One moment, Stiles was opening his front door to a murder-faced werewolf; the next, the door had slammed shut and he was pressed against it, a warm body rocking against his in a way that definitely promised the fun sort of mauling.
If he’d had the energy to spare, he would have blinked in confusion. As it was, Stiles threw his (not at all overly, quite well-earned) suspicious nature to the wind and reveled in the way Derek seemed determined to fuck Stiles’ mouth with his tongue.
It wasn’t until that tongue- and a sharp prickle of fang, sweet baby jesus that was good- trailed down Stiles’ neck that he had the breath to contemplate their current situation.
“Um,” he gasped, “not that I’m complaining, but- fuck, yes- I happen to know that you’re- ohhh god- supposed to be on a date right now.”
Derek snarled and bit at the tendon of his lower neck, hard, a move that Stiles’ cock probably shouldn’t appreciate as much as it did. He mumbled something that Stiles desperately wanted to ignore, given that Derek’s fingers had slipped into the top of his jeans.
“I don’t- what?” Stiles said. He was more absorbed in contorting his hips in a way that would get Derek’s hand further into his pants.
Thumb on the button of Stiles’ jeans, fingers easing down the zipper, Derek pulled back just enough to stare at Stiles, hard.
“Don’t set me up on any more dates unless they’re with you, asshole.”
He slid to his knees in a moment of enviable grace that would have had Stiles cursing werewolves- Stiles had never done anything gracefully in his life- but he was very shortly too busy thanking god for werewolf stamina to complain.