Can we just talk about the thing that dylan o’brien does where he drags his face up when he kisses all open mouth and GASFNHDKJfabnldgkjnaeldgrkndkndklfgvnjdlfk
“Okay, so I’ll just,” Derek muttered, shoving his belt through his beltloops, looking down. Stiles rolled over and looked at him; the sweat was still cooling on the back of his neck, his knees pleasantly loose from orgasm, but Derek looked—not pleasantly loose.
“Okay,” Stiles said cautiously. Derek bent and picked up his shirt, the muscles in his forearm bunching, knuckles white.
“Was there—” Derek’s eyes snapped up to his, pale and blank, and Stiles had to force himself to keep talking, “did I do something you didn’t like?” He’d seemed like he’d liked it, smiling up at Stiles, expectant, when Stiles slid down on top of him, let their legs tangle together, knees knocking, the hot little catch in his throat, later, when Stiles said, “You want me to?” and Derek said yes, shuddering.
“Nope,” Derek said.
“See, now you’re mad,” Stiles said, sitting up, angry himself, at Derek, for fucking everything up, for getting dressed when Stiles had wanted him to stay, to wear Stiles’ purple bathrobe and eat cereal, sitting on the kitchen table, robe splitting open over the knob of his knee, at himself, for making Derek look like that.
“It doesn’t matter,” Derek said, finally, and Stiles saw it then, Derek’s eyes widening in dismay when he realized what he’d done. “I mean, it’s not—there isn’t—”
“We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way,” Stiles said, and Derek just folded like a house of cards, shoulders hunching in defeat, like he’d known Stiles for eight years and had stopped being able to lie to him five years ago, had stopped trying three years ago, had started—doing other things, hanging out on his couch, talking a little, up late, eyes sleepy and content, turned into someone Stiles wanted to tell things to.
“I just—thought you were going to kiss me, that’s all,” Derek said, in a tumbling rush. He looked embarrassed.
“What?” Stiles said. “I kissed you!” They’d kissed inside the door, Derek’s hands on his face, in bed, Stiles dragging his mouth against Derek’s tattoo, the hot arc of his shoulder, the heavy deliberate curve of the small of his back.
“Yeah, but—” Derek shrugged.
“You didn’t do the thing,” Derek said.
“Your thing!” Derek said, making a vehement, incomprehensible gesture. “Your move! With—the—your face.”
“That’s, what?” Stiles said. “I don’t have a move. I don’t—how would you even know if I have a move?”
Derek rolled his eyes.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Stiles huffed. He stood up and dragged on his jeans, awkwardly, hopping on one foot, thinking this whole thing had been a huge, stupid mista—
“Look, it’s just this thing you do with girls when you really want them to think you’re sexy or whatever, or get them all—”
“I don’t have a move!” Stiles said, “and if I did, it wouldn’t be—”
“I’ve watched you kiss a lot of girls,” Derek said flatly. “You have a move. I guess you just didn’t—” his shoulders shoved up, a half shrug. “think that I was—”
“What, good enough for the move?” Stiles said incredulously, but Derek nodded, and put his shirt back on, picked up his shoes, like he was leaving, “wait, are you—leaving?”
“I think—yeah,” Derek said. “I should go.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, I’ll do the move,” Stiles said, reaching out and grabbing one of the shoes out of his hands. “I mean, I’ll do all the moves, I’ll do any move you want, I’ll—please don’t go.”
Derek hesitated. Stiles took the other shoe, dropped them both on the other side of his desk.
“You don’t have to,” Derek said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles said. Derek’s eyes flicked down over his chest, his still unbuttoned jeans, back up to his face, eyes going a little dark. “C’mere,” Stiles said.