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Stiles had Plans for tonight. Plans with a capital P, ones that included nakedness and scratches in the headboard and, hopefully, that new toy Derek had brought home a couple of days ago. Living together rocked, for real, especially after that one year of sneaking around before he finished high school and the rushed weekend visits for the three years that he was away. No more having to worry about someone seeing them out together and telling his dad, no more roommates with bad timing, just their very own place in which they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. It was fucking heaven (fucking heaven, too).
Right, so, anyway. Plans. Toy, nudity, headboard, sex. All this was proceeding well, he thought, as Derek kissed him deeper and Stiles couldn’t hold back the (relatively) quiet moans that escaped his mouth when Derek started thumbing across his left nipple. Even through his shirt, the sensation was incredible. Eager to get on with the show, Stiles reached out to pull on the hem of Derek’s shirt, his wordless request to take it off, and Derek seemed happy to oblige.
Then he stopped. Just froze in mid-motion, his shirt halfway on and halfway off, his erection still flush against Stiles’ thigh. He pulled back enough to see that little tic in Derek’s jaw, the one that used to be Stiles’ fault most of the time, and his boyfriend’s eyes narrowing in irritation. Stiles was just about to ask what the hell the problem was when Derek growled, “Get him the fuck out of here. Now.”
And the front door slammed open, and Stiles heard his name called, and then a familiar “Oh God, you guys, come on!” rang out into the apartment.
Suddenly thankful that he was still dressed, Stiles stomped out into the living room to be greeted by Scott pulling what they’d referred to since elementary school as “the cooties face” at him.
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”
“Dude. Allison’s got three friends over, I thought I could hang out here and we could watch movies or something”, Scott replied, as if that were a perfectly reasonable response.
“But you didn’t think maybe it would be wise to call first?” Stiles asked, losing patience quickly.
“Since when do I have to call first? We never call first”, Scott said, looking like Stiles had seriously just hurt his feelings. And maybe he had. Whatever. He’d make it up to Scott on a day when he didn’t have a raging boner that needed some immediate attention.
“Possibly since I live with my boyfriend and there could be activity happening that I don’t want you eavesdropping on. How many times have I just showed up in your living room since you and Allison moved in together?” Stiles knew he had Scott there, because the correct answer was ‘zero times’. He didn’t want to walk in on anything going on between the two of them outside of holding hands, and he (apparently incorrectly) assumed Scott would have enough sense to have the same idea. Ohhh, right. Sense. Common sense. And Scott. Stiles realized where he’d made his mistake in this equation.
Scott looked appropriately chastised for a few seconds, but got his righteous indignance back on fairly quickly. “It’s not eavesdropping if I didn’t hear it on purpose, Stiles! I don’t want to hear whatever the hell it is that you two get up to in the bedroom. Christ, it’s not like I’m lurking in shadows being all creepy like-”
Stiles hoped his eyes effectively communicated “Don’t you fucking say it” before Scott cut himself off and backed up, holding up his hands in the universal symbol of surrender.
“Sorry, sorry, I know, Derek’s not like that anymore.”
From the bedroom came an even-toned, “You know I can hear you, Scott, right?”
Scott rolled his eyes and covered the my fucking LIFE face with his hands, while Stiles pushed his shoulder toward the front door with his own you can show yourself out, dickhead face.
If Stiles went back into that bedroom and found Derek in his pajamas reading a book, Scott was going to die a slow painful death.
Luckily for all parties involved (some more than others) Scott’s number wasn’t up just yet.