such bright eyes you have (gift for going_2_hell)
Title: such bright eyes you have
Author: roslindi
Recipient: going_2_hell
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 1, 700
Warnings: none
Summary: Derek is a barista at a coffee shop in Beacon Hills and Stiles is just passing through town. It is the opposite of slow burn.
Author's Notes: Canon-AU that also manages to be a coffeshop!AU. I hope this is what you wanted, bb. :D
Beacon Hills was supposed to be an hour-long detour on Stiles’ way to San Francisco. The plan been get to the town, visit his mom’s grave, buy gas, and then continue down the highway until he reached his friend’s apartment in SanFran.
But of course, Stiles was lured away from his path. First it was by coffee, and then it was by his need to ogle Tall, Dark and Sexy who had sold him the coffee.
"Lydia," Tall, Dark and Sexy says. “Go home. I'll close up."
Stiles makes a half-hearted attempt not to be too obvious about watching the pretty redheaded barista respond. She lifts an eyebrow, looks at the man Stiles is guessing is her boss, and then deliberately turns to look directly at Stiles. He ducks his head, but not before their eyes meet and he catches her knowing smirk.
"Of course, Derek," she says. The girl, Lydia, pulls out her iPhone to take a few pictures of the calculations she had been scribbling on the TODAY'S SPECIALS blackboard, grabs her purse, and clears out of the coffee shop in less than a minute.
Once she is gone Tall, Dark and Sexy (Derek, Stiles thinks, she called him Derek) begins pushing in chairs and wiping down tables without a word to Stiles about closing time, even though Stiles is the only customer to linger so late. Stiles tries not to watch the elegant, purposeful way Derek moves, the quick movement of his hands and the line of his broad shoulders. ‘Tries’ being the operative word. Stiles can't resist sneaking peeks when he hopes Derek won't notice.
Stiles is so engrossed in pretending not to notice Derek's every move that he actually does get distracted until Derek is standing over him. The sign on the door has been turned around and the complicated-looking machines behind the counter are no longer lit up and humming lowly.
"Oh," Stiles startles. "You want me to clear off, now, right? I'll just grab my stuff and be out in like, three seconds, okay?" He avoids Derek's eyes because, awkward. He really should have done the polite thing and left when Lydia-the-barista left, except he really wanted to sneakily continue staring at Derek.
"No."
Um, what?
"Um, what?"
" Come upstairs with me."
Stiles would probably start hyperventilating at this point except, what is air?
"Um, what?" He repeats again, and then mentally curses himself for sounding like a broken record. A spastic, lust-addled broken record.
"I want you," Derek says, precisely and slowly, like he if he doesn’t enunciate very clearly then Stiles won't understand, "to come upstairs with me.”
In all fairness, the enunciation doesn’t leave room for misinterpretation.
Stiles had been leaning his chair on its back two legs, despite many years of high school teachers bitching at him about how he'd destroy the chair by doing that, and at that little pronouncement he accidentally lets it slip forward with a loud and thump. Derek raises an eyebrow. "So?"
"Yes. Yes, definitely yes. I am totally, entirely onboard with that plan. Just let me get this..." Stiles trails off, gesturing to the books and papers shreds littering his table. "I'll just--"
Derek flicks a glance down at the debris Stiles somehow always accumulates by being somewhere for more than ten minutes. "Leave it."
"What? Why?"
"No one's going to take it. Come with me."
And it's most likely insane, but Stiles decides to just go with it. He lets Derek pull him, gently, by the wrist into a stairwell hidden behind a particularly ugly tapestry on the wall. Stiles suspects the tapestry is some kind of inside joke because otherwise, damn someone has terrible taste in décor.
Stiles ‘entire body prickles in anticipation as he lets Derek lead him up the stairs into the apartment above the coffee shop.
Stiles thinks he should maybe say something like ‘I never do this sort of thing, I don’t know what’s come over me,’ except apparently he does do this sort of thing, and he knows exactly what (who) is hopefully going to come all over him in the near future.
“Take off your jeans,” Derek says, and he really has no right to sound so sexy when he’s being so bossy. No right at all.
Stiles unbuckles his belt and tugs it off. He’s not being purposefully slow, exactly, but he does appreciate the irritated huff Derek gives. Except then Derek crowds in and bats Stiles’ hands away and before Stiles can even figure out what is happening his socks and sneakers are across the room and his favorite jeans around his ankles. And, whoa, that was fast.
‘Fast’ seems to be the modus operandi of the evening, considering Stiles only met Derek about three hours ago and ‘Take off your jeans’ had been the second longest thing Derek had said to him, extremely forward, but undeniably effective.
Derek doesn’t bother undressing himself before diving a hand under the elastic band of Stiles’ boxers and cupping his balls. It’s a move that is oh-so-hot, but also just the slightest bit terrifying because it suddenly occurs to Stiles just how vulnerable he is in this position. He can’t help but notice how knowing Derek’s grin is, and sharp and bright Derek’s teeth are in the dim light of the apartment above the tragically hipster coffee shop where Derek works. But Derek just rolls them in an entirely pleasurable way, before slipping his fingers past to dip a fingertip into Stiles. Stiles’ hips jerk and he almost falls over because, balance? How can anyone balance during a sensation like that?
And then Derek’s hand is out of Stiles’ boxers.
Stiles huffs, “Rude!” To which Derek rolls his eyes. Eye-rolling must be Derek’s signature move or something, because in the brief time Stiles has been acquainted with him he has done it a lot. Stiles crosses his arms and says, “You know excessive eye-rolling can lead to optical nerve strai-nnnghhhh.” Derek cuts him off with this neck-biting-sucking-move that would probably weird Stiles out if he put much thought into it, but feels so very amazing.
Derek pulls away long enough to say, “Bed, couch, floor?”
“Fuck the what?”
There’s the eye-roll again. “Where do you want to do this?” Derek clarifies the question.
“Oh, I like mattresses. They’re so convenient and easily navigable.”
Derek grins. “We’ll start there, then.”
Yes, please.
They stumble through the small, dark hallway of the little flat above the coffee house. There’s a dull thud when Stiles accidentally backs Derek into the doorframe. He pulls back from Derek, ready to apologize and make sure he hasn’t done any permanent damage to the back of Derek’s skull, but apparently there isn’t any major damage because Derek takes the opportunity to kick open the door and shove Stiles into the bedroom.
In the moment before Derek flicks the overhead light on, Stiles could swear he sees Derek’s blue eyes light up like an animal’s at night. There’s a term for that in animal eyes, Stiles thinks. Then Stiles is spread out on the bed and Derek is pressing down on him and the light blinds him for a moment. When he catches Derek’s eyes again the glowing effect is gone, and Stiles tells himself he must have imagined it in the first place.
Derek softly nips his way from Stiles’ collar bone to the start of the coarse trail of hair just below his belly button and Stiles just lays back, biting his lip and trying not to embarrass himself by jizzing in his boxers like he’s a goddamn high school student again instead of college graduate pseudo-adult. It’s way more difficult than it should be, especially when Stiles feels Derek’s tongue trace the edge of his bellybutton as though he’s just getting a taste of the salt of Stiles’ skin.
Stiles is making these high-pitched whimpering noises that really are not kosher, but he can’t seem to stop making them.
Derek pulls his lips away from the pale flesh of Stiles’ belly with a noise that is really, truly obscene and Stiles suddenly wishes he had a tape recorder so he could play it over and over again because, jesus flying spaghetti monster christ that went straight to his dick. Derek rolls over to reach into a drawer and Stiles makes a conscious effort not to protest the brief lack of skin-to-skin contact. Stiles closes his eyes and counts to ten as he hears the telltale rip of foil from a condom wrapper.
Half a minute later Stiles feels Derek’s squeezing into the soft part of his skin that’s just above his hips but isn’t quite his waist. Derek’s nails are long enough to dig into him in little crescents.
It’s practically obscene how good he feels, but there’s an irritating hum in the back of Stiles’ head that won’t allow him to just let go entirely. That doesn’t stop him from trying, obviously. They manage a slow, sloppy rhythm that Stiles enjoys more for just how intimate it feels rather than for the actual sensations, although those are at just about mind-blowing level, too. Stiles is over-stimulated and on edge, and Derek must be as well because neither of them last very long. Derek finishes first and then surprises Stiles with an unabashed reach-around that prompts Stiles’ climax.
Stiles lies prone for awhile. Derek’s weight is still crushing him and neither is willing to move despite their position becoming increasingly uncomfortable, when Stiles recalls a lecture from a freshman biology class.
“Tapetum lucidum,” Stiles remembers belatedly.
There’s a palpable tension in the air from Stiles’ words. The only noise Stiles can hear is the whir of the ceiling fan and his own heart beating rabbit-fast. He can’t tell if it’s nerves, or adrenalin, or continued lust, that has his blood pumping so rapidly.
Derek’s voice is a breath against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “What?”
“The thing that makes animal eyes glow in the dark. It’s called ‘tapetum lucidum.’” Stiles pauses for a long moment, and then voices the thought that has been slowly churning in the back of his mind. “Humans don’t have it.”
Author: roslindi
Recipient: going_2_hell
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 1, 700
Warnings: none
Summary: Derek is a barista at a coffee shop in Beacon Hills and Stiles is just passing through town. It is the opposite of slow burn.
Author's Notes: Canon-AU that also manages to be a coffeshop!AU. I hope this is what you wanted, bb. :D
Beacon Hills was supposed to be an hour-long detour on Stiles’ way to San Francisco. The plan been get to the town, visit his mom’s grave, buy gas, and then continue down the highway until he reached his friend’s apartment in SanFran.
But of course, Stiles was lured away from his path. First it was by coffee, and then it was by his need to ogle Tall, Dark and Sexy who had sold him the coffee.
"Lydia," Tall, Dark and Sexy says. “Go home. I'll close up."
Stiles makes a half-hearted attempt not to be too obvious about watching the pretty redheaded barista respond. She lifts an eyebrow, looks at the man Stiles is guessing is her boss, and then deliberately turns to look directly at Stiles. He ducks his head, but not before their eyes meet and he catches her knowing smirk.
"Of course, Derek," she says. The girl, Lydia, pulls out her iPhone to take a few pictures of the calculations she had been scribbling on the TODAY'S SPECIALS blackboard, grabs her purse, and clears out of the coffee shop in less than a minute.
Once she is gone Tall, Dark and Sexy (Derek, Stiles thinks, she called him Derek) begins pushing in chairs and wiping down tables without a word to Stiles about closing time, even though Stiles is the only customer to linger so late. Stiles tries not to watch the elegant, purposeful way Derek moves, the quick movement of his hands and the line of his broad shoulders. ‘Tries’ being the operative word. Stiles can't resist sneaking peeks when he hopes Derek won't notice.
Stiles is so engrossed in pretending not to notice Derek's every move that he actually does get distracted until Derek is standing over him. The sign on the door has been turned around and the complicated-looking machines behind the counter are no longer lit up and humming lowly.
"Oh," Stiles startles. "You want me to clear off, now, right? I'll just grab my stuff and be out in like, three seconds, okay?" He avoids Derek's eyes because, awkward. He really should have done the polite thing and left when Lydia-the-barista left, except he really wanted to sneakily continue staring at Derek.
"No."
Um, what?
"Um, what?"
" Come upstairs with me."
Stiles would probably start hyperventilating at this point except, what is air?
"Um, what?" He repeats again, and then mentally curses himself for sounding like a broken record. A spastic, lust-addled broken record.
"I want you," Derek says, precisely and slowly, like he if he doesn’t enunciate very clearly then Stiles won't understand, "to come upstairs with me.”
In all fairness, the enunciation doesn’t leave room for misinterpretation.
Stiles had been leaning his chair on its back two legs, despite many years of high school teachers bitching at him about how he'd destroy the chair by doing that, and at that little pronouncement he accidentally lets it slip forward with a loud and thump. Derek raises an eyebrow. "So?"
"Yes. Yes, definitely yes. I am totally, entirely onboard with that plan. Just let me get this..." Stiles trails off, gesturing to the books and papers shreds littering his table. "I'll just--"
Derek flicks a glance down at the debris Stiles somehow always accumulates by being somewhere for more than ten minutes. "Leave it."
"What? Why?"
"No one's going to take it. Come with me."
And it's most likely insane, but Stiles decides to just go with it. He lets Derek pull him, gently, by the wrist into a stairwell hidden behind a particularly ugly tapestry on the wall. Stiles suspects the tapestry is some kind of inside joke because otherwise, damn someone has terrible taste in décor.
Stiles ‘entire body prickles in anticipation as he lets Derek lead him up the stairs into the apartment above the coffee shop.
Stiles thinks he should maybe say something like ‘I never do this sort of thing, I don’t know what’s come over me,’ except apparently he does do this sort of thing, and he knows exactly what (who) is hopefully going to come all over him in the near future.
“Take off your jeans,” Derek says, and he really has no right to sound so sexy when he’s being so bossy. No right at all.
Stiles unbuckles his belt and tugs it off. He’s not being purposefully slow, exactly, but he does appreciate the irritated huff Derek gives. Except then Derek crowds in and bats Stiles’ hands away and before Stiles can even figure out what is happening his socks and sneakers are across the room and his favorite jeans around his ankles. And, whoa, that was fast.
‘Fast’ seems to be the modus operandi of the evening, considering Stiles only met Derek about three hours ago and ‘Take off your jeans’ had been the second longest thing Derek had said to him, extremely forward, but undeniably effective.
Derek doesn’t bother undressing himself before diving a hand under the elastic band of Stiles’ boxers and cupping his balls. It’s a move that is oh-so-hot, but also just the slightest bit terrifying because it suddenly occurs to Stiles just how vulnerable he is in this position. He can’t help but notice how knowing Derek’s grin is, and sharp and bright Derek’s teeth are in the dim light of the apartment above the tragically hipster coffee shop where Derek works. But Derek just rolls them in an entirely pleasurable way, before slipping his fingers past to dip a fingertip into Stiles. Stiles’ hips jerk and he almost falls over because, balance? How can anyone balance during a sensation like that?
And then Derek’s hand is out of Stiles’ boxers.
Stiles huffs, “Rude!” To which Derek rolls his eyes. Eye-rolling must be Derek’s signature move or something, because in the brief time Stiles has been acquainted with him he has done it a lot. Stiles crosses his arms and says, “You know excessive eye-rolling can lead to optical nerve strai-nnnghhhh.” Derek cuts him off with this neck-biting-sucking-move that would probably weird Stiles out if he put much thought into it, but feels so very amazing.
Derek pulls away long enough to say, “Bed, couch, floor?”
“Fuck the what?”
There’s the eye-roll again. “Where do you want to do this?” Derek clarifies the question.
“Oh, I like mattresses. They’re so convenient and easily navigable.”
Derek grins. “We’ll start there, then.”
Yes, please.
They stumble through the small, dark hallway of the little flat above the coffee house. There’s a dull thud when Stiles accidentally backs Derek into the doorframe. He pulls back from Derek, ready to apologize and make sure he hasn’t done any permanent damage to the back of Derek’s skull, but apparently there isn’t any major damage because Derek takes the opportunity to kick open the door and shove Stiles into the bedroom.
In the moment before Derek flicks the overhead light on, Stiles could swear he sees Derek’s blue eyes light up like an animal’s at night. There’s a term for that in animal eyes, Stiles thinks. Then Stiles is spread out on the bed and Derek is pressing down on him and the light blinds him for a moment. When he catches Derek’s eyes again the glowing effect is gone, and Stiles tells himself he must have imagined it in the first place.
Derek softly nips his way from Stiles’ collar bone to the start of the coarse trail of hair just below his belly button and Stiles just lays back, biting his lip and trying not to embarrass himself by jizzing in his boxers like he’s a goddamn high school student again instead of college graduate pseudo-adult. It’s way more difficult than it should be, especially when Stiles feels Derek’s tongue trace the edge of his bellybutton as though he’s just getting a taste of the salt of Stiles’ skin.
Stiles is making these high-pitched whimpering noises that really are not kosher, but he can’t seem to stop making them.
Derek pulls his lips away from the pale flesh of Stiles’ belly with a noise that is really, truly obscene and Stiles suddenly wishes he had a tape recorder so he could play it over and over again because, jesus flying spaghetti monster christ that went straight to his dick. Derek rolls over to reach into a drawer and Stiles makes a conscious effort not to protest the brief lack of skin-to-skin contact. Stiles closes his eyes and counts to ten as he hears the telltale rip of foil from a condom wrapper.
Half a minute later Stiles feels Derek’s squeezing into the soft part of his skin that’s just above his hips but isn’t quite his waist. Derek’s nails are long enough to dig into him in little crescents.
It’s practically obscene how good he feels, but there’s an irritating hum in the back of Stiles’ head that won’t allow him to just let go entirely. That doesn’t stop him from trying, obviously. They manage a slow, sloppy rhythm that Stiles enjoys more for just how intimate it feels rather than for the actual sensations, although those are at just about mind-blowing level, too. Stiles is over-stimulated and on edge, and Derek must be as well because neither of them last very long. Derek finishes first and then surprises Stiles with an unabashed reach-around that prompts Stiles’ climax.
Stiles lies prone for awhile. Derek’s weight is still crushing him and neither is willing to move despite their position becoming increasingly uncomfortable, when Stiles recalls a lecture from a freshman biology class.
“Tapetum lucidum,” Stiles remembers belatedly.
There’s a palpable tension in the air from Stiles’ words. The only noise Stiles can hear is the whir of the ceiling fan and his own heart beating rabbit-fast. He can’t tell if it’s nerves, or adrenalin, or continued lust, that has his blood pumping so rapidly.
Derek’s voice is a breath against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “What?”
“The thing that makes animal eyes glow in the dark. It’s called ‘tapetum lucidum.’” Stiles pauses for a long moment, and then voices the thought that has been slowly churning in the back of his mind. “Humans don’t have it.”