Stiles lets out a contented sound when Derek settles on top of him. He'd gotten used to this that weekend--being in his underwear with Derek, bare-legged and bare-chested, skin pressed against skin. Even though they were nearly the same height, Derek's frame iss so much more broad than his own; heavier, hairier, in some places, although he knows that Derek has an electric trimmer.
But he likes it, the way that Derek's heavy, hairy thighs pin him to the mattress while his strong--ridiculously strong, probably werewolf strong--arms keeps their upper torsos separated. He smiles up at Derek, backlit by the bedside lamp, and shifts so he can place his hands on Derek's cheeks, rough with stubble, which just makes his cheekbones seem more defined, sharper.
"Well, that's easy enough to fix, isn't it?" he murmurs. "Get your scent on me."