2. We both know this has been coming for a long time.
3. I have been staying awake at nights, wondering if I should tell you.
4. I bought the kind of crackers you like. They are in the hall cupboard.
5. Now that we have watched all the episodes of True Blood, I do not know what else to do next.
6. I have just been too afraid for too long.
7. This is the kind of thing where waiting for the time to be right would just mean waiting forever; it’s the kind of thing no one else can help you decide.
8. I came home on Thursday and found all of the chairs in the house stacked in a pile in the center of my kitchen; I don’t know how long they have been like that, but it must have been me that did it. It is the kind of thing a ghost might do, to prove to the living he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment.
9. My grandmother was still alive when I was five years old and she told me to check if the iron was hot enough yet, so I pressed my hand against it, and it was red and screaming for hours. Twenty five years later she would still sometimes apologize, in the middle of conversations, I feel so bad about making you touch the iron, she would say, as though it had just happened. I cannot imagine how we forgive ourselves for all of the things we didn’t say until it was too late. But how else do you tell if something is hot but to touch it?
10. I imagine my furniture in your apartment.
11. I wonder how many likes it will get on facebook.
12. My dad always used to tell the same joke, but I can’t remember the punch line.
13. I was eight years old and it took three weeks (three eight year old weeks— imagine) to gather everything I needed to be Batman. Rope, boomerangs, a mardi gras mask with the beads cut off. I couldn’t find a cave near my house, so I buried them all in a bundle under the ivy. For years after,
I tried to find that spot again.
The ivy grew too fast.
I searched in so many spots
it seemed impossible I had missed any.
But I never found it.
How can something be there
and then just not be there?
How do we forgive ourselves
for all the things we did not become?
14. I was never bold enough to buy bright green sheets. I wanted them, but always thought they were too brash, even with no one but me to see them. I bought a set yesterday and put them on the bed. I knew that you would like them.
sterek, "the guy i fucked last night woke up this morning, disoriented and looked at me, and said "oh, you're hot." and went back to sleep."
Stiles scrubs his hands over his face. It’s still awfully early, too early to be awake, but his brain decided to snap out if a peaceful slumber, and now he’s sitting up in a bed that isn’t his, covered in light green sheets. There’s a guy lying next to him, on his stomach, hugging the pillow, and Stiles lets his eyes wander of the wide planes of his back, the tattoo between his shoulder blades, the dimples on his lower back. His face is turned away from Stiles, but Stiles still remembers: the sharp cheekbones with the impeccable stubble, a chiseled jaw, strong eyebrows and a set of eyes that stripped Stiles bare in a way that was both scary and hot.
All things considered, last night was a success.
Still, Stiles doesn’t usually fall asleep in the beds of his one-night-stands, never stays over, and he can’t believe he did last night. But the guy–Derek, his name’s Derek–asked him, softly, between open-mouthed, hot kisses to Stiles’ throat, and Stiles forgot the word no even existed. Which–what. This hasn’t ever happened before. Usually, it’s easy to say no; Stiles doesn’t like the awkward morning afters.
So he looks at Derek one last time, and sighs. Derek is something like a walking wet dream, and the sex was mind-blowing. Stiles wouldn’t mind another round, or ten, but Derek’s still sleeping, and Stiles broke one of his principles already. He won’t be the creeper who stared at Derek while he slept, which would probably reduce the chances of a repeat performance. If they ever ran into each other again, that is.
Stiles grips the sheet to throw it back and climb out of bed when Derek snuffles–he snuffles, Stiles is going to die–shifts, head turning to Stiles. He blinks against the early morning sunlight, eyes small. His hair is a mess, there’s the imprint of the pillow’s creases on his cheek: Stiles is sure he’s pretty much ruined forever. This is it. He’s wrecked. This shouldn’t be happening. It was just a one-night-stand.
Derek squints at him sleepily. “God,” he says, voice sleep-rough. “You’re hot.”
Stiles is pretty sure his brain can’t quite decide where to send all his blood: to his face or to his cock.
“Um,” Stiles says intelligently, fighting the urge to card a hand through Derek’s hair.
Derek nuzzles into his pillow again, eyes drooping shut. “Mhm,” he hums. “Thought the alcohol induced an obscene fantasy ‘bout your eyes. And your mouth. And just–you.”
Stiles stares at him, helplessly.
“Not a fantasy,” Derek points out, soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He blinks his eyes open again, reaches out to grab Stiles’ hand. Derek twines the fingers together, rubs his thumb over Stiles’ skin, and it feels perfect; feels like something he’s done before, like it’s natural.
“I don’t like to be objectified,” Stiles says, because that’s the first thing his brain supplies.
Derek laughs softly, closing his eyes again, as he brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a tender kiss on Stiles’ knuckles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips grazing the skin of Stiles’ hand. It sends shivers down Stiles’ vertebrae.
Stiles lies back down, on his back, their hands in the space between them, and he turns his head to look at Derek, whose features have relaxed again, peaceful, as he drifts off to sleep one more time.
“Stay,” Derek asks quietly, voice petering out into a sleepy slur.
So Stiles stays, because apparently, he can’t say no to Derek.