Stiles brought a notebook with him to the next pack meeting. And a pencil. Goddamn that pencil. Goddammit to hell, because Stiles chewed on it. The. Entire. Meeting.
The pack discussed the latest (mostly harmless) supernatural activity around town. None of it was that fascinating, but Stiles didn’t write anything down, content to commit fallacio on his writing instrument. Derek tried not to stare, but the meeting was dragging and it had been over two hours since his quick pre-meeting jerk in the bathroom.
So, while Scott was talking about what to bring for snacks next meeting, Derek shifted in his seat, denying to himself that it was due to the pencil molestation happening in Stiles’ region of the couch. Stiles perked up at the movement, checked the time, and made a note. Derek hoped it was a reminder to bring tortilla chips the following week.
The next time Derek saw him, Stiles was in the frozen food section of the grocery store. Derek was somewhat surprised to see him, as Stiles was supposed to be interning at the police station at ten o’clock on Monday mornings, which was when Derek always did his grocery shopping. It was the perfect time slot after his morning workout and nine-thirty wank, but still early enough for him to make it back home, put away the groceries, and start the tea kettle heating before his lunchtime tug.
Stiles didn’t seem to notice him, so Derek slunk past him and hightailed it to the back of the store. They hadn’t talked since the incident, and Derek was planning on seeing if he he could make it to old age and expire before it was brought up in front of him. Oddly, Stiles, instead of rambling on as usual or being embarrassingly verbose about the accidental orgasm Derek had on him the week before, had been quiet and thoughtful everytime the pack had been together over the past week. Stiles would just be sitting there, silent, head cocked to one side, gazing at Derek with so much thought behind his eyes, it had actually made Derek shudder.
It was terrifying as fuck.
Stiles cornered him in the baking aisle. Well, not so much cornered, as sauntered up behind him while Derek was pretending to look at different spices with so much focus that he was sweating. Even the sharp smell of the herbs couldn’t drown out the familiar scent of Stiles as he drew closer. Derek had his hands thrust deep in his front pockets, pulling his jeans as far away from his pelvis as possible, trying to hide the growing issue of his overactive libido, when Stiles stopped right next to him.
Derek was afraid to move. He was afraid to look. He just stood there, perspiring, a more-than-half chub situation happening in his pants, the smell of Stiles and spices in his nose.
Stiles stood, indecisive next to him, his shock of hair tilting one way and then the other as he contemplated the red-labeled bottles. Just when Derek was thinking that he ought to make a break for it - just leave his shopping basket and run for the door - Stiles leaned in and grabbed a bottle of vanilla extract from the shelf. To reach it, he had to brush against Derek’s bare forearm with his side, the muscles of his lean flank flexing as he reached those long fingers out to grab the box, soft cotton whispering over Derek’s skin.
Leaning back again, Stiles held up the small box of vanilla extract triumphantly. “Cookies,” he said, his mouth going lopsided in a smirk. He tossed the vanilla into the shopping basket over his arm, next to a yellow bag of semisweet chocolate chips. Giving Derek a lazy salute, he sauntered off.
Derek took a good five minutes memorizing the names of every spice on the third shelf, before he was able to walk to the checkout lanes without giving everyone in aisle ten a show.
When Stiles waltzed into Derek’s apartment the next day for the pack meeting, toting a big ziplock bag full of chocolate chip cookies, Derek hid. He didn’t want to call it hiding, as it was more of a strategic retreat, but Erica made it very clear that he was, in fact, hiding.
“You’re hiding,” she said, holding onto his wrist and pulling backward through his bathroom doorway with all her considerable werewolf strength.
“I am not,” Derek replied coolly, leaning back towards the sink and refusing to budge.
“He’s not going to hurt you, Derek,” Erica continued calmly, bracing one leg on the doorframe for better leverage. “You’re technically the one who assaulted him, not the other way around.”
“I did not assault him,” Derek said, grabbing the countertop as his feet started to slip across the tile floor. “We were both stuck and he wouldn’t stop wiggling. I wasn’t moving at all. In fact, I was the one telling him to stop.”
“But he’s still the one that ended up with your jizz on his shirt.”
Derek started prying her red-painted fingernails off his wrist once he’d gotten his ankle hooked over the edge of the tub. He paused for a moment to give her his most serious Alpha glare. She grinned at him and tugged harder.
Eventually he decided to leave the bathroom and face the rest of the pack. Not because Erica made him, no matter what she claimed, but because he was the leader and needed to set a good example.
Stiles was sitting on the couch, his notebook open while he munched on a cookie and watched Derek like a hawk. It was the longest meeting Derek could remember, though he felt like he was rushing through it. Every time he so much as shifted in his chair or took a sip of his water, Stiles wrote something down.
What could he possibly be finding interesting? He completely ignored Isaac's account of a child-sized ghoul hiding out in the local cemetery, but he jotted something down when Derek’s nostrils started to flare at nine o’clock. He stopped scenting the air immediately, realizing what he was doing only because of Stiles’ reaction. God, did he always do that towards the close of the meeting? True, he could usually still smell Stiles even after he’d kicked them all out, but he’d just thought it was coincidental. Was he actually scenting the human to make his post-meeting masturbatory session (mindnumbngly, impossibly, incredibly) better?
No. Certainly not. And for the love of all that was holy, why was that pencil in Stiles’ mouth again?
By the time the pack was filing out, used to the abrupt dismissal they usually received from their Alpha after meetings, Derek couldn’t stand up without giving himself away. Someone, most likely Erica, had handed him a small plate with a few cookies on it sometime during the meeting. Normally, he would have set it aside. But tonight, in a desperate attempt to hide his growing problem, he’d hauled a backpack into his lap and used it as a convenient table for the plate. It wasn’t very smooth, but it was a lot better than showing off his now straining boner.
He sat on the couch, anchored to his spot by the plate of cookies, pretending to look at his phone, while the voices of his pack retreated out the door and down the hallway. He took a deep breath. Now that he was finally alone, all he could think about was getting his hand on his throbbing cock and coming his brains out in the shower-
“Did you like the cookies?”
“Gah!” Derek righted the bag and plate in his lap that he’d almost flung across the room as Stiles’ emerged from the kitchen.
“Oh, sorry dude, I was just putting the leftover pizza in the fridge. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m kinda surprised I could, though, you being an apex predator and all. I thought you always knew when anyone or anything was in, like, fifty feet of you, or something. You can hear heartbeats and stuff, and also, like, smell people right? Is that the main way you recognize people? Scent? Cause you sniff a lot. Not like, loud or anything, but you do this-”
Stiles broke off to do an alarmingly accurate depiction of a werewolf scenting its surroundings, head cocked and eyes slightly glazed over. Derek tried not to shudder.
“- and maybe that’s an Alpha thing, cause Scott says he mainly relies on hearing to know if someone’s nearby and who they are. He claims he knows heartbeats and who they belong to without seeing the person. Pretty cool, I guess. He sniffs the air sometimes, but it’s like he’s got to think about it, you know? It’s not instinctual for him, like it seems to be for you. But maybe that’s less and Alpha thing and more a born wolf thing.”
Stiles was standing right next to Derek’s knees. If he shuffled forward a few inches, they’d be touching. When had he gotten so close? Why was he still here?
“So, did you?” Stiles asked, leaning slightly over Derek.
“Did I what?” Derek asked, wincing at how broken and gravelly his voice sounded all of a sudden.
“Like the cookies?” Stiles asked, his voice much softer, one eyebrow lifted just a fraction, his smile going a little crooked.
“I, uh, I haven’t had one yet,” Derek stuttered. Why could he never lie? Why not, just once, could he tell a nice, white lie and get away with it. ‘Yes, Stiles, I did have one of your delicious cookies and I’m saving the rest for later. Thanks for making them. Now please leave immediately so that I can strip my cock raw to thoughts of you mouthing your pencil.’
“What?!” Stiles flailed. “I made my special, Stiles Stilinski deluxe choco chip circles of heavenly yummines, and you don’t try one? No, I forbid it. Everyone else had at least five, and showered me with praise. I am not leaving until you have one.”
Derek shifted. One of the buckles from the backpack was digging uncomfortably into his erection, doing nothing to dissuade it, unfortunately. Even that small movement had him holding back a whimper.
“Stiles, go home.”
“Not until you try my cookies!”
“I’ll eat one later. Go home.”
“Fine,” Stiles huffed, his arms crossed over his chest in a fit of pique. Derek hoped he couldn’t tell that he was shifting his hips slightly, unable to stop himself from slowly humping the bag in his lap.
Stiles, who was looking angrily over the top of Derek’s head, continued to stand there, unmoving. Jesus fuck, the smell of him. He was like the vanilla and sugar in the cookies, but also like sex and sex and sex and Stiles. Derek popped his claws into the sofa cushion where Stiles couldn’t see and made himself take a slow breath.
“Well?” Derek asked, when Stiles still showed no inclination to leave. Stiles rolled his eyes at him.
“You’ve got my bag.”
“You’ve got my bag,” he repeated. “In your lap. That’s my backpack.”
Derek froze. Shit. Shit shit shit.
Stiles hands went out for it. Derek didn’t move. Stiles snorted and took the plate of cookies out of Derek’s hands and set it on the coffee table, then reached out for his bag. Derek had a deathgrip on it and Stiles instantly gave up trying to tug it out of his hands.
“Okayyy…” Stiles said, pouting out one bottom lip. “If you’re keeping me here awhile longer, for whatever weird, wolfy reason, at least try one of the cookies.”
“See, you say that, but I have never seen you try and steal anyone’s backpack before. I know it’s super awesome and filled with cool, supernatural stuff and snacks, plus the Batman buttons and all, but we can get you your own, Derek.”
Derek just stared up at him, trapped.
“Alright, here.” Stiles spun around and grabbed a cookie off the plate. “Listen, this is not a dog joke at all, okay? Don’t get mad at me. But if you let me have the bag, I'll give you a treat.”
Derek snarled at him.
“Whoa, dude. I am not the one putting us in this situation, alright? I am just trying Stiles logic, and Stiles logic says that it is reasonable to do just about anything for a perfectly baked, chewy, gooey, delightfully buttery cookie.”
Stiles was close again, leaning over him, cookie held in front of Derek’s mouth, the smell of chocolate and Stiles leaching into his brain. The cookie waggled under his nose, and Derek could feel the backpack shifting in his lap as Stiles attempted to slowly extricate it from Derek’s grip. The drag over his erection had him groaning. He grabbed Stiles’ wrist, causing the cookie to fall on the couch. Stiles made a grab for it, his backpack slung only halfway over his arm, overbalancing him. Derek reached out to steady him, and somehow ended up with a lapful of Stiles.
Stiles, meanwhile, had successfully managed to rescue the cookie and was eating it, sitting sideways in Derek’s lap and resolutely ignoring him. He licked the crumbs off his fingers and the melted chocolate off his lips.
“Well,” Stiles said, “as interesting as this has been, I should probably get going-” he shifted, swiveling his legs to the front, leaning back for a moment to get his feet under him and “-oh.”
Stiles wiggled a bit like he would if he were trying to settle himself more securely on a sofa cushion. Derek whined.
“Oh,” he repeated. “So that’s why you were suddenly all, grr, my bag now.”
Derek didn’t say anything, couldn’t even move to dump Stiles off his lap. He was so close to coming on the man in his lap, again, that all he could do was focus on breathing, his hands hovering off to the sides, not touching. His cock was slotted along Stiles’ crack, their breathing giving him just enough friction to keep him on the edge without tipping him over.
“Just give me a minute,” Derek gasped.
“Derek,” Stiles said his name soft, his voice deeper than before. Derek’s claws popped from his fingertips and his fangs dropped so fast, he bit his tongue. He rumbled at Stiles, not quite a growl, not quite a whimper. “Oh my god, that is so hot,” Stiles choked.
Derek cut off the noise with a whimper, swallowing hard. “I can’t,” he choked. “I can’t move without…”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Derek. Trust me, it’s not exactly like I mind, alright. God, I knew you probably had a high sex drive, but god damn, you are a wet dream, and oh my god, I’m sitting on your cock.”
Stiles arched his back slightly, his ass pushing more securely against Derek through their jeans. Derek let out a shuddering breath, grabbing Stiles around the waist, his forehead landing between his shoulder blades, unable to keep his head upright as the room swam around him.
“Just… let go,” Stiles whispered back at him. “I don’t mind.” Derek shook his head back on forth, the soft cotton of Stiles' shirt drifting over his face. Stiles slowly placed his hands over Derek’s on his waist, pulling his right hand forward, until it came to rest on Stiles’ erection. “See?” Stiles said, his voice going hoarse. “I don’t mind at all.”
Derek broke all at once. He wrapped his left arm around Stiles’ chest and leaned back on the couch, so that Stiles was sitting resting against his chest, ass flexing and shifting against Derek’s straining cock as Stiles flailed and then struggled to reposition. Derek’s right hand, which Stiles was now grinding up against while - fuck - moaning Derek’s name, scrambled at Stiles’ fly, fisting his dick as Derek set to wildly rutting up against him through their clothes.
Derek buried his nose behind Stiles’ ear, huffing in breaths of him, nuzzling his hair and reminding himself not to bite, you can’t bit him, don’t you fucking dare bite Stiles.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Stiles chanted, his voice stuttery and shaky from the force of Derek pistoning up against him. Derek had no idea how he was lasting this long, though it was less than a minute before Stiles was bucking and screaming “I’m coming, Derek, oh my god, yes,” and then Derek was jerking against him without rhythm coming and growling, moving his mouth away from the tender human throat, because oh god, this was the best orgasm of his life and he wanted to bite and claim the person that had made it possible.
They spent a full thirty seconds in blanked-out bliss, Stiles rising and falling on Derek’s chest in time with the werewolf’s ragged breathing.
“Wow,” Stiles whispered, in awe. “Wow, Derek.”
Derek’s mouth clicked shut, his eyes widening in horror. He was holding a handful of come. Stiles’ come. His breathing, which had evened out, started to pick back up.
“Oh, uh-oh, I can feel you starting to freak out, big guy, but I promise it’s okay, I-” but then Derek was lifting him, as quickly and carefully as possible, and setting him down on the unoccupied section of the couch. Jumping to his feet, Derek realized he was still fully dressed. He had come in his underwear, gooping up his pubic hair, but he was more dressed than Stiles, who hadn’t tucked himself away yet. He had a hand over his softening dick, looking almost bashful as he lay, half-sprawled, on the couch.
There was nothing for it. Stiles still had to clean up, and collect his thoughts and his belongings, before he could leave, all while hopefully not calling Scott or anyone else. Meanwhile, Derek even had his shoes on. Snatching a napkin from the table and quickly scrubbing off his hand, he lunged for the front door.
Derek grabbed his keys and turned the handle with shaking fingers.
“Dude! At least tell me if I’m still a virgin!”
Derek made it down the stairs and out into the dark street before he even slowed down enough to think about where he was going. He ended up walking to the corner 7-11 to wash up in the public restroom. He didn’t have his wallet with him, so he couldn’t even buy something when he slunk out five minutes later, the cashier giving him a look that said that she knew exactly what he had been up to in there.