Derek hesitates, shooting Kavinsky a sidelong glance. Yeah, okay, it wasn't great in there - he got fed once a day, just flavorless, rice-and-bread style essentials, and for someone who eats as much as Derek, it made him pretty sick. Again, he darts his tongue between his lips, thoughtfully trying to come up with a decent response, but his stomach groans enough to make it clear that he's actually pretty fuckin' famished.
"Fuck you. For starters."
Just putting that out there. Second - Derek'll stand, figuring this is, again, one step short of Kavinsky actively asserting his authority over Derek as Dom, and when he makes his way to the kitchen to stare at what Kav's shelves are stocked with, he just feels kind of queasy. There's a weird amount of shame in taking food from Kavinsky, of all people. He's not stupid, and he knows that half the shit here is probably laced with something, but he still doesn't know how Kavinsky's dreams work, still doesn't know how he drugs things in the first place. When he picks out a bag of pretzels from Kavinsky's pantry, it's just because it seems like a safe bet. Sealed, processed, probably not tampered with. Snacking feels like less of a defeat than eating a whole meal, too, so.
He heads back into the living room, popping the bag open, and he, of course, doesn't take the first pretzel. Just in case. He stands in front of Kavinsky and offers him the bag, just unabashedly using this guy as a guinea pig.
He lolls his head back, staring at the ceiling as he listens to Derek rummage around. He grins, maybe in triumph, when he hears a bag open. But then Derek's coming closer and--holding the fucking bag out. Kavinsky laughs.
"Paranoid bitch."
He leans forward and grabs a pretzel out of the bag. The downside of having one Joseph Kavinsky as a taste tester is that he doesn't give a shit what he smokes, snorts, inhales, or digests. He's probably tested most of the shit he's made on himself.
Whatever is in the pretzel, if anything, is just a good trip as far as he's concerned. He washes it back with a swig of beer and resists the urge to use it to foam at the mouth and fall over. It'd be fucking funny though.
The laughter doesn't bother him, and neither does the namecalling - Derek's too focused on watching Kavinsky eat to care about anything else. He narrows his eyes, still pretty fucking suspicious, but he doesn't have much of a reason to suspect foul play here. Duplicity puts drugs in its food, yeah, but nearly every kind of trip he's seen from Kavinsky or heard about through Tate all come from pretty expected sources. Pills, powders, shit like that. Being paranoid probably won't serve him here.
In the end, his survival instinct gets to him more than anything else. Pretzels aren't gonna be filling, but if he gets through one bag okay, he'll know that the rest of the snacks in Kavinsky's cupboard are probably pretty safe, so. Whatever.
He takes the bag back and sits on the couch next to Kavinsky, more on a whim than because he wants to be close to him. He eats a single pretzel, biting the tiniest fucking amount possible, and his stomach growls again in response. Dude's starving. He'll keep eating.
"Get me a drink," Derek mumbles, making demands. He elbows Kavinsky in the side and nods to the kitchen. "Water. From the faucet."
Derek drops down next to him and Kavinsky is pretty sure he can feel the heat rolling off Derek. That’s what he remembers: the heat of their encounters. He rolls his eyes as Derek - big bad alpha Derek - nibbles at a pretzel. What the fuck.
He’s about to drink from his bottle when Derek tries issuing orders again.
“Should’ve thought about that while you were in there.”
Rather than getting up, Kavinsky offers his beer. Gotta be the human stuff, right? It won’t go to Derek’s head like that night in the bar. He still dreams about that, and he dreams about the dream.
Derek's annoyed, more than anything, by Kavinsky shooting him down. It's what he expected to happen - there's literally no reason for Kavinsky to have saved him from the Zoo unless it was to ride some fucked up powertrip he'll have over the guy who keeps threatening to beat his ass or whatever - but he's still annoyed.
Kavinsky offers him his beer and Derek's eyes drop from the neck of the bottle to Kavinsky's lips, then back to his eyes. He holds that stare for a long, long stretch of silence before he points his eyes upwards and shallowly shakes his head.
"Feels like I'd probably catch something if I shared a drink with you."
Literally impossible for Derek to get sick, but a burn's a burn, so. He gets up again and heads into the kitchen, expecting the pipes to be fucking frozen, or something, knowing his luck - which, cool, they are. He turns the tap a few times and gets nothing for his efforts other than a quiet rumble, and he takes another long-suffering sigh, walking back to Kavinsky.
He just kinda - snatches the bottle from his hands. He wipes off the mouth of it on his shirt, staring Kavinsky down, then takes a sip, apparently keeping this bottle for himself. Kavinsky can go get another one, if he wants it.
"You do remember you've shoved your dick in my mouth, right?" he asks as Derek very deliberately wipes the mouth of the beer bottle. Kavinsky rolls his eyes when he realizes he's not getting it back. What a fucking dick.
He grunts as he gets up and stares at the selection in the fridge for a minute. Water's out, but power seems fine. Whether it's from a generator or the Down's grid is hard to say.
K grabs another bottle of something and drops back onto the couch, just as close to Derek as he'd been before. He meets Derek's gaze as he takes his first sip and lets the bottle linger against his bottom lip for a second when he's done. Then, he turns the charm back on.
Comments like those are why Derek always ends up calling Kavinsky Joseph to get under his skin. He frowns over the top of his drink as he takes a bigger swig, nodding his head to the kitchen again like he's sending Kavinsky off, and when he comes back and sits down close to him again, Derek does what he always does. He sighs, he acts put out - acts like Kavinsky's a burden, even though by fucking law, Derek's the only burden here.
"Talking too much, Joey. Drink your beer."
If Derek can get away with it, he's just gonna shut up for a while and eat. He's feeling pretty nauseous, so working his way through his pretzels and enjoying the fact that he's on a couch instead of on his knees in a fucking cell is all he wants to do right now. Derek stops talking until the beer's empty and the food's all gone, and soon he's rolling the empty pretzel bag into a ball and Kobe-ing it into the trash.
"I'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight."
Just, you know, in case Kavinsky was gonna suggest something else.
It's easy to ignore, Derek's saying it to be a dick, but it does make him think about the small handful of people that had ever called him that. He lingers over his beer, apparently absorbed in the absolutely asinine drama happening on the TV screen. He knows they feed people fuck all in the Zoo, knows it's fucking uncomfortable. Has never been himself but has heard enough.
So Derek can wolf down whatever the hell he wants. It's all easily replaced. Maybe he'll do a grocery run tonight.
He blinks slowly, coming out of his daze when the balled up bag goes sailing toward the trash.
"Bed's nice and big," he quips. "I'm sure we could find some way to preserve your honor."
The couch is pretty fucking comfortable, though. K won't knock it.
"Yeah - unless you're giving me an order, I think I'm gonna keep my distance."
Maybe it's hard to tell, given that Derek is... Derek, but getting some food into him has put him in a better mood. He's still unhappy about being here, there's still tension in his shoulders and a permanent frown on his face, but he doesn't look like he's going to throw Kavinsky through a window the first chance he gets. That's probably as much of a win as they're going to get here.
"No offense."
Said like someone who maybe means a little offense, actually.
"You need to chill. How you haven't had a stroke yet is beyond me."
Kavinsky leans his shoulders into the back of the couch and lifts his hips so he can get his cigarette case out. He pops it open and offers it to Derek. There's neatly rolled joints lined up, and surely Derek will be able to tell they're just weed.
He doesn't care if Derek takes one or not. Kavinsky's pretty sure the lowkey, warm buzz he's feeling is from the pretzel he ate.
Huh. Derek at the whole damn bag. K can't quite remember who those were meant for.
Yeah, no, Kavinsky is chill enough for both of them. He offers Derek weed and the way that Derek just stares him down is probably enough of a rejection without him having to put words to it. If Kavinsky's just going to smoke and watch TV, that's fine with Derek - means they don't have to keep talking to each other.
Derek puts his back to kavinsky, though he doesn't let his guard down. He curls up a little in the corner of the couch, using his arm as a pillow and staring at the opposing wall, frustrated and unsociable. Whatever he took hasn't hit him yet - werewolf biology - but it's crawling through his veins, settling in somewhere. Only a matter of time before it hits.
"I need my phone back."
They would've given it to Kavinsky when they signed Derek over to him. Derek should text some people, let them know he's okay, maybe organize some kind of rescue mission, presuming Kavinsky's going to actually give him his phone back.
Kavinsky huffs a laugh and takes one for himself, then snaps the case shut. He lights it before he bothers answering Derek's demand.
"Do you? Why? Someone missing you?"
He immediately thinks of Tate and rolls his eyes. Little shit. He can't believe Derek's taken in by it. But whatever. Kavinsky was too, for a while. He takes a long drag.
Derek drops away from his corner of the couch and stares up at the ceiling instead, still feeling this itch under his skin like he's as caged away here as he was in the zoo. The battery being dead seems like a pretty shitty excuse - if the TV's working, he can probably charge a fucking phone - but maybe that's the point.
"You're not gonna let me talk to anyone but you for two days?"
Kavinsky rolls his eyes and flops over to grab his coat. He finds Derek's phone and tosses it to him.
"If you smuggled a charger up your ass, you can have at it."
He tucks the joint between his lips and gets to his feet to adjust the thermostat. He either keeps it off or low when he's not here and he's not spending however much time he's stuck down here cold in his own damn place. Besides, he's feeling the urge to take clothes off, to feel air against his skin, and he's not stripping down any further while it's chilly.
"The signal down here's been spotty as fuck since the storm."
"You can get your hands on a million different kinds of drugs, but you can't get your hands on a phone charger?"
More hostility, more combativeness, but Derek asks this with a quiet, almost lazy calmness, like he doesn't really give a shit about Kavinsky's answer, or at least doesn't expect him to give one. He watches Kavinsky head to the thermostat, taking his side of the couch for himself while he's gone, laying down, stretching his legs out, taking up room. It's starting to hit him, now, but Derek doesn't realize he's feeling less anxious and a little more relaxed because of the drugs. He just thinks he's-- sleep deprived, maybe, and running out of the adrenaline that's supposed to be keeping him alert.
K peels out of his hoodie and drops it on Derek's head as he passes, leaving him in a t-shirt. He wedges himself back onto the couch - Derek can pick his head up or let it right on his leg, Kavinsky doesn't care.
He drinks from his bottle, feeling pretty fucking good now. He looks over at Derek with a grin. He looks like he's chilled the fuck out, too. K feels like this means he was right: Derek needs to relax more. It's impressive he hasn't given himself a stroke or something.
Ugh, come on. Derek might not be jumping on Kavinsky and threatening to turn his jugular into a mid-afternoon snack, but he's still himself enough to get pretty fucking annoyed by the hoodie thing. He peels it off his face and throws it to the ground, a sour look on his face, and when Kavinsky joins him back on the couch, Derek doesn't move more than he has to. He's-- annoyed.
"Don't be an asshole."
Ask me, Kavinsky said, and Derek, big bad wolf that he is, tries to deflect. He'll meet an order with an order, as if he has the right.
"Don't be an asshole," he says after that command. "Try again."
Derek is barking and Kavinsky isn't taking it seriously. Maybe he'll bite, but he's willing to risk it. He lolls his head against the back of the couch, a little smile still playing on his face.
This is what Derek feared would happen, when he woke up as a sub. Someone would find a way to needle him, find a way to make demands, and Derek would have no choice but to follow them. He knows what Kavinsky's capable of - he knows that if he makes this harder than he needs to, Kavinsky will report him, punish him, something, and while Derek's more than capable of defending himself, clawing the guy open will bring the entire city down on him. It's-- a thin line to tread.
He wets his lips, weighs up his choices, the fog in his head making it hard for him to think clearly.
"Can--"
Nope, nah, he can't do this. It's too soon for him to start following orders, being a good dog. Derek grunts and sits up, running his hand back through his hair, visibly frustrated. He shakes his head, sucks his teeth. He's angry, but again - there's no real fire behind it. There's a pleasant, idle buzzing under his skin now, making it hard to find the energy he needs to yell like he might want to.
He can get the fucking charger, he just needs to sleep first. He'll have it tomorrow if he knows what he's getting. Derek can just wonder about the magic trick. Kavinsky lolls his head to look at Derek as he gets up and moves. He appreciates every fucking line and curve he's seeing and he remembers, viscerally, what it feels like to be underneath all that energy.
Jesus.
"You make this shit way too fuckin' hard, man. What kind of phone you got?"
At this point, he'd honestly just rather go the two days stewing in his anger and isolation than accept anything from Kavinsky. He rolls his shoulders and leans back against the sofa, realizing just how warm he's starting to feel. That pleasant buzz under his skin is slowly, invasively getting warmer, and he's not sweating, but he feels like he should be. Derek swallows, mouth dry, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and fanning it a little to cool himself down, flashing the inch of skin above his belt while he does.
He looks at Kavinsky, then at the thermostat, like he's silently telling him to go turn the heat down. Even if, for some reason, Kavinsky decided to listen to him, it wouldn't help - but Derek hasn't realized that yet.
"Jesus," he says out loud. "This is like, the bare minimum of effort. Tell me what you need and I'll get it."
He's a lot of things, but psychic isn't one of them.
Kavinsky's eyes are dark, almost black, as he watches Derek pull at his shirt. He catches a flash of skin and he swears to God his mouth waters. The fuck did he put into those pretzels? Who did he make them for? He can't remember. Maybe they were something he meant to bring back to his place in the Up for the next time he got Adam or Nick over.
"You got legs," he says when Derek looks pointedly at the thermostat. "I feel fuckin' fine."
Okay so he's warm, if the faint flush in his cheeks is any indication, but the thermostat isn't exactly jacked up. It's maybe set at 68. Maybe. (Probably 69 because Kavinsky is actually twelve.)
Spite. It's just spite, driving Derek. He'll figure this out on his own. Kavinsky tells him to go fuck with the thermostat himself if he wants to, and Derek does, just because it gives him a few seconds away from the guy. Even walking feels kind of fucked up - there's this tired, tingly feeling in his legs, like he's been asleep for too long and he's forgotten how to walk - and that's kind of how he's starting to feel all over. Soft and warm and outside of himself. Too hot.
He gets to the controls and leans on the wall while he stares at the panel, which, yeah, reads 69, naturally. It's not worth fucking with but Derek lowers it a degree or two anyway, slipping a hand under his shirt to massage a knot out from his shoulder. It's-- intense, suddenly, the feeling of skin on skin, and Kavinsky can probably see the way Derek's knees get a little weak as he rocks forward and rests his head against the wall for balance. Fuck - that heat, it's getting worse, more and more. He's getting hard - he knows what this is. It's obvious, at this point.
His own cheeks are red, his eyes are half-lidded, and he's already getting hard. It's been a while since he's had an aphrodisiac this strong. His stomach twists and his mouth goes dry, and he doesn't move away from where he is, but - it's hitting him hard now. Fuck.
Derek is leaning into the wall and Kavinsky is taking the opportunity to enjoy the view. His teeth slide over his bottom lip and he swears he can feel the heat radiate off Derek from all the way on the couch.
Is his dick hard? Kavinsky shifts a bit to try and get a better view. He can see the flush in Derek's face and the way his eyes are nearly closed and his own body responds to all the signs of arousal.
There's a buzzing in Derek's ears, now. Faint and disorienting. He takes a few steps back, running his hand through his hair, still feeling hot and itchy and-- frustratingly uncomfortable in his clothes. He's not gonna get undressed, not if he can help it, but his shirt feels like it's burning, and only by touching his hand to his neck or his side beneath the fabric is giving him any relief. He doesn't know how the fuck Kavinsky managed to drug him, but it's-- a lot. It's already a lot.
"Fuck off."
His voice is a little croaky, and Derek clears his throat, tries to act like it isn't. He swallows and stands up straighter, making his way back to the couch. He doesn't sit, he just - stands, not knowing what to do with himself, other than act tough, act unaffected. Parrot Kavinsky's own shit back to him.
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Derek hesitates, shooting Kavinsky a sidelong glance. Yeah, okay, it wasn't great in there - he got fed once a day, just flavorless, rice-and-bread style essentials, and for someone who eats as much as Derek, it made him pretty sick. Again, he darts his tongue between his lips, thoughtfully trying to come up with a decent response, but his stomach groans enough to make it clear that he's actually pretty fuckin' famished.
"Fuck you. For starters."
Just putting that out there. Second - Derek'll stand, figuring this is, again, one step short of Kavinsky actively asserting his authority over Derek as Dom, and when he makes his way to the kitchen to stare at what Kav's shelves are stocked with, he just feels kind of queasy. There's a weird amount of shame in taking food from Kavinsky, of all people. He's not stupid, and he knows that half the shit here is probably laced with something, but he still doesn't know how Kavinsky's dreams work, still doesn't know how he drugs things in the first place. When he picks out a bag of pretzels from Kavinsky's pantry, it's just because it seems like a safe bet. Sealed, processed, probably not tampered with. Snacking feels like less of a defeat than eating a whole meal, too, so.
He heads back into the living room, popping the bag open, and he, of course, doesn't take the first pretzel. Just in case. He stands in front of Kavinsky and offers him the bag, just unabashedly using this guy as a guinea pig.
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He lolls his head back, staring at the ceiling as he listens to Derek rummage around. He grins, maybe in triumph, when he hears a bag open. But then Derek's coming closer and--holding the fucking bag out. Kavinsky laughs.
"Paranoid bitch."
He leans forward and grabs a pretzel out of the bag. The downside of having one Joseph Kavinsky as a taste tester is that he doesn't give a shit what he smokes, snorts, inhales, or digests. He's probably tested most of the shit he's made on himself.
Whatever is in the pretzel, if anything, is just a good trip as far as he's concerned. He washes it back with a swig of beer and resists the urge to use it to foam at the mouth and fall over. It'd be fucking funny though.
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In the end, his survival instinct gets to him more than anything else. Pretzels aren't gonna be filling, but if he gets through one bag okay, he'll know that the rest of the snacks in Kavinsky's cupboard are probably pretty safe, so. Whatever.
He takes the bag back and sits on the couch next to Kavinsky, more on a whim than because he wants to be close to him. He eats a single pretzel, biting the tiniest fucking amount possible, and his stomach growls again in response. Dude's starving. He'll keep eating.
"Get me a drink," Derek mumbles, making demands. He elbows Kavinsky in the side and nods to the kitchen. "Water. From the faucet."
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He’s about to drink from his bottle when Derek tries issuing orders again.
“Should’ve thought about that while you were in there.”
Rather than getting up, Kavinsky offers his beer. Gotta be the human stuff, right? It won’t go to Derek’s head like that night in the bar. He still dreams about that, and he dreams about the dream.
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Kavinsky offers him his beer and Derek's eyes drop from the neck of the bottle to Kavinsky's lips, then back to his eyes. He holds that stare for a long, long stretch of silence before he points his eyes upwards and shallowly shakes his head.
"Feels like I'd probably catch something if I shared a drink with you."
Literally impossible for Derek to get sick, but a burn's a burn, so. He gets up again and heads into the kitchen, expecting the pipes to be fucking frozen, or something, knowing his luck - which, cool, they are. He turns the tap a few times and gets nothing for his efforts other than a quiet rumble, and he takes another long-suffering sigh, walking back to Kavinsky.
He just kinda - snatches the bottle from his hands. He wipes off the mouth of it on his shirt, staring Kavinsky down, then takes a sip, apparently keeping this bottle for himself. Kavinsky can go get another one, if he wants it.
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He grunts as he gets up and stares at the selection in the fridge for a minute. Water's out, but power seems fine. Whether it's from a generator or the Down's grid is hard to say.
K grabs another bottle of something and drops back onto the couch, just as close to Derek as he'd been before. He meets Derek's gaze as he takes his first sip and lets the bottle linger against his bottom lip for a second when he's done. Then, he turns the charm back on.
"Got some weird fuckin quirks, Hale."
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"Talking too much, Joey. Drink your beer."
If Derek can get away with it, he's just gonna shut up for a while and eat. He's feeling pretty nauseous, so working his way through his pretzels and enjoying the fact that he's on a couch instead of on his knees in a fucking cell is all he wants to do right now. Derek stops talking until the beer's empty and the food's all gone, and soon he's rolling the empty pretzel bag into a ball and Kobe-ing it into the trash.
"I'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight."
Just, you know, in case Kavinsky was gonna suggest something else.
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It's easy to ignore, Derek's saying it to be a dick, but it does make him think about the small handful of people that had ever called him that. He lingers over his beer, apparently absorbed in the absolutely asinine drama happening on the TV screen. He knows they feed people fuck all in the Zoo, knows it's fucking uncomfortable. Has never been himself but has heard enough.
So Derek can wolf down whatever the hell he wants. It's all easily replaced. Maybe he'll do a grocery run tonight.
He blinks slowly, coming out of his daze when the balled up bag goes sailing toward the trash.
"Bed's nice and big," he quips. "I'm sure we could find some way to preserve your honor."
The couch is pretty fucking comfortable, though. K won't knock it.
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Maybe it's hard to tell, given that Derek is... Derek, but getting some food into him has put him in a better mood. He's still unhappy about being here, there's still tension in his shoulders and a permanent frown on his face, but he doesn't look like he's going to throw Kavinsky through a window the first chance he gets. That's probably as much of a win as they're going to get here.
"No offense."
Said like someone who maybe means a little offense, actually.
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Kavinsky leans his shoulders into the back of the couch and lifts his hips so he can get his cigarette case out. He pops it open and offers it to Derek. There's neatly rolled joints lined up, and surely Derek will be able to tell they're just weed.
He doesn't care if Derek takes one or not. Kavinsky's pretty sure the lowkey, warm buzz he's feeling is from the pretzel he ate.
Huh. Derek at the whole damn bag. K can't quite remember who those were meant for.
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Derek puts his back to kavinsky, though he doesn't let his guard down. He curls up a little in the corner of the couch, using his arm as a pillow and staring at the opposing wall, frustrated and unsociable. Whatever he took hasn't hit him yet - werewolf biology - but it's crawling through his veins, settling in somewhere. Only a matter of time before it hits.
"I need my phone back."
They would've given it to Kavinsky when they signed Derek over to him. Derek should text some people, let them know he's okay, maybe organize some kind of rescue mission, presuming Kavinsky's going to actually give him his phone back.
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"Do you? Why? Someone missing you?"
He immediately thinks of Tate and rolls his eyes. Little shit. He can't believe Derek's taken in by it. But whatever. Kavinsky was too, for a while. He takes a long drag.
"Battery's dead. Anyway."
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Derek drops away from his corner of the couch and stares up at the ceiling instead, still feeling this itch under his skin like he's as caged away here as he was in the zoo. The battery being dead seems like a pretty shitty excuse - if the TV's working, he can probably charge a fucking phone - but maybe that's the point.
"You're not gonna let me talk to anyone but you for two days?"
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"If you smuggled a charger up your ass, you can have at it."
He tucks the joint between his lips and gets to his feet to adjust the thermostat. He either keeps it off or low when he's not here and he's not spending however much time he's stuck down here cold in his own damn place. Besides, he's feeling the urge to take clothes off, to feel air against his skin, and he's not stripping down any further while it's chilly.
"The signal down here's been spotty as fuck since the storm."
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More hostility, more combativeness, but Derek asks this with a quiet, almost lazy calmness, like he doesn't really give a shit about Kavinsky's answer, or at least doesn't expect him to give one. He watches Kavinsky head to the thermostat, taking his side of the couch for himself while he's gone, laying down, stretching his legs out, taking up room. It's starting to hit him, now, but Derek doesn't realize he's feeling less anxious and a little more relaxed because of the drugs. He just thinks he's-- sleep deprived, maybe, and running out of the adrenaline that's supposed to be keeping him alert.
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He drinks from his bottle, feeling pretty fucking good now. He looks over at Derek with a grin. He looks like he's chilled the fuck out, too. K feels like this means he was right: Derek needs to relax more. It's impressive he hasn't given himself a stroke or something.
"Ask me for one."
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"Don't be an asshole."
Ask me, Kavinsky said, and Derek, big bad wolf that he is, tries to deflect. He'll meet an order with an order, as if he has the right.
"Give me your charger."
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"Don't be an asshole," he says after that command. "Try again."
Derek is barking and Kavinsky isn't taking it seriously. Maybe he'll bite, but he's willing to risk it. He lolls his head against the back of the couch, a little smile still playing on his face.
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He wets his lips, weighs up his choices, the fog in his head making it hard for him to think clearly.
"Can--"
Nope, nah, he can't do this. It's too soon for him to start following orders, being a good dog. Derek grunts and sits up, running his hand back through his hair, visibly frustrated. He shakes his head, sucks his teeth. He's angry, but again - there's no real fire behind it. There's a pleasant, idle buzzing under his skin now, making it hard to find the energy he needs to yell like he might want to.
"No. Fuck this. Fuck you. I'll go without."
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He can get the fucking charger, he just needs to sleep first. He'll have it tomorrow if he knows what he's getting. Derek can just wonder about the magic trick. Kavinsky lolls his head to look at Derek as he gets up and moves. He appreciates every fucking line and curve he's seeing and he remembers, viscerally, what it feels like to be underneath all that energy.
Jesus.
"You make this shit way too fuckin' hard, man. What kind of phone you got?"
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At this point, he'd honestly just rather go the two days stewing in his anger and isolation than accept anything from Kavinsky. He rolls his shoulders and leans back against the sofa, realizing just how warm he's starting to feel. That pleasant buzz under his skin is slowly, invasively getting warmer, and he's not sweating, but he feels like he should be. Derek swallows, mouth dry, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and fanning it a little to cool himself down, flashing the inch of skin above his belt while he does.
He looks at Kavinsky, then at the thermostat, like he's silently telling him to go turn the heat down. Even if, for some reason, Kavinsky decided to listen to him, it wouldn't help - but Derek hasn't realized that yet.
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He's a lot of things, but psychic isn't one of them.
Kavinsky's eyes are dark, almost black, as he watches Derek pull at his shirt. He catches a flash of skin and he swears to God his mouth waters. The fuck did he put into those pretzels? Who did he make them for? He can't remember. Maybe they were something he meant to bring back to his place in the Up for the next time he got Adam or Nick over.
"You got legs," he says when Derek looks pointedly at the thermostat. "I feel fuckin' fine."
Okay so he's warm, if the faint flush in his cheeks is any indication, but the thermostat isn't exactly jacked up. It's maybe set at 68. Maybe. (Probably 69 because Kavinsky is actually twelve.)
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Spite. It's just spite, driving Derek. He'll figure this out on his own. Kavinsky tells him to go fuck with the thermostat himself if he wants to, and Derek does, just because it gives him a few seconds away from the guy. Even walking feels kind of fucked up - there's this tired, tingly feeling in his legs, like he's been asleep for too long and he's forgotten how to walk - and that's kind of how he's starting to feel all over. Soft and warm and outside of himself. Too hot.
He gets to the controls and leans on the wall while he stares at the panel, which, yeah, reads 69, naturally. It's not worth fucking with but Derek lowers it a degree or two anyway, slipping a hand under his shirt to massage a knot out from his shoulder. It's-- intense, suddenly, the feeling of skin on skin, and Kavinsky can probably see the way Derek's knees get a little weak as he rocks forward and rests his head against the wall for balance. Fuck - that heat, it's getting worse, more and more. He's getting hard - he knows what this is. It's obvious, at this point.
His own cheeks are red, his eyes are half-lidded, and he's already getting hard. It's been a while since he's had an aphrodisiac this strong. His stomach twists and his mouth goes dry, and he doesn't move away from where he is, but - it's hitting him hard now. Fuck.
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Is his dick hard? Kavinsky shifts a bit to try and get a better view. He can see the flush in Derek's face and the way his eyes are nearly closed and his own body responds to all the signs of arousal.
"Hey, grab me another beer while you're up."
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"Fuck off."
His voice is a little croaky, and Derek clears his throat, tries to act like it isn't. He swallows and stands up straighter, making his way back to the couch. He doesn't sit, he just - stands, not knowing what to do with himself, other than act tough, act unaffected. Parrot Kavinsky's own shit back to him.
"You've got legs."
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