stiles sends back, I didn’t mind that you were late, no worries. And then, greatly daring, so about getting to know each other…
He honestly does know better than to pass out his actual address on the internet, okay, he does, but… y’know. Puppies.)
No leather this time, though, which is thoughtful of him, just a dark red sweater with thumb holes that should possibly be illegal.
“Hey,” Stiles says, eager and happy and grinning all over his face, and this time it triggers a tiny smile in return. “Hey, Derek.”
“Stiles,” Derek says. “Look -”
“Are you okay to do this sitting down, this time?”
Derek’s eyebrows huddle together for warmth (the windswept moors will do that to you) but he doesn’t look exactly averse, so Stiles tugs him by the sleeve towards the sinfully comfortable eyesore of a couch, getting him situated in the corner and then leaning back against him, pulling Derek’s arm around him. He tips his head back against Derek’s shoulder and moans, faintly.
“I swear, Derek,” he says, “you were made for me.”
Derek doesn’t respond. His arm maybe tightens, a little.
(A little while later, halfway into Serenity, Stiles thinks he maybe hears knocking at the door, but frankly he’s in the best damn hug of his life thus far and nothing short of fire alarms is getting him out of it.
Derek huffs into his hair. Stiles is taking that as agreement.)
Laura turns around when the door opens, cocking her head to one side at her brother’s appearance - he’s flushed, and a little rumpled, and almost smiling.
“So,” she says, “did you give the neighbor kid the parcel we took in, yet?”
Derek glares at her, eyebrows lowering, a wash of bright color cresting on his cheeks.
“I’m working on it.” The tilting of his mouth looks almost involuntary. “I’ll try again tomorrow,” he says.
dededos
blakekathryn
areudirty
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snowghoul
