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Of Werewolves and Coffee Shops

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Stiles was working a random closing shift on a thursday night, when he messed up the coffee order of the really hot guy that always seemed to come in on his shift. He had been talking to him for a minute or two about what he wanted in the remake, and Stiles had made a bad joke about remakes always being worse than the originals. The guy had laughed, and touched Stiles' arm absentmindedly, making Stiles feel a little proud of himself. But then Derek showed up, and wrecked everything.

Stiles couldn't form a coherent thought until after everything was said and done.

"So you’re a…" Stiles couldn’t bring himself to say the last word, to admit it. Because it couldn’t be true. How could it? Things like this only happened in B-rated supernatural movies.

Derek just eyed him from underneath his thick, angry-looking brow ridge, which was suddenly devoid of the normal eyebrows of doom that he normally sported.

His eyes were red, and literally glowed. Stiles could see small red shimmering patches dart across his skin as the moonlight hit them just right. And right now, they were hovering, their gaze locked on Stiles as Derek stood there, breathing hard through razor-sharp incisors.

Which totally hadn’t been there a second ago. Neither had the hair along his jaw. All of it had sprung into being a second ago, when a nice guy had been talking to Stiles. Just talking. That was it.

It was allowed, you know, by normal people.

But Derek wasn’t normal people, apparently. So what did he do? He freaking turned into a werewolf, right in the middle of the goddamn Starbucks.

After that, everyone kind of left in a hurry. A really really really big hurry. Seriously, half-drunk venti caramel macchiatos were left or spilled violently all over the floor as people scrambled for the exits, including the pretty-looking dude that had been chatting Stiles up just a moment ago. He was probably out in his car changing his underwear.

Meanwhile, Stiles was kind of left where he stood, backed up against the wall behind the counter. He had a coffee press in his hand, cocked back over his head, a silent warning to whateverthefuck Derek was, that if he made any sudden moves, he was going to get a face-full of overpriced glassware.

"Stiles, I-" He leaned over the counter, and Stiles’ cocked his arm back threateningly. Derek raised his claws, holyfuckingshit actual claws, in submission and took a step back away from the counter. “Just calm- calm down, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Stiles squinted at him skeptically. “Right, I totally believe that one. After you roared at that dude for absolutely no reason.”

"He was hitting on you."

“He was having me redo his coffee!" Stiles yelled, gesturing to the floor with his free hand, where the venti half-caf no whip white mocha was splattered across it.

Derek somehow managed to look petulant, somewhere beneath his wolf-ish exterior. “He was too close to you. I wasn’t- He smelled funny.” He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with a clawed hand.

Stiles guffawed. “He smelled funny? And what the hell does that mean? Do you go around sniffing people now?”

Derek sighed. “It comes with-,” he gestured to his face with a clawed index finger, “-with this. I can smell everything. The type of coffee beans you are using in the cappuccino machine, the cologne you are wearing, the laundry detergent in your shirt, the sweat on your neck…” He gave a little, pained-looking swallow. Stiles watched as his throat bobbed with the motion.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Stiles blinked, feeling himself begin to lower the coffee press. “Oh. And what did whatshisface smell like?” He gestured towards the door that the guy had hauled ass out of when Derek had roared at him.

Derek’s cheeks flushed a little, his pointed ears darkened as well. Stiles definitely did not find that adorable. “He smelled like… like he wanted you.”

"Like he wanted me? And that made you… angry?" He cocked an eyebrow as he grabbed the rag from the back of the steamer to start wiping up the mess of the counter.

"Yes- I mean no. No. Just, protective."

"Protective? Why protective? Do you want me or something?” Stiles picked up a few crushed cups and threw them into the trashcan. Derek didn’t answer. When Stiles looked up, he was standing there, his face burnt blotchy red, his red eyes decidedly looking everywhere but at him. “Holy crap you do…” Stiles froze at the realization.

Derek sighed. “I should have told you, I just… I just couldn’t. I wasn’t sure how you’d react…”

"To this or you being a werewolf?"

"Either?" Derek flicked a red eye up to catch Stiles’ amber-brown ones.

Stiles gave a little chuckle. “Fair enough.” He managed to sop up the coffee that had spilled across the register. “Tell you what, you hop over the counter here and grab the mop, and not only will I not throw you out for wrecking the shop when I am the only one closing tonight, but I will let you make it up to me by taking me out on a date.”

Derek was over the counter before Stiles could finish the sentence.

"Well okay then." He reached back and pulled the mop out to hand to him. Derek took it dutifully, and set to work on the floor. As the cleaned in relative silence, a question popped into Stiles’ mind. "So how long does it take you to… you know," he shrugged, "change back, or whatever?"

Derek kept mopping. “Depends. The shift may last for as long as a few seconds, but can go for a few hours. I’m pretty good at controlling it anymore. Want me to shift back?”

Stiles developed a sudden stutter. “No- I mean, you don’t have to. If you don’t- If you don’t want to.”

Derek cocked an intrigued eyebrow at the human as he leaned over the counter to get a drop of coffee on the opposite wall. When he stood back up and turned around, The werewolf was in his personal space, crowding him up against the counter, a soft, almost canine hum ebbing and flowing from his throat as his eyes flicked back and forth between Stiles’.

"Uh, can I help you with something?" A slight edge of fear crept into Stiles’ voice, and the way Derek was looking at him, he wasn’t sure if he was about to be eaten or consumed.

Then, ever so slowly, Stiles felt himself being pulled, gently, cautiously, towards Derek’s lips, a hungry look flashing across his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either. He eyed the werewolf’s fangs, and swallowed hard just before their lips came together.

And yeah, it was a first. Totally kissing a werewolf. As their lips slotted together, Stiles kind of fell apart at the seams. Because even with those two-inch canines, Derek was a fantastic kisser. Stiles felt his hands slide of their own accord up into the soft hair along his jaw, and he sank into it, as the kiss reached down past his chest into his toes, spreading fire through his nerves as Derek’s tongue grazed his own. Stiles let out a high, meant-to-be-stifled sound that he wasn’t proud of, and Derek dove deeper.

Yup, Stiles was being consumed. By a werewolf. And the weirdest part was that he was totally okay with it.

As Derek worried at his bottom lip, Stiles pulled back, the ghost of the contact playing across his mouth. The hungry, predatory expression that had been written across Derek’s features a few minutes before was now replaced with one that was almost soft. Vulnerable. Not at all what is expected of a dude who is currently stuck in wolf-mode.

"Want me to shift back yet?" Derek asked, edge of playfulness creeping into his voice as he made for Stiles’ neck, to lick a stripe up the long cord of muscle just behind his jugular.

"Uh-unh," was all Stiles could manage, as he arched his head back involuntarily. Derek growled in response as he began sucking a bruise into the base of the human’s throat.

Stiles closed his eyes. “Okay, I promise to never let cute Starbucks guys hit on me when I am at work.” Derek growled, and damn that was hot, “if you promise not to stop. Ever. Because Ohmygod.”

A soft, evil sound that was halfway between a laugh and growl escaped Derek’s lips as they brushed against the sensitive skin underneath Stiles’ jaw.

They could clean up the mess in the morning. Or, you know, make it worse.