"Derek!" Stiles pounds at the door, "You better fucking open the door, I need to talk to you."
"What do you want," growls out Derek, "this better be fucking important, I went to sleep at three. What are you even doing awake? Usually I have to haul your ass out of bed." Stiles glowers at him, Yeah well get over it fucker, I'm not in the mood.
"Well, look who's grumpy this morning huh? Anyway, Isaac and Scott are in trouble. Scott, uh, tried to- knot him," Stiles cringes, while Derek's stony demeanor remains, unwavering, "and uh- they got stuck. Don't worry they got out of it okay thank God." Stiles shudders. "But uh, apparently Isaac didn't want to use lube, so uh- you know, friction and stuff, so basically, Isaac apparently has horrible pain, and it won't heal because it's an alpha."
Oh Jesus Christ, those idiots. Derek shuts his eyes, taking several deep breaths, "Why, didn't you go to Deaton and spare me this?" He snaps out, but Stiles, clearly severely lacking in the self-preservation department, doesn't even blink.
"Yeah, yeah quit the macho act, I know you're just a ball of melted marshmallow. Don't think I haven't seen you with Isaac. That's why I'm over here, I really don't want to ruin Scott's father-son relationship with poor Deaton. Especially considering the shit we put him through, either way." Stiles looks slightly abashed at that, scruffing up the back of his hair.
Derek really wants to replace the thinner man's hand with his own, and pull him up against himself. No. Right. He's not supposed to be thinking about Stiles' absolutely obscene lips, or his neck - because yeah, apparently at some point Derek noticed the guy's throat - and definitely not his expressive, long-fingered hands. Definitely not. Derek has amazing self-control. No really he does; growing up with werewolf parents, who can smell your every thought kinda forces that down on a teenage boy.
There's just something about Stiles though; maybe it's his complete lack of self-control. You would think that being a teenage boy with his best friend would give him some, at least out of pity for Scott's poor nose. But no. Not that Scott seemed to mind, he was such a crappy teenage werewolf. It was always about Allison, that's pretty much how Stiles and Derek first started talking. Pack meetings were great, Scott and Allison eventually broke up; amicably, sure, but Allison didn't come back to pack meetings. That left Erica and Boyd together, Isaac and Scott, which meant that the human of the pack and the alpha, the two supposed 'specials' of the group. Alone.
Maybe Derek's situation is purely his fault, he's certainly not lacking a sense of smell unlike Scott. He can smell arousal levels spike, especially when he holds eye contact. Stiles isn't immune, but it's as if he doesn't really care. His attitude pretty much sums up to, 'Yeah, Derek's hot, coolio,' or whatever word he'd decided to abuse that week. The worst one thus far had been the 'swagtastic' phase. The pack had staged an intervention, because Derek slipped up once. 'Once!' Stiles had cried in his defense when hearing of the ban.
Derek isn't sure when it really happened, but he first realized it after hearing Stiles whisper the supposedly banned word to Erica. She'd been being particularly snarky, and Stiles, apparently, had been having a tough day. So 'swagtastic' was the word used to insult the blonde. All Derek really knows is, he's here, pondering all this, and suddenly, his visitor snaps his fingers, "Derek? Deeee-rek! Back to the land of us mere mortals are you? You wanna get dressed maybe?" Derek hadn't even realized, he was still just standing there, in just his sleepwear (ie. boxers).
He lets Stiles in, grabbing a shirt, his favorite jeans and pulls them on, ignoring a slight intake of breath from the corner in which Stiles is. "I haven't been in your new place yet. It's nice." A side-smile is inching up his face, looking pointedly away from Derek's still shifting body. "Hey, do you have any food? I didn't get any breakfast," Derek's surprised, usually, when Stiles is on a mission, he's on a motherfucking mission. No breaks. Maybe food doesn't fit into the category, it does seem to have special circumstances for pretty much everything.
"Yeah, I was actually going to make pancakes, but uh- yeah," Derek doesn't feel like telling Stiles about the guy who was here last night. He'd been introduced via Erica, seemed pretty cool but apparently, he hadn't been looking for anything too serious. He'd slipped out of bed while Derek slept, completely sexed out. That's the only time Derek was ever truly vulnerable. Post-coital sleep. What Derek would give for some of that, because he's sure Stiles would want to be the big spoon, and have cold feet pressed up against the werewolf's warm back.
Stiles meanwhile, is gaping at Derek's gleaming, silver titan of a fridge. It's filled with proper food, none of that processed shit that Stiles loves so much. "I can still make us some if you want, it'll be quick." Stiles blinks at him, a glimpse of sadness darting across his face before beaming.
"Yeah! I bet you make them from scratch too, none of that IHOP mixture shit." Derek shakes his head, the eggs already being beaten in with milk and flour.
"Pancake mixture is the picture that should be used to describe everything wrong with today. People are idiots, it's so easy Jesus Christ." Stiles, Derek can see, is biting his lip, holding back a grin. Or a laugh. Yeah. I'm a foodie. Deal with it. "Do you want anything in yours? I have, uh-" Derek rifles through his pantry, "dried cranberries, pears and apricots, fresh nectarines, raspberries, strawberries, blueberries and banana, pretty much every nut you can think of, and chocolate chips." Stiles' has a look on his face that Derek can't exactly pin down, but it's happy and kind of sad at the same time, which makes the cook very uncomfortable.
"Cranberries and chocolate mixed in with blueberries and bananas fresh on the side. You can't cook the fresh stuff, that should be a crime, it gets all mushy," his nose wrinkles. Derek nods mock seriously, even though he completely agrees, mushy fruits are gross. Stiles rolls his eyes at him though, when Derek shakes a bag of walnuts in his direction, the usually-heart-attack-inducing-diet person shrugs. "Yeah whatever sure."
The pancakes are soon done, golden, emanating steam. Out come the fresh fruits and the added surprise of clotted cream. They're meant for scones, but Derek never got around to making them because Laura cancelled for an afternoon visit, in which Derek was going to go all-out High Tea on her ass. Stiles moans in delight as the first bite enters his mouth, and flutters his eyes shut. The chestnut-haired man doesn't even chew. He sits there for a second, head thrown back, and Derek is sure that if he were around another werewolf they would probably throw up from Derek's scent. The view, is to put it simply- the best view there is in the world.
Stiles' throat is moving just slightly as he hums in delight, his jawline stretched out, his hair peeking out in tufts past the outline of his turned up nose, and his fucking lips. His lips are firmly shut, pink, slightly shiny from where Stiles' tongue had brushed against them while taking his bite. Perfect. The moment is soon over though, Stiles swallows, His throat Jesus Christ, and snaps his head back to the front. This catches Derek unprepared, with what is definitely a sex-stare definitely shining full-on, concentrated on Stiles. He's pretty sure they flashed red at some point before Stiles had swallowed. Derek ducks his head, looking very hard at his pancakes, (smeared with cream, raspberries and nectarine) and slams a forkful in his mouth, refusing to look at Stiles. Who is currently staring right back at Derek, looking very determined.
"Okay stop. That's it. You can't just do things like that. I know I can't- y'know smell things, but I'm not blind. I can see your fucking eyes Derek. I can't even see the annoying confusingly hot color of your eyes. They are actually swallowed up by your pupils. Okay?" Derek can't speak. Stiles talks enough for the both of them though, so that's okay, "Dude, you need to stop sending me fucking mixed signals; one day, you're the guy I know and l- like, and other days you're this aloof asshole who won't deign to speak to me. It's horrible. I don't know what your deal is, but I'm twenty, you're twenty-five. I'm an adult now. I had a serious man-crush on you when I was a weird, ADD teenager okay. And I refuse to believe that you have never felt anything back. I just need you to be straight with me. I can't deal with another year, full of - does he or doesn't he - bullcrap."
Derek doesn't even answer, suddenly, he's standing over Stiles and that's the precise moment that words stop appearing to function. All Derek can feel is Stiles' torturous lips on his, gasping open, he'd been surprised at Derek's reaction. As if I could ever keep away, reject you. The mouth doesn't close, instead the heat in Derek's mouth increases as he feels a smooth, strong force pass along the roof of his mouth. Not that Derek would ever let himself be outdone by Stiles fucking Stilinski, because he met the kid while he was a virgin for fuck's sake.
So the werewolf's tongue slides and curls itself around Stiles' and there's an indecent amount of sucking to ensue. Before either of them are truly done with that particular venture, Derek catches Stiles' bottom lip, running his blunt human teeth over his soft skin. Suddenly, Stiles has had enough of just kissing and his hands are everywhere, running up his back, tugging on his hair to bring Derek's body yet closer. Derek, not exactly one to object, grabs Stiles by the waist, and despite having fulfilled his weekly need just a few hours ago, he's more than ready to go again. And again. And again.
Stiles' hips just jerk upward, almost involuntarily, causing a blissful, yet torturous grinding between Derek's newly appointed jeans, his dick and Stiles' less recently appointed jeans and his dick. Pure torture. "I've had enough of this shit," grunts out Stiles, fumbling with the button on Derek's jeans. Derek doesn't really mind because he's busy working a solid mark on Stiles' neck, the asshole bats him away before he can really get started. But, Derek notes with some satisfaction, some reluctance and difficulty is apparent in the movement. "Hng- Stop. I need to get these fucking jeans off you. Do you know how much pain these have caused me? They're so fucking tight Derek."
Stiles doesn't really put up a fight when Derek drags him toward the bedroom.