Pacing
sterek/oneshot
"Your pacing is annoying," Derek says, jaw ticking in irritation as he steadily ignores the quick pitter patter of Stiles' bare feet against his concrete flooring. "Stop."
He hears Stiles chuff out a breath of air, no doubt side eying him with pinched brows and lips that have twisted into a petulant pout—("Dude, it's totally a grimace. A scary, manly grimace! ")—as he glares, doom and gloom radiating from him in spades.
"I'm not pacing," Stiles argues childishly, "I'm walking back in forth in a very purposeful manner."
Derek slams his book close, just barely manages not to roll his eyes, and turns to glance at Stiles with a very unimpressed frown. "Pacing," he reiterates dryly.
Stiles crosses his arms and turns his back to Derek, heartbeat ticking upwards as he fumes. "Whatever," he grumbles, "I don't say anything when you stare gloomily out the window and wallow in self pity."
"Really," Derek muses aloud as he raises a dubious eyebrow. "You don't?"
Stiles purses his lips and scrunches up his face angrily. "It's my turn to wallow. I can totally wallow. Self-deprecating wallowing is not something you patented, dick."
Derek sighs, put out and exasperated. "Scott will be fine," he says tightly.
Stiles turns wildly by his heel to glare, moonlight reflecting off his bright brown eyes. "Well aren't you just a little ball of sunshine and positivity!" He narrows his eyes. "Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?"
This time, Derek does roll his eyes. "Scott can handle himself."
"I should be with him," Stiles says, stepping towards the table and jutting his pointer finger back at himself. "This is my fault, and I'm his best friend so I should—"
"—Shut up."
Stiles blinks, surprised for one moment and then furious the next. "Fuck off, I—"
"No Stiles, just shut up," Derek growls, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed. "Scott knows what he's doing. What is done is done, there's nothing you can do about it." Derek steps forward around the table, the movement quick and deliberate. "Now quit pacing and go home."
"And if I don't?" Stiles challenges, straightening his back out into a defiant posture.
The posturing calls to Derek's instincts, makes him want to push Stiles back, make him submit. But he doesn't, he merely stands there, contemplating. He moves so quickly Stiles barely has time to react. Suddenly, Derek has him by the back of his neck, lips boring down, devouring and soothing all at once. Their lips move in tandem, quick, wet, and messy. It isn't a particularly enjoyable kiss, for all the sloppiness of it—mashing teeth and bitten lips. But it leaves them both breathless as Derek pulls away
"God, I fucking hate you, you asshole," Stiles bites out, pupils blown and breath haggard. "I really, really do."
"The feeling is mutual," Derek murmurs through a grin as he leans down to bring their lips together for a longer, more proper kiss.