Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3576678.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Fluff_and_Smut, Fluff, PWP
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-20 Words: 3520
****** Betty Crocker is Dead and we Killed Her ******
by OLTRX
Summary
     Scott calls upon Stiles to help him bake 150 cupcakes at 2 am. Derek
     has the biggest oven of anyone they know.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Stiles planted his hand firmly against the smooth plaster of the wall. He took
a steadying breath.
“Scott,” Stiles said. He closed his eyes. “Tell me I heard that wrong. Please
tell me you didn’t just ask me to bake a hundred and fifty cupcakes at eleven
p.m. on a school night.”
Scott’s eyebrows jumped and squeezed into the perfect triangle of his pitiful
puppy-dog eyes.
“You don’t have to help me,” Scott said.
“No, I’ll just let you drown in chocolate betty-crocker mix and half melted
butter,” Stiles said. Scott flashed the perfect half-moon of his crooked
toothed grin.
“I bought seven boxes of mix,” Scott said. “Do you think that’s enough?”
Stiles opened up his palm and counted on his fingers. He had to start over once
or twice. He may be smart, but he wasn’t really a math person.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “But your oven is really small. It can fit like, maybe one
pan at a time, and we have to do at least twelve batches.”
“What can we do?” Scott asked. “Do you want to take some mix over to your
house, bake it, and then bring it back here for decorating?”
“We’ll be up literally all night just baking if we do that, not even frosting,
and I don’t want to spend hours making cupcakes alone,” Stiles said. He looked
mournfully back down at his fingers. Being Scott’s best bro could require a lot
of effort sometimes, especially when he got some insane idea in his head like
this. What were their options? He could drive back and forth between houses.
Stiles could bake a big bowl of mix. It wasn’t like Stiles had that big of an
oven either, though. What they really needed was a big oven, an oven that could
fit at least two cupcake pans in it at once, an oven like...
***
“It’s two a.m.,” Derek said. Stiles threw a box of mixture onto the counter and
it landed with a small puff of fine powder.
“Yep,” Stiles said. Derek watched on helplessly while Scott dug a sixteen ounce
tub of frosting out from the bottom of a crisp paper grocery bag.
“Is that– a cupcake tin?” Derek asked.
“Naturally,” Stiles said. “Hey, do you have a whisk, by any chance?”
“Yeah, lower right cabinet– I mean no, what are you even doing here?” Derek
asked. “Get out of my kitchen!”
Stiles gave an unimpressed hum and held the whisk up to the dim kitchen light.
It was one of those little rainbow ones, with the flimsy silicon parts.
“Nice try, Derek,” Stiles said, “but I haven’t been scared of you for a while.”
“I’m not trying to scare you, I’m trying to get you out of my kitchen!” Derek
said. Stiles gave him a look, and Derek crossed his arms.
“Listen,” Stiles said. “You live alone. It’s two in the morning, like you said.
Nobody’s using this gigantic oven of yours. Lend it out to some teenagers in
need. We’ll clean up afterwards.”
Derek didn’t say anything, only glanced between Stiles and the stack of mix
boxes Scott just dumped on the counter. Already there was a fine layer of
powder spread across the marble, and they hadn’t even opened anything yet.
“How many of those do you have?” Derek asked.
“Seven,” Scott said.
“How many cupcakes are you making?” Derek asked.
“One hundred and fifty,” Stiles said.
“One hundred and– why?” Derek asked.
“Allison,” Scott said, and his expression went from serious to totally blissed
out in a matter of seconds. Derek looked disgusted, like that was all he needed
to hear.
Stiles felt disgusted, and knew he didn’t need to hear any more.
So, Stiles grabbed a mixing bowl and started pouring milk and water while Scott
started peeling the small cupcake wrappers off of each another.
After a few minutes of watching the proceedings with an expression of abject
horror, Derek resigned himself to the fate of his kitchen and went to lay down
on the couch. The way he was splayed out his grey sweat-pants pooled around his
hips, and the hem of his wife-beater rode up to his belly button, leaving the
deep grooves of his lower abdomen visible.
“Christ,” Stiles said. “How much do you work out?”
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“I like to stay in shape,” he said.
“Oh yeah? And what shape is that? Nigel Spivey said that greek sculpture
proportions are massively unrealistic but I’m honestly feeling pretty lied to
right now,” Stiles said. He swiped his thumb across the inside of the mixing
bowl and popped it into his mouth.
“I’m not sure that’s sanitary,” Derek said.
“Your face isn’t sanitary,” Stiles said. “Besides, it’ll all be put into the
oven soon. High temperature kills bacteria.”
Stiles whisked harder, and after a few more minutes, the first few batches were
ready to be put in the oven.
From that point on, they were a well oiled machine. Stiles helped whip up the
batter, Scott took it out of the oven and started decorating. They ran a smooth
operation for about an hour.
Then, they encountered a problem.
“Stiles,” Scott said. Stiles didn’t like that tone. He didn’t like the pitch of
Scott’s voice. Something was wrong.
“What is it, Scott?” Stiles asked anxiously. He would’ve started whipping
harder, but his arm was already kind of sore and he just didn’t have the energy
anymore.
“I don’t think we have enough frosting,” Scott said.
“What do you mean, ‘not enough frosting’?” Stiles asked.
“I mean the tub is already more than three quarters empty and there are still
over a hundred cupcakes left to frost,” Scott said.
“Shit,” Stiles said.
“Don’t panic,” Scott said.
“I’m not panicking–”
“Calm down–”
“I am perfectly calm, Scott–”
“What’s going on?” Derek asked. “Is everything alright?”
“We’re almost out of frosting,” Scott said.
“How about you go get some more,” Stiles said, “and I’ll keep baking.”
“Really?” Scott asked.
“I think the Safeway is open 24 hours,” Stiles said.
“And you’re letting me drive the Jeep?” Scott asked. Stiles looked him dead in
the eyes.
“I’m not going to regret it, am I?” he asked. Scott shook his head vigorously
and disappeared out the giant sliding door before Stiles had the chance to come
to his senses and retract his car keys. He sighed and stared back down into the
swirling brown purgatory below him. “How about you help me out?”
“Me?” Derek asked.
“No, Peter; I just thought, if he’s hiding in the ceiling beams tonight being a
creeper, or whatever he does, he might at least make himself useful– Yes, you,
you dumb butt,” Stiles said. “Take over whisking duty for me while I use up the
rest of this frosting.”
“Why?” Derek asked. He folded his arms behind his head and made a point of
reclining and settling in further. “It looks like you’re doing fine over
there.”
“My weak human arms cannot handle this much activity,” Stiles said.
“I don’t have any emotional investment in these cupcakes,” Derek said. “No
motivation.”
“Neither do I,” Stiles said. “And I’m starting to feel even more dead inside,
too. So get over here and relieve me of this suffering.”
Derek slowly coiled himself back up and walked towards the kitchen. He wrapped
his long fingers around the handle of the spoon, and Stiles could feel their
skin brush against each other for a brief moment during the exchange. Stiles
stumbled backwards over himself towards the icing, and then clenched the middle
of the pastry bag so hard white goo oozed out the back.
He peeled his eyes off of Derek whisking, arm muscles pulsing, sweatpants
riding even lower on his hips now than before, and refocused painfully on the
task at hand.
Cupcake decorating. Right. How could he forget.
It looked like Scott had been doing a pretty good job before; everything was
topped with cute little jagged swirl-shapes, and really, it almost looks like
they could’ve been bought from Safeway. Stiles squinted his eyes. Why didn’t
Scott just buy some goddamn cupcakes instead of doing all of this? He closed
his eyes and rubbed the heels of his palms against the lids. Down that path of
thought lay madness and madness alone.
So Stiles decided that, instead of thinking, he would try to frost a cupcake.
He started out slow, gingerly holding the nozzle of the pipe in one hand, other
squeezing down gently on the bulk of the sack.
It spewed everywhere. Don’t ask Stiles how it happened. He wasn’t responsible.
It just happened. Suddenly, there was frosting across the counter, across
several undecorated cupcakes, in a messy little pile on top of the one cupcake
he actually did want frosting on.
Stiles put down the pastry bag and stepped back with his hands up in surrender
position. He was defeated.
“Clearly, I was not meant to do this,” Stiles said.
“So you’re just going to stand there, watching me mix?” Derek asked. Stiles
settled in against the counter.
“Yes,” Stiles said resolutely. “Have you ever considered modeling? Like, as a
way to legally obtain currency and live in a place other than an abandoned
warehouse, and buy everyone pizza on Pack Pizza Night?”
“There is no Pack Pizza Night,” Derek said.
“There will be,” Stiles earnestly informed.
Then the timer went off in a series of shrill beeps and Derek gently lowered
the mixing bowl back onto the counter. He turned, pulled the oven open, and
grabbed the hot pan with his bare hands.
“What are you doing,” Stiles asked. Derek ignored him and just stood there,
holding it, while he scanned the counter for a clear space. Stiles rushed to
shove a bunch of cupcakes into a pile, and then Derek went back for the other
tray, still bare handed, knuckle briefly glancing off the burning metal oven-
rack as if it was nothing.
“Derek, why,” Stiles asked.
“It’ll heal,” Derek said with a shrug. Stiles grabbed him by the wrist and
forcefully uncurled his fingers. He barely caught sight of the red on his skin
before it faded out completely.
“Yeah, and if I stick my hand on a hot metal oven-rack it’ll heal too, but that
doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like a bitch while I’m touching it,” Stiles said.
“I’m used to pain,” Derek said, and no, that was just way too nonchalant to be
acceptable. Stiles looked up into his furrowed brows and gave him his best
stern-teacher look.
“That’s stupid,” Stiles said.
“I thought you’d be used to stupid things by now, having spent so much time
with a rowdy pack of teenage werewolves,” Derek said.
“Werewolves of all ages do do a lot of stupid things,” Stiles said. “And maybe
I’m a little bit used to it by now, but that certainly doesn’t mean I approve.”
Derek nodded and stepped away, back to the bowl.
He was covered in cake mix now, some wet and some dry, all up the front of his
shirt, and a little bit on the sides. This was too much for Stiles.
“Your shirt is dirty,” Stiles said. “Maybe you should take it off.
Derek hardly reacted, except for an incremental increase of rigidity in the
spine as Stiles sauntered over. Stiles pressed his back against the counter,
and slid along it until he was right in front of Derek.
“You’re too young,” Derek said. His hand twitched once at his side. Stiles was
too shocked by getting a real answer to not pursue this further.
“I’m seventeen,” Stiles said. “Legal in just under a year.
“You don’t really want me,” Derek said.
“Are you kidding?” Stiles asked. “You’re a Riace Bronze and I’m the Kritios
Boy. It’s you who shouldn’t want me– but forget I said that, I don’t wan’t to
inspire you to have any more doubts.”
“You don’t really want me,” Derek said. He gritted his teeth together. Oh,
shit.
“I’m sorry for making you feel that way, Derek,” Stiles said, “because it’s
completely wrong. I’m pretty sure if I was just looking for a quick lay I could
convince Danny to let me suck his dick, and it’d be a lot easier than this.”
“Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, then?” Derek asked. “And come to your
school dances and drive you downtown in my nice car and take you for ice-cream
and movies? I’m an adult, Stiles.”
“Maybe,” Stiles said. “But you do let teenage boys into your house to bake an
absolutely ludicrous number of cupcakes at two in the morning, and I think if
pressed you’d probably let me come over here with my laptop and force you to
watch every single episode of Next Generation, and eat pastries and sweets
except not cupcakes because I’m never eating a cupcake again. And I could help
you manage all your little dweeby were-puppies.”
“Touching,” Derek said.
“I know,” Stiles said. “So are you going to take your shirt off, or what?”
Derek sighed a long-suffering sigh and pulled the tank-top off with a
stretching and bending of those thick arm muscles.
“You’re looking pretty messy yourself,” Derek remarked. “Allow me.”
Derek skated his fingers across the bottom of Stiles’s waist, and then up his
ribcage. He ran his hands up to the top of Stiles’s chest, and then the pads of
his thumbs touched across Stiles’s nipples and he dragged the nails gently
across the hardening nubs.
“Shit,” Stiles hissed, arching forwards. His crotch came into contact with
Derek’s thigh, and he ground down. This earned him a growl in response from
Derek, and then he heard a tearing sound before his shirt was falling from his
body in pieces. “Aw, I liked that one.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” Derek said. Stiles could feel his little pin-prick
claws tracing down his shoulder-blades, his back, until Derek’s hands were
cupping his ass and pulling him forward. Stiles bucked against the hard line of
Derek’s dick.
“Let’s take this somewhere with cushions,” Stiles said. “Maybe somewhere
horizontal.”
Derek hoisted him up and effortlessly carried him to the bed, where he dropped
him and crawled up to his chest. In one swift motion, he yanked down Stiles’s
pants and underwear.
Stiles instinctively tried to close his legs, but he found Derek’s hands at his
knees gently pressing them open.
Derek’s tongue started at the angle of his knee, and then traced down slowly,
oh so achingly slowly, to the fold of his thigh, and then bypassed Stiles’s
pulsing cock entirely. He felt himself twitch and let out a desperate groan.
Derek smirked before he touched down on Stiles’s hole, before he started
licking a spiral around the center and then suddenly thrust his tongue in.
Stiles wanted to grab a pillow and cover his face. God, it was so dirty. He
couldn’t believe it. Instead, he had to settle for flexing his fingers against
the sheets and keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling so he wouldn’t come in
two seconds flat. Because the sight of Derek there, between his legs, doing
that? Would definitely not help his stamina.
“This is nice–” Stiles panted.
“I’m glad you think so,” Derek said.
“Shut up, I wasn’t done,” Stiles said. Derek quirked an eyebrow. “This is nice
but I would really like for you to move on to the next step now.”
“The next step?” Derek asked. Stiles groaned. Derek’s head was hovering just
above his cock, his tongue was currently only occupied with talking, but his
thumb was still tracing a teasing circle around his hole, brushing across the
fluttering skin but never pushing in.
“Are you really going to make me ask you to fuck me?” Stiles asked. He rocked
his hips forwards, and felt the thumb go in. He groaned, and his head rolled
back.
“Shit,” he heard Derek say in an almost-whisper. Derek rose and propped himself
up over Derek’s horizontal body. He reached forward, and thumbed across
Stiles’s nipple again, making sure it caught on the blunt nail.
“I don’t have a condom,” Derek said.
“Check my wallet, in the left pocket of my hoodie,” Stiles said.
“Why don’t you go get it yourself?” Derek asked, but as he spoke he was already
standing up and walking across the room, toeing the clothes on the ground,
skimming across the things spread on the couch.
“You just want to see me bend over,” Stiles said.
“Mmm,” Derek hummed. He returned with the little foil packed and a quirked
eyebrow.
“It never hurts to be prepared,” Stiles said. “Lube?”
“The drawer,” Derek said, nodding towards the beside table. Stiles opened it,
and held the bottle out to Derek, who gave a sigh of faux exasperation. “You’re
going to make me do everything?”
He drizzled the fluid all over his fingers, and then easily pressed one in. It
curled gently, and Stiles squirmed against it.
“Okay,” Stiles said. “You can add another.”
So Derek did, and then he curled them again, higher. Shortly after, a third.
More wriggling.
“Looking for something?” Stiles asked, and then he felt something spark inside
of him that had him arching off the bed. Derek smirked again.
“I think I found it,” he said, and kept going. Stiles was writhing now, dick
spurting pre come across his stomach, thrusting up against Derek’s fingers.
“Oh my god,” Stiles said. “Fuck me.”
Derek pulled his fingers out, and then ripped the condom wrapper open with his
teeth. Stiles squirmed.
Soon, he felt the new, blunter pressure at his entrance. He winced at the burn
of the head pushing past his entrance.
“It gets better,” Derek said. Stiles looked up at him as sardonically as he
could manage while flushed and dripping.
“How do you know?” Stiles asked. “Do this a lot?”
“I used to,” Derek said, sliding forwards. “Back in my twink days.”
“Your twink days?” Stiles asked. “I can’t imagine you ever being a twink.”
Derek lay his palm flat against the front of Stiles’s chest.
“A lot has changed,” Derek said. “Are you alright?”
“Yup,” Stiles said, though he was still adjusting to the pressure. He felt so
full. Derek gave him a look, and he did his best to give a smile. “All good.”
Derek put his hand up to Stiles’s cheek and dragged his thumb across his lip,
then started thrusting. Stiles gasped, and grappled at Derek’s forearm, looking
for something strong to cling to.
Derek led his hand down to Stiles’s cock and started stroking it. Stiles had to
close his eyes, it was all just so much. He let out a single choked moan, and
then he came.
Panting over him, Derek gave a few more aborted thrusts and then flopped down
belly-first next to Stiles on the bed.
Stiles picked a kleenex out of the box next to him and starting wiping himself
off, but midway Derek left and came back with a damp washcloth. Gingerly, he
cleaned them both up.
“We should probably go... mix cake,” Stiles said.
“Probably,” Derek said.
“I’d get dressed, but, oh, wait,” Stiles said, and he held up the ribbons of
fabric he once wore around his body as a functional article of clothing. “If
only someone hadn’t totally destroyed my shirt...”
“Wear one of mine,” Derek suggested. So Stiles plodded over to the dresser and
grabbed the smallest of several very large shirts, which hung loosely from his
shoulders but would probably be indecently tight on Derek.
Just as they made it back to the kitchen, Scott burst back in through the door.
“Guys!” he shouted, unusually full of excitement for someone baking at 3 in the
morning. He eagerly displayed the seven cans of frosting he’d bought. Scot had,
perhaps, overdone it a little. Then, he paused and sniffed the air.
“Stiles spilled batter on himself,” Derek immediately filled in, “so I lent him
a shirt.”
Stiles contemplated that statement for a second, then looked deep into Scott’s
eyes.
“No, that’s a lie,” Stiles said. “We had sex, and it was destroyed.”
“What?” Scott shouted. He dropped the icing on the ground in a rush to put his
hands on his ears, then eyes, then ears again. Finally he settled for just
flailing his arms around, and shouting again, “What?”
“Yep,” Stiles said. Scott gave a betrayed look to both of them.
“I want to forget that,” Scott said. “I want to scrub all the forming images
out of my brain.”
“Brain-bleach doesn’t exist,” Stiles said. “It’ll be stuck with you forever.
Like all the details you helpfully supplied me about the exact state and
condition of Allison’s pubic hair.”
Now Derek looked startled, and mildly horrified. Scott packed up the icing and
placed it on the counter, shooting Derek a few suspicious looks.
“Okay,” Scott conceded, “you have a point.”
The next day, Stiles and Derek watched from the sidelines as Allison gleefully
pointed to where Scott should place the cupcakes. Derek put his arm around
Stiles’s shoulder.
“So,” he said, “I was promised Star Trek and maybe scones?”
Stiles grinned.

End Notes
     Nigel Spivey is a british art historian, and the two greek sculpture
     pieces are discussed in his documentary "How Art Made The World", a
     ten minute segment of which can be found here if you're interested:
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88gXWW3qN7o
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