Notes: One day I'm going to get good at writing notes.
Today is not that day.
I just needed Derek dancing around to really bad 90's music and Stiles falling ever the more for him and ended up with this mess in which any mistakes are mine.
AKA: I didn't want to do any actual work and I didn't want to work on any other fic that I probably should be, but I was listening to Poe so we'll all get over it eventually.
Give me a holler on Tumblr (ThePetulantNovelist) or Twitter (camefromthe90s) we can have a chat about anything and everything (but mostly nothing).
And you can explain to me in great detail how to add links to my notes. It'll be a good time, come join the party.
Tuesday.
The unholy second child to a week Derek does not want to have. He calls by ten AM, he'd be done with the world.
Derek sighs against the onslaught of I really don't want to do the things today that accompany his rise from the couch; his perfect Derek sized indent cooling the minute his ass meets the free air. Breathing a low fuck seems appropriate and is therefore done.
Glancing around the room he isn't even sure where to start. The whole loft is in chaos from last weeks impromptu movie slash puppy pile slash generally impose on Derek's generous hosting abilities get together. He hadn't had time to square away the room what with all the big uglies taking a break from Beacon Hills leaving him stressed over nonexistent villainous creatures. Obviously. It's not as though he was hoping the pups would come tumbling back to the comfort of his den. No siree!
The rush of hot air that passes through his nose feels volcanic when he bends to grab as many throw pillows as possible. He doesn't quite remember what their placement on his couch was before Scott insisted they belonged on the floor with them so he throws them in what he deems a better position attempting to not let the change phase him. It takes him two minutes of standing doing nothing after completing one task to decide this sucks. Organizing sucks. Derek plops his ass down upon the new fluff of ruffled cushions.
The clock strikes ten 'til ten.
Lo and behold world, Derek Hale is done with you.
Derek groans. Maid. Investment in a maid. Someone to come take care of the tedious work of cleaning one room. He scratches that off the list of ideas Derek creates but never follows through with because stranger in his territory moving his stuff does not sound like something he honestly wishes to follow through with. Maybe when he is more comfortable. But, cleaning is something that he has to get done and needs to get done soon. Pups plus leftover cuddling supplies is a recipe for disaster.
It takes damn near ten minutes for him to huff out a sigh like he's going to get up. Derek tightly shuts his eyes and once again begrudgingly shifts his warm butt into empty space. He quietly separates two large comforters from his second set of sheets, the very ones he's been searching for so he could wash his current set of sheets, and the extra pillows for his bed that he quickly decides smells faintly enough like pack to return to his bed unwashed. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Stiles tells him he's acting all wolfy followed by a mockingly Lydia sounding awh. The decision to smell the pillow happens without his consent and he successfully accomplishes one more task spanning over ten minutes.
Derek growls. He's a grown damn man who can't conjure the motivation to clean his own damn place. That's saddening. Maddeningly depressing. The conclusion to do the only thing that can be done when a place is too quiet and the stimulus is needed isn't one that requires much thought. Derek's feet carry him unconsciously to the stereo Isaac forced him into buying picking up a CD once owned by Laura on the way. He barely glances at the cover of the thing. The noise is simply needed.
Except Derek was sure he had an unspoken agreement with the music gods that when he picks up a disk without looking it should really be a good disk. Because when the first synthesizer keys mix trumpet hit his poor eardrums he thinks something ruptures from the sheer frequency. Why Laura ever liked music devoid of copious amounts of bass Derek will never understand.
Like the songs of the time, or at least the ones Erica prefers to sing, he's all about that bass, no treble.
It isn't until the mezzo-soprano tone of Anne Decatur Danielewski reaches his cerebellum that he bothers remembering that Laura used to adore this song after the move to New York. She'd listen to it until Derek thought he would have to break Hello in Laura's sleep. Now listening to her breathily sing brings nothing but a flutter of nostalgia and a stab of happiness.
If he gets up to fold the extra blankets with a little more umf in his step, well that's his problem.
Because Poe just told him she wants to kill him.
And dammit he wants to feel that fierce passion while he throws his laundry into the machine.
He finishes putting up the snuggle kit when I can do it with culinary taste bleeds into light Either ways. Hums in harmony with the next snippet of the chorus. By the second Johnny, Johnny, Angry Johnny he's happily singing along to the words with little finesse, but the whole morning has been laissez-faire.
A smile tugs at his lips through a thorough biweekly inhaling of ammonia and rubbing alcohol. His hips attempt small aborted thrusts that are equal parts awkward and unnoticed.
"I can do it in a church
I can do it any time or place.
I can do it like an angel
To quiet down your rage
But either way, either way
I wanna kill you
I wanna blow you-"
Barks of hearty laughter that can't possibly be made by Derek because he is singing drift from the sliding door he is staring directly at during the pause before Away. He drops the broom he was unabashedly molesting in his spur of the moment dance party. Two quick glances to the clock confirm the intruder is technically on time.
Stiles is laughing without showing any signs of stopping and Derek knows if the twerp glances up he'll catch bright angry purple-red skin made more prominent by dark stubble that will probably only help the snicker fest.
Stiles saw him.
Stiles saw him dancing around the loft listening to Poe.
Nay; Stiles saw him signing loudly dancing horribly to Anne Decatur Danielewski.
And Naturally Anne Decatur Danielewski also isn't showing any signs of stopping.
"No," Stiles gasps, "no please don't stop for my benefit." Then to rub salt into the wolfsbane hole. "Werewolves have to keep up their physique somehow."
Derek opens his mouth a few times in fish gapes, "I don't do this often." The Judging Eyebrow of Stilinski says the truth has just been adjudged a lie. Derek doesn't feel like arguing for his self image; he just watched it shrivel up and die.
Stiles somehow has made it into his personal space without being glared at broodingly or backed away from, but the soft hand against his heated skin is definitely welcome. Derek suddenly wishes for a time just an hour ago when his ass was in the perfect but now frigid Derek shaped imprint.
Registering Stiles is singing the next lyrics takes a moment; one long arm wraps around Derek's shoulders while wiry fingers maneuver Derek's larger hands onto his slim hips. The easy rocking calms his stuttering heartbeat and it doesn't take long for his own voice to softly join Stiles's. Each inhale brings the scent of vanilla and caramel that follows him as well as the tang of his own musk on the others skin.
The next This is Jezebel in Hell is belted out to the ceiling. Ends with both laughing, foreheads pressed together. The easy swaying from moments ago dissolves into the rhythmless mess Derek managed before the interruption.
Poe fades as the track ends. Stiles is beautifully gasping for breath his long fingers tangled into Derek's soft maroon sweater. The chatter of his pack slowly making their way up lulls a grin onto his face. The pups are just outside the door jittering in excitement and happiness-
"You could have just told me you wanted to blow me."
"Huh?"
"But I like the serenading better."
"I don't do this often!" Derek is positive his words have fallen on deaf ears even if the kiss to the corner of his mouth didn't symbolize an end to the conversation. Boyd rips the door open with a satisfying squeal.
This is one-hundred-percent happening again whether he likes it or not.
World,
Fuck off.
Love D. Hale.