"Could you just—" Derek points his pencil at Stiles, clenches his jaw impatiently.
Stiles freezes from where he’s scratching his nose, “Oh, uh, stay still?”
"Yes," Derek snaps curtly, looks back down at his paper.
"A please would be nice," Stiles murmurs, obviously murmured loud enough for Derek to catch.
Derek slaps his pencil onto the paper, looks up again with narrowed eyes.
Stiles is smirking, not even looking in Derek’s direction, but out of the window. He doesn’t even need to see Derek’s reaction to know he’s having one, anyway. He knows he gets under Derek’s skin, and it’s infuriating, is what it is. Stiles knows exactly what he does to Derek. He waves those long fingers around in class, and he knows Derek is watching them, picturing them against his skin, running up Derek’s arm, or trailing down his spine. He rolls his head back to argue with Derek, lazy grin on his face, and neck long and captivating, calling out to Derek to lick, leave his mark, a beautiful canvas of Derek’s making.
He doesn’t even know why Stiles bothers coming to class, any more. He’s said on multiple occasions that he can’t draw for shit, that he’s barely scraping by and he’s taking the written option, instead of the final art piece. He spends more time trying to bother Derek, to distract Derek and doodle on Derek’s damn work, than he does taking notes about his form.
Marin began the semester talking of their individuality, that each of them had an artist inside of them, a unique talent they could make their own; now, she seems to have all but given up on Stiles, seemingly praying he’ll keep quiet for her lectures and not hand in another crayon based piece.