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Chopping and Mixing and Peeling and Junk

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Stiles was sensing a pattern. First there'd been that thing in the swimming pool. Then last week he'd been thrown into the lake, nearly drowned, nearly frozen to death, and then had to suffer through the indignity of Derek driving him home in grumpy silence, clearly wishing black, painful death on Stiles for daring to drip on his seats. Tonight he'd had to wait around in the woods in the pouring rain for three hours like an idiot for Scott to arrive with a binding amulet from Allison and a translation, courtesy of Lydia, of some ancient Gaelic. This was all to complete a totally made-up sounding ritual they'd needed to ward off a leprechaun -- an actual freaking leprechaun -- from setting up shop in the woods and tricking people with wishes that always went horribly, disastrously wrong.

Scott had been the one to discover this all-important fact when he'd absently wished he wasn't a werewolf to make life easier for him and Allison, and had ended up a vampire instead. No sparkles, but with the slight disadvantage of bursting into flames in the sun and having a dangerous thirst for human blood which, it turned out, didn't make life even a little weeny bit easier for him and Allison.

They'd chased the sneaky little Irish bastard around in the undergrowth for a while, until Scott had pounced and bitten a chunk out of him for good measure. (His blood apparently tasted like whiskey and Lucky Charms, go figure. Unless Scott had been messing with him, but Stiles just didn't think Scott was that good at keeping a straight face.) Stiles had read his way through the ritual which rendered all of Beacon Hills off limits for any and all leprechauns for the next hundred years, nullifying any of their magic that had been cast in the area in the process. Stiles figured that after that there'll be some other hardy bunch of teenagers ready and willing to take on ridiculous creatures of the night.

For the moment, he was buzzing with the aftermath of a job well done, successfully having carried out his second piece of what he still balked at calling magic but was coming up empty on what else it could possibly be. He was home, safe and relatively sound, and had the place to himself. Ordinarily he hated coming home to an empty house on the nights when his dad was working late. Funny how that seemed to be happening more and more now that the supernatural had come to town and dead bodies were showing up with ever-increasing frequency. Tonight, however, it was a blessing. He wasn't sure even he could have come up with a plausible excuse about why he was soaked to the skin, again, and home about five hours late, again.

His entire body was numb and tingly with exhaustion and the comedown from adrenaline. He was sure he was going to be stiff as a board come morning, which meant that practice tomorrow was going to be hell. He'd spent the last ten minutes untangling his wet shoelaces, trying to get the knots undone without resorting to cutting them off, and now he was leaving wet footprints all over the kitchen floor, his socks squelching with every step.

He had what was left of his evening all planned out. It involved a hot shower and fluffy towels, a load of laundry, something to eat, and several blissful hours of sleep before his alarm went off bright and early the next morning. He peeled off his jacket as he stared into the open cupboards, wondering what he could rustle up to eat with the minimum amount of effort, the maximum taste sensation. He made his choice, dropped his jacket with a wet splat, and set his ingredients on the counter, trying to figure out shower times versus cooking times in his head and wondering if it was feasible to get both done at once.

The dark figure standing in the doorway to the kitchen derailed his mental calculations.

Stiles swore and stumbled back several feet, only stopping when his hip collided with the kitchen counter. He yelped in pain, bounced off, skidded on his wet socks and landed in a heap on the floor. The dark figure took a step into the light and Stifles let out a squeak of righteous indignation.

"Derek, could you possibly not do that?" He pressed a fist to his chest where his heart was valiantly trying to burst out of his ribcage and run screaming into the night. "We have this thing. It's called a front door. There's a little button you push. Goes ding dong. Or a phone! New-fangled contraptions. You'd love them. They let you talk to people who aren't in your general vicinity, warn them maybe that you're about to make a sudden appearance. This is what normal people do instead of just busting into people's homes in the dead of night."

Derek stood in the centre of Stiles' kitchen, a grumpy enigma wrapped in old denim and black leather. He'd also clearly been out and about that evening: his hair was damp, and there was water on his face and the shoulders of his jacket, but he hadn't ventured into drowned rat territory like Stiles. Stiles figured that werewolves could probably skulk between the raindrops or something.

Stupid werewolves.

"I didn't bust in. You left your bedroom window open."

"Yeah," Stiles said. "My bedroom window. Do I need to point out all the ways that makes you a creeper or are we taking that as a given?"

"It's wet out," Derek said, making Stiles raise his eyebrows in disbelief. "And I wanted to see if you and Scott had taken care of the leprechaun."

"How do you even know about that? Also, you have a car. Great way to get out of the rain that doesn't involve being under my roof."

"Can't drive my car through the woods. And Scott told me about it. We're all doing that communicating thing you were so vocal about, remember?" He held up his phone and waggled it before tossing it down on the kitchen counter, then started peeling off his wet jacket.

"So you're not here to grill me some more about the Kanima or threaten to puncture me with your claws?"

Derek looked bored and grouchy, just like he always did when violence wasn't immediately imminent, but with an extra added edge that said somehow every last thing that had gone wrong today was all Stiles' fault. "I'm rethinking my information gathering strategies." He shook his jacket out and hung it on the back of a chair.

Stiles frowned at the jacket, feeling oddly put out. "Uh huh. Old ones not working out too well?"

"I was hoping at this point you might have developed a shred of self-preservation and would just let me know when you found anything out." Derek huffed out a breath and did that nose-flare thing that always made Stiles think of dragons but let him know that Derek was actually focusing his grumpiness on a specific thing rather than just maintaining his general bad attitude.

"Yeah? Like you're going to share all your wolfy know-how before we need it in a life or death situation? And tell us before you run off and go do your bonehead self-sacrificial martyr thing? Or then there's my all-time personal favourite: possibly not just killing anything that moves instead of maybe talking it out first."

"Absolutely," Derek said, a beat too slow.

Stiles hoped his expression adequately conveyed how deluded he thought Derek was and didn't just make him look goofy. "That's such bull. You've given me the 'I don't trust you, you don't trust me' speech about a million times. I can pretty much recite it by rote."

Derek pushed back his shoulders. "I don't know what we are."

"I think the cool kids are calling it frenemies."

Derek scowled. "Look, I never got a chance to talk to you after the thing in the pool. You saved my life. Again. You spent hours doing it."

Stiles spread his hands, surprised. "You're welcome?"

"I don't like being in anyone's debt like that."

"There's no debt," Stiles said quickly. "Really. Consider it a freebie. It's what we do, right? Save each other's lives in among all the bickering and in-fighting. Unless," he said, and held up one finger. "Unless I can barter at a later date for a little werewolf muscle or possibly use it against you to get you to back off when you're being a complete creepy stalker weirdball."

"Pretty sure weirdball isn't a word. Barely qualifies as an insult."

"Not exactly operating on full thrusters," Stiles said. "You'll just have to go with me on this one."

"Fine," Derek said. "Let's just say I owe you one."

"Let's just say the prospect terrifies me a little bit, but I can dig it. The leprechaun is toast. He and all of his kind are banished from Beacon Hills."

"And Scott?"

"No longer thirsting for human blood, so that's a plus. Back to the widow's peak and ginormous sideburns but, hey, you can't win 'em all."

Derek didn't look overly impressed, but he gave a short nod and held out a hand. Stiles eyed it, glanced up at Derek, and went back to eyeing the hand like it might grow fangs and bite him. Derek rolled his eyes and tried again, extending his arm an extra couple of inches. Stiles let himself be pulled to his feet. He swayed, a head-rush robbing him of his sight for a few seconds, and when the haze cleared, he found himself all the way over in Derek's personal space. It was inconceivable that not so long ago it had been Stiles supporting Derek's body, fighting the endless drag of exhaustion just to keep his head above water.

"Man, I need to eat something," he said on a shaky exhale. "I think my stomach's trying to eat itself."

Derek dropped their joined hands and cast an eye around the kitchen. "Is that what you were doing? Cooking?" He tilted his head when he saw Stiles' chosen ingredients. Stiles bit his lip as hard as he could stand to stop him from making what would undoubtedly have been a hilarious and well-received puppy comparison. "Is that pasta?"

"Yeah, it's pasta."

Derek looked pained. "And ketchup."

"Yes, god, pasta and ketchup. There's nothing in the house."

Derek opened the fridge and stared inside. "You have a ton of stuff."

"Yeah, but that's all healthy stuff for my dad that involves..." Stiles waved his hands around. "Chopping and mixing and peeling and junk."

"You couldn't even manage a jar of sauce?"

"Ketchup is practically sauce. It's got tomatoes in it and everything." Derek started pulling things out of the fridge. It was Stiles' turn to tilt his head. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hungry. I'm going to make us something to eat. Something that involves chopping and mixing and peeling and junk."

"What?" Stiles blinked several times. "You're what?"

"Making food."


"So that we can eat it."

"This is the strangest thing that's ever happened to me."

"I find that very hard to believe."

"A werewolf who threatens me with physical violence pretty much every time we meet is in my kitchen, cooking me dinner."

"You threatened to run me over with your Jeep, you punched me in the head, you nearly cut off my arm that one time, and you got Allison to shoot me full of arrows," Derek said, like that should be enough reason to be standing in Stiles' kitchen at midnight on a school night peeling onions and chopping them up with some tomatoes and some slightly withered mushrooms. Stiles could only stand there dumbly, watching Derek's hands move, watching the way he handled a knife like it was an extension of his arm. "I like to cook," Derek said without looking up from what he was doing. He could probably tell that Stiles was staring. Yet another point for the stupidly annoying heightened werewolf senses. "Worked in a pretty good restaurant for a while in Brooklyn. Picked up a few things."

"You asked me to cut off your arm, and see, no, that's what I'm talking about. You doing normal, everyday things. That's so weird."

"I have no clue what you're talking about right now."

"Oh, please. You're living the werewolf dream, expanding your pack, running around in the woods chasing small defenceless fluffy little creatures, and being all dark and grumpy all the time. I just can't see you... y'know."

"No, but I get the feeling you're going to enlighten me."

"I can't picture you, you know, this. Cooking stuff, holding down a job, reading a book, doing laundry, buying toilet paper, watching a movie. It doesn't compute."

"There's more to life than running around in the woods."

"Uh huh," Stiles said, hopping up to sit on the counter so he could better watch Derek work, ignoring the way his pants went squelch. "Like cooking me dinner."

"I'm not cooking you dinner. You're clearly a terrible cook; you have food in the house, so this is just a trade-off."

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles pulled off a sock and wiggled his toes. They'd gone blue from the dye in his socks.

Derek nodded, his gaze on Stiles' bare foot, looking way too serious for a man staring at toes. "You let me eat your food. I let you eat what I cook." He lifted his gaze to look Stiles in the eye. "Good trade."

Stiles decided that discretion was the better part of valour and left Derek to it. He spent a little too much time in the shower thinking about the bizarreness of having Derek in his house in a practically a social way, no lives at stake, no threatening happening beyond idle bickering. He replayed a lot of what Derek had been saying, and ended up contemplating his voice and the way it caught Stiles off-guard every time Derek opened his mouth. It should have been a growl, some gravelly thing that Batman or any actor worth his salt in any quality supernatural CW drama would pay good money for, but instead it was smooth and measured and, at times, even soft.

Then he realised that he'd spent fifteen minutes of soapy naked time thinking about Derek and Derek's voice, and was rougher than he needed to be towelling himself off as punishment.

He got back from his shower feeling vaguely human again, ready, willing, and able to eat whatever Derek put in front of him, even if it turned out to be some manner of small defenceless fluffy little creature from the woods. It turned out to be something simple: pasta with tomato sauce, rich and delicious, and probably the best meal that Stiles had eaten since his mom was still around. Astonishingly, it had taken Derek less than an hour to put it together and he'd managed not to decimate the kitchen in the process, something Stiles and his dad had a teeny problem with anytime they prepared food from scratch. No meat, which seemed wrong for Derek somehow, but maybe it was a good thing he hadn't rooted out the steaks Stiles knew his dad had been keeping in the freezer for a special occasion.

"This is so good," Stiles said for the fourth time, sighing happily over his plate.

"You should taste my bread," Derek said, with what almost sounded like pride in his voice. He darted a glance at Stiles like he'd just let something slip that he hadn't meant to. Stiles, utterly at a loss for an appropriate response to the idea of Derek Hale baking, and too busy trying not to make embarrassing sex noises over how good the pasta was, found himself shooting Derek a wide smile, his cheeks stuffed with food. Derek frowned and went back to glaring down at his plate, moving things around with his fork. "For my, uh, for my sister, Sunday mornings I used to always make her her favourite pastries."

"What? Seriously? Dude, if you make your own pastries, you should just move in. That's all there is to it. I'll tell my dad we need a pastry chef on the premises at all times. You can be like... a lodger, but you can just live here for free so long as you make me things to eat all the time, because seriously. I don't think we can pay you or anything but, you know, I'll make it worth your while."

As always, he stopped talking a few important seconds too late, faulty brain to mouth relays leaving him hanging. He replayed a little of what had just come out of his mouth, and glanced up, expecting pain, expecting mocking, but what he got was Derek watching him with, yes, okay, some mocking, but what looked like genuine warmth in his eyes, and the tiniest little smile playing around the corners of his mouth. It was a good look on him, Stiles thought. Then he thought that maybe it'd be nice if Derek did it more often.

"Anyway," Stiles said, holding the biggest forkful of pasta that he could possibly fit in his mouth without unhinging his jaw: anything to shut himself up. "This is really good."

They ate in silence for a while as Stiles helped himself to seconds and then thirds after topping up Derek's plate, just to be polite.

"I read."

Stiles looked up, confused. Derek set down his fork on his empty plate and sat back in his chair. "Normal, everyday things. I read. There's no electricity at the house for TV or whatever, so yeah. I read."

"Still can't picture it."

"I work out."

"Clearly," Stiles said, and immediately wanted to bite off his own tongue.

"The kitchen was pretty much destroyed so I can't cook like this but I barbecue sometimes."

"So what you're saying is it's not all howling at the moon and tracking down giant lizards."

"What can I say? I have hidden depths."

Stiles polished off his last mouthful of pasta. He set his fork down with a clatter, sat back in his chair and rubbed his full belly contently. "Deepest werewolf I know."

"What about Scott?"

"Best friend in the world, but I wouldn't exactly call the guy deep."

Derek made a little "huh" sound and stood up. "Well, this was, uh. Yeah, I gotta go."

Stiles stood up, feeling suddenly awkward like Derek had been a real guest in his house and not just that supernatural guy with the permanent scowl, sticky up hair, and a bad habit of letting himself into Stiles' bedroom whenever he felt like it. Usually Derek just jumped out his window and disappeared into the night whenever he was done hiding from the law or threatening Stiles into helping him research monsters.

Derek grabbed his phone and his jacket. Stiles shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his hoody and followed Derek to the front door and out onto the porch. It had stopped raining but the night air felt damp and cool against his skin. Water dripped from the porch roof to patter on the ground below.

"Light's broken, sorry. Dad's been meaning to fix it."

Derek turned around at the sound of Stiles' voice, his face half in shadow, the only light coming from the hallway behind Stiles. Derek was already one step down from the porch, which put Stiles a couple of inches taller. "Seeing in the dark isn't too much of a problem for me."

"Sucks to be human," Stiles said. He ducked down a little to try and let some of the light through so he could see Derek's face, and like the baller he knew he was, managed to slip on the wet wood of the top step, lose his footing and end up grabbing at Derek's shoulder for balance. He tensed up immediately because the last time he'd put his hand on Derek without permission, Derek had threatened to bite it off.

"Smooth," Derek said.

Stiles slid his hand from Derek's shoulder to tuck his fingers under the lapel of Derek's jacket and grip the leather. He waited a beat to think that yes, yes, he'd clearly lost his mind and Derek was mere seconds away from beating him into a bloody paste, and leaned in the last couple of inches separating them. Derek huffed out a surprised breath but didn't shove Stiles away the instant their lips met. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft, and when their tongues brushed, Stiles felt it all the way down to his toes. They broke apart, Stiles dropped his hand, hoping like hell Derek didn't catch the way it was shaking, and waited for the fallout.

"Stiles," Derek said, his voice soft, ducking his head and actually touching his fingertips to his lips which did all kinds of crazy things to Stiles' insides. "You know that's not why I came here."

Stiles swallowed heavily, feeling stupid and young and kind of sick to his stomach, and started to back away, looking anywhere but at Derek. "Sure, right, sorry. My mistake. Momentary lapse of sanity. It's been known. So, uh, if you'd be so kind as to not kill me now and possibly forget that this ever happened, that'd be swell."

Derek grabbed the front of Stiles' hoody and pulled him back in. "God, shut up. I just meant I wasn't expecting... I just hadn't planned on it is what I meant. You and me haven't... It's not something I do. Generally speaking." He stepped back up onto the porch, bringing them nose to nose. Stiles' heart thumped in his chest, and he cursed himself, knowing that Derek could hear it. This close he could smell Derek, feel the warmth of his skin through the layers of their clothes, and he was all too aware of the way Derek was looking at him, focused and intent.

"Generally speaking," Stiles said, entirely at a loss as to where to go from there. He'd actually made a move on Derek, who still scared him in some vague, distant, far off kind of a way, and yet he was still standing, proud recipient of all of Derek's attention.

Derek nodded, serious and unhappy. "Everyone around me gets hurt."

"That doesn't sound melodramatic at all."

"Have you been paying attention at all since we met?"

"You know I'm a big believer in bucking trends."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"I've got a pretty good idea." Stiles ran his tongue over his bottom lip, a nervous little gesture, but he didn't miss the way Derek tracked the movement, his eyes dark. "So, generally speaking, this is just you not wanting bad things to happen to me, and what you're saying is that, generally speaking, you maybe wouldn't be entirely opposed to the idea of--"

Derek kissed him again, his hands on Stiles' face, moving Stiles where he wanted him. Stiles honest-to-god whimpered, something he would deny to his dying day, and did his best just to try and keep up. Derek's stubble was softer than Stiles had been expecting; his kisses were intense and deep and involved tongue and teeth and things that made the butterflies in Stiles' stomach start to slam-dance. Stiles hadn't even known that kissing someone like this was an option. Derek started walking, not stopping until Stiles' back hit the wall of the house with a muted thud, the two of them hidden in the shadows. His hands were inside Stiles' hoody, his palms warm and rough, sending showers of tingles over every inch of Stiles' skin.

"Ohmygod. This is... you know I'm... this is all brand new to me. You know that, right?"

Derek made a low humming sound. "I know. I can smell it on you."

"That's.... kind of horrifying."

Derek shook his head. "No. It's a good thing. You smell... really good."

"Oh, Jesus, shut up, shut up. No sniffing me. That's totally unfair."

"Sucks to be human." Derek scraped his teeth over Stiles' chin and nosed at his jaw. He inhaled deeply, making snuffling noises in the curve of Stile's throat. Stiles burned with embarrassment but clung to Derek's shoulders, tilting his head further to the side to give Derek better access.

"I didn't know you... I mean, I wasn't even all that sure about me."

Derek stopped the awesome things he was doing to Stiles' neck and drew back to look at him, searching Stiles' face. "If you're not sure, tell me now."

Stiles let out a sound of loss and fisted handfuls of Derek's jacket to keep him there. "Wait, no, I just won you over with my logic! I'm not having a gay freakout, or a werewolf one, or a you one, just... shit. I'm just talking too much. You may have noticed that's my thing. Do that neck thing again."

For once, Derek did what he was told. Things got a little frantic: hands grabbing at clothes, elbows and knees hitting the wall behind Stiles. Derek got his hands under Stiles' ass, not picking him up exactly, but angling him so their hips snugged together, and suddenly kissing was way outside the realm of things that Stiles was coordinated enough to handle. He rolled his head against the wall and willed his knees not to give out.

"Holy god. Let's go inside," he said, realising that was what they needed, that was where this was heading. "Derek, man, take me inside."

The wall of warm muscle pinning him against the house didn't back off. Derek shook his head vaguely, and tugged at the waist of Stiles' jeans until a couple of the buttons opened.

"This what you want?" he said into Stiles' mouth. It was all Stiles could do to nod, his chest heaving. "Tell me," Derek said, lightly scratching blunt nails low on Stiles' stomach. Stiles could only stare at him, at a loss. Derek seemed so serious, like he really needed Stiles to give him an answer, like he needed the words. Stiles had no idea what he wanted right now, what Derek would take, what he was prepared to give -- though he was thinking it could conceivably be quite a lot -- but he certainly couldn't say any of it out loud. He groaned and shifted his hips, looking for heat and friction and more, and just hoped Derek got the message. "You want my hand?" Derek said. "My mouth?" And jesus fuck hearing that come out of Derek's mouth was like a punch to the gut.

"Don't know, don't know," Stiles managed. "Something. Yes, all that. God, just anything."

Derek hooked his thumbs on the waist of Stiles' jeans and shorts, and worked them down over his hips. Cool air licked over Stiles' hot skin, making him feel shivery and exposed. Derek made a low sound of approval, and smoothed his palms up over Stiles' hips, his stomach, his chest, over and over, petting him, enjoying him. Stiles shifted restlessly, shamelessly bucking his hips against the ridiculously sexy muscle of Derek's thigh. He couldn't see exactly what Derek was doing, but he heard the slap-clink of a belt opening.

"Like this?" Derek murmured, and holy god above that was Derek's dick poking the bare skin of his stomach.

Stiles nodded rapidly, reaching up with his whole body, his fingers in the thick of Derek's hair. Derek was so hot against Stiles' skin, flush against him now, and their dicks were actually touching, a fact that had turned Stiles' insides to jelly, that his brain was having serious trouble accepting as a real thing that was actually happening.

Stiles was waiting for whatever came next, figuring that Derek would set the pace and he'd do his best to follow, but Derek wasn't doing anything. He was holding Stiles close and had his face buried in the curve of Stile's throat, breathing slow and even. Stiles went very still when he realised that Derek was shaking, his whole body tense. Stiles' hands hovered over Derek's back, afraid to touch, which was kind of ridiculous seeing all the other very intimate places they were touching.

"If you want to, uh, stop or whatever. That's cool if you think you don't--"

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek said, squeezing the back of Stiles' neck and rolling his hips.

Stiles' mouth fell open, his head thumping off the wall. "Shutting up."

Derek lifted his head and kissed Stiles once, hard and dirty, then took Stiles' hand and licked wetly across his palm.

"You want me to...? Right, okay, I can do that. Like riding a bicycle, right?"

Derek didn't say anything, didn't even roll his eyes, just guided Stiles' hand to where he wanted it, wrapping around both of them, linking their fingers together and showing Stiles how he liked it. There was a buzzing in Stiles' head, and he was too aware of his own skin, of all the places Derek was touching him, everything slippery and sex-hazy and really fucking awesome. Stiles did his best to make them both feel good, trying to make it last, fascinated and overwhelmed at getting to see Derek like this, defences down, but he kept getting distracted at how fucking good it felt and by trying to get his mouth anywhere on Derek's skin, so somewhere along the way Derek had taken over, working both of them. Stiles rode the sweet burn of it, hot and messy and perfect, until the shock of his orgasm kicked his knees out from under him and left him gasping and useless.

He was absolutely not going to think about the fact that he'd just come all over Derek's stomach, and steadfastly wasn't thinking about werewolf noses and how Derek would probably be able to smell it for days. Instead of all that awkward thinking, Stiles slid down the wall. When he got to eye-level with Derek's cock, he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and looked up.

Derek had an arm braced on the wall above him and was staring down at Stiles.

Stiles licked his lips and reached out, not taking breaking eye contact. "I'm gunna... I mean, if you want I can..."

Derek shifted his weight and growled Stiles' name. Stiles took that as a yes.

He made a tentative dab with his tongue, and heard a thump from somewhere over his head. "Don't punch any holes in the wall, dude," he said, and licked again. It didn't taste bad. It was just like the times he'd licked his own fingers after jerking off. No big deal. He could do this. He didn't attempt anything fancy, just held his teeth out of the way and did what he thought he might like if he was on the receiving end, paying special attention to the head, keeping his lips tight around it and going to town with his tongue. It felt really awkward at first, but he found that he actually liked the slippery heat of it, the weight, the noises Derek was making. Even though it was definitely what he was aiming for, he was still surprised when he felt a warning pulse against his tongue and realised that Derek was about to come. Heat suffused his chest with the realisation that he'd done this to Derek, that Derek was about to lose it because of him. He didn't let up, working Derek through it, swallowing more than he meant to and choking a little, his eyes watering, but not letting up until Derek hissed and held him off, his hand under Stiles' chin.

Stiles stared up at him, boneless and tingling, his jaw aching. He thought about a couple of what-ifs and maybes. He wondered if Derek would disappear into the night, guilty and regretting it already. Or maybe he would be a ginormous douche about the whole thing, pretending like it had never happened, being even more annoying and difficult when they saw each other in future.

Derek grabbed fistfuls of Stiles' hoody and pulled him to his feet in one easy motion. He just stood there, looking at Stiles like he was waiting for something.

Stiles couldn't help it. He smiled. A big, goofy, I just had my first official sexual encounter with a seriously hot guy smile. "Man, you gotta cook me dinner more often. I swear to god I will absolutely put out afterwards."

Derek huffed out a laugh, all the tension leaking out of him. He kissed Stiles once, softly, then tugged down Stiles' ruined hoody and leaned in close to say, "I'll keep that in mind."