shercocklocked:

It’s fairly late, so Stiles knows he’s probably going to piss Derek off. Big surprise, as Derek is always pissed off and it’s most always because of Stiles. Maybe they’re allergic to each other? Stiles surely hopes not.

When they’re not in a serious situation that involves meticulous planning (and tenacity spanning), they certainly are in decades of denial. Well, not decades, but it’s gotten to the point where even Scott, who normally shies away from thinking about Derek for too long, has noticed the blatant sexual tension between the two. 

That’s not the purpose of his visit on this fine summer night (he is not a coward, it’s just… not the right time), where the wind is just right and the moon is only half-full, bright enough to make things less spooky. (Derek’s taken to sleeping in the old Hale house again, his pack staying back in his loft, while he oversees the restoration of his old family home.) No, the purpose of his visit is not confessing his undying love and sexual frustration to one Derek Hale, it’s to bring him new research on their current baddie, because the motherfucker won’t answer his cellphone.

He parks his Jeep in the familiar driveway, gravel and leaves crunching under his feet. He slams the Jeep door to announce his arrival, and stomps up towards the front of the house just for spite. Longing spite. 

He pauses a moment to glance at his papers of research, makes sure nothing is missing, and then looks up, words at the tip of his tongue as the door swings open—

—and those words are lost to him as all his blood rushes from one extremity to another. He drops his papers, and they go flying away in the slight breeze, but he doesn’t care because what.

“Oh,” is all he can manage to say, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck as he takes Derek in. “Fishnets.”

“Frilly panties.”

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Derek interrupts his stunning deduction skills, glaring as he lifts his hands to the porch overhead. 

“Um,” Stiles shakes his head, pursing his lips, stretching his mouth into an over exaggerated frown. “Well— Are those heels?”

Derek looks suitably unimpressed, cocks one hip up, the heels scuffing the wood underneath his feet as they move. Stiles narrows his eyes, puts a fist over his mouth in thought, and nods very suddenly. 

“Yeah, screw this, can we just cut the shit and fuck?” Stiles asks, and Derek drops his hands from the porch, confusion written on his features. “Like, you could fuck me, or I could fuck you, if that’s your thing, but I’ve kinda been in love with you since I figured out you had the entire Lord of the Rings Trilogy: Extended Edition and all the times you continuously risked your lives for others. But wow, just… look at you. I didn’t even know this could be a thing for me, or for you for that matter—”

“Stiles.”

“Yes? Derek. Derek, yes.”

“You gonna come in?”

“Oh, hell yes.”