Chapter Text
Stiles fucking hated wearing a suit.
It wasn’t so much the fine material, or the way he felt covered up enough to bring back the Victorian maiden look (my God, is that a wrist bone?! Shocking!), but more the way that the goddamn thing was so fucking uncomfortable that Stiles was pretty sure he had internal organs compressed against things that were never meant to compress against anything else. He felt like a cabbage roll. A Stilinski roll.
Stiles tugged the waistcoat a little, frowning into the mirror. What the fuck. Was he Mycroft Holmes?! Who the hell wore a waistcoat anymore? He wrinkled his nose, staring at how the rich, chocolate tone of the fabric was perfectly fitted. Did they even call them waistcoats anymore? Add a monocle and he’d be rocking the Mr. Monopoly look.
Not exactly, Stiles.
He could just hear Derek now. Stiles sighed again and pulled at his collar with one finger. The off-white (the tailor- tailor!- had sniffed and called it ecru, not anything as pedestrian as off-white) shirt had such a fine thread count that it almost felt like he wasn’t wearing anything at all. The blue tie and expertly-folded handkerchief for the pocket were the exact same shade of blue as Derek’s eyes. Stiles didn’t even know how Lydia had found it, but he couldn’t deny that it gave him a funny sort of thrill. He looked ... well.
Pretty damn good.
Stiles stared at the mirror, turning a little so that he could see his reflection from a couple of different angles. He manfully ignored the fact that he was bare-ass naked under the fancy suit trousers. The tailor had insisted that underwear of any kind would mar the lines of the suit. Lydia had agreed, and well. Stiles now found himself admiring his ass in a mirror. Grudgingly he could admit that the two of them had been right.
“Stiles! He’s here!”
The attack of nerves was a shock. Stiles actually watched his eyes bug out a little, noting his reflection bite his lip before Stiles blinked again and twitched. He brushed his slightly clammy hands on the material of his suit and took deep, shaky breath.
“Be right there, dad!”
Stiles detoured to his room to grab the jacket, sliding it onto his frame with a quick jerk of ridiculously expensive fabric. “Well. Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath. Stiles huffed out a small sigh and took the stairs two at a time, feeling like the plot of every cheesy ‘80’s movie in existence was lining up to haunt him. Somewhere, John Hughes was cackling madly.
“Stiles.”
Just the one word and Stiles stopped with a small squeak of his shoe, jerking his gaze up to Derek’s.
He could see it.
In all the time they’d been together, Stiles had gotten to be somewhat of an expert at reading Derek’s expressions. Just about everyone could interpret ‘angry’ or ‘broody’ (there was a lot of practice for that one, really.), and tended to give Derek wide berth whenever his brow furrowed in quite that way. But Stiles? Stiles knew ‘worried’ and ‘heated’ and ‘look here you little shit. If you don’t put down that gun right now I’ll shoot you my goddamn self’. Stiles knew ‘playful’ and felt that he had a close, personal relationship with ‘heated’ and ‘turned-on’ and ‘about to make him come so hard he forgot his own name.’
This expression? Stiles didn’t know what to call it. He just knew that after Derek’s gaze raked over him, he felt naked. Possessed and owned and holy shit there was no possible way for his dick to twitch in trousers this perfectly fitted and he would sprain his junk and it was really, really fucking awkward realizing that his dad was standing by the tv, smirking at the two of them.
Stiles forced himself to take a deep breath. Derek would smell his nervousness and... well. Stiles didn’t want anything to go wrong tonight.
“Don’t you two look cute?”
Derek seemed to jump a little, like he’d been goosed. Stiles was floored to see a small flush high on Derek’s cheekbones. Well that answered that question. Derek was definitely thinking something positive resulting in orgasms. That was just about the only way the he’d ever blush.
“Uh. Sorry, Mr. Stilinski. We should be going. Our reservation is at eight.”
Reservation?!
Stiles knew he was probably gaping a little stupidly (well, more stupidly than normal anyway), but where the hell did someone make reservations in Beacon Hills?!
“Uh. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to blindfold you now.” Derek took a step forward, the piece of black silk sliding between his long fingers. Seeing it caused Stiles to raise an eyebrow, once again horribly aware that his dad was just a few feet away, trying his dogged best to look like he wasn’t having an aneurysm at the idea of his son’s boyfriend using a blindfold.
“How is it that my life has gotten to the point that you telling me that sounds completely normal?” Stiles was proud that his voice didn’t squeak when he spoke.
They both ignored Stiles’ dad’s muttered ‘Jesus Christ’ as Stiles took a half-step forward, meeting Derek halfway. Stiles quirked an eyebrow and turned away, staring resolutely at the floor. The small piece of fabric felt strange against his face. He tried to hide the small shiver that danced across his spine at Derek’s light touch, but didn’t think he was completely successful by the way Derek’s breath hitched softly against the nape of Stiles’ neck.
Jesus Christ indeed.
“Do I need to give you a curfew?”
Stiles licked his lips, shivering a little at the snug tightness of the blindfold around his eyes. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time that Stiles had found himself blindfolded, but it was the first time he’d found himself blindfolded by his boyfriend. Stiles shook his head towards his dad, rolling his eyes under the tightly-wrapped cloth. Belatedly he realized that there was no way his dad could see him roll his eyes and mentally rolled his eyes again at his own stupidity.
“You haven’t given me a curfew since I was in high school!” Stiles told himself he wasn’t whining. But it sounded suspiciously like whining.
“That would be a lot more impressive if it had been longer than a few weeks since you’d graduated, you know.”
Stiles felt his throat tighten at the way he could feel Derek freeze behind him, his muscles tensing as Stiles’ dad cheerfully and completely obviously put his foot in his his mouth.
Mentioning Stiles’ graduation (Salutatorian; damn you Lydia Martin) tended to have that effect. Hell, the rest of the pack didn’t even mention things that had happened during that entire week. As far as they were concerned, it was the Week-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named. The fact that Stiles’ dad had no clue what was going on was Stiles’ own fault. He’d never let on how hurt he’d been.
And now?
Now his dad was about to fuck up his and Derek’s first date.