It’s 11:39 on New Year’s Eve, and Stiles is home alone with the liquor cabinet—which explains how he got drunk enough to black out a little and order pizza.
“….Hi there,” he says to Derek, because of course that’s just Stiles’ luck—Derek Hale, swim team captain and yearbook president and unreasonably-handsome pizza delivery boy, showing up on his front porch looking all rumpled and pretty and wearing a week’s worth of winter-vacation beard.
Stiles makes a sad, helpless noise in his throat when Derek rubs the beard absently, fingers dragging slowly over the sharp angles of his jaw. “Nice hat,” Stiles tells him (because when he’s uncomfortable his first instinct is to be a dick).
Derek rolls his eyes and pulls the gaudy purple and red visor off his head, running his fingers through his bangs a little to fluff them up. Stiles isn’t proud to admit it, but he swoons internally a little bit. “Stiles. We don’t actually make a pizza called the ‘Big Fat Sausage,’ but I brought you our regular meat special instead.”
“Oh no.” Stiles’ stomach drops. “Derek. Be honest. Did I make a dick joke on the order form?”
“You made seven,” Derek corrects, and his grin is so sudden and bright that Stiles’ knees go all liquid. “You also said that you wanted us to wait and deliver it at midnight, and you specifically asked for—”
“Oh god.” Stiles remembers, now. He specifically asked for Derek. “God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s snowing, Stilinski,” Derek points out, and yeah, it definitely is; Derek’s even got a few stray snowflakes stuck in his beautiful eyelashes, which is infuriating and awful. “It’s snowing, and it’s New Year’s Eve, which means you just made me literally risk my life to bring you a sexually-suggestive pizza at the tail end of my shift.”
“I really am hungry, though, come to think of it,” says Stiles, because he is. Besides, he could use a last meal before he dies of abject humiliation. “I can’t wait to swallow some sausage,” he adds grandly, because nothing matters anymore and he might as well go out in a blaze of glory.
“This is revenge, isn’t it,” Derek sighs. “You get drunk and your first impulse is to punish me for ruining your chemistry project that one time.”
“I don’t want to punish you, god. I wanna rub my face on your beard. What.”
“What,” Derek repeats, raising his eyebrows at Stiles over the pizza box. “Did you just.”
“Did I,” Stiles parrots. “What.”
“Yeah, we’ve… covered that. What.” Derek swallows hard. Stiles likes what it does to the line of his neck, thinks about following the movement with his mouth. “You don’t seem very drunk, anymore.”
“I’ve gone through the other side,” Stiles explains, numb. “Everything is extremely clear and embarrassing. You know, I’d forgive you for ruining a thousand chemistry projects.”
“I trade delivery shifts with my coworkers whenever your name pops up,” Derek answers, and Stiles swears he’s flushing a little pink under his stubble. “Would you mind if… could I…”
“God, fuck, why aren’t you kissing me like yesterday,” Stiles whines, tipping his whole body forward.
“Can you be quiet for me, baby girl?” Luke moaned against your inner thighs, placing rough, wet kisses on your smooth skin. “Wouldn’t want the whole office to hear you, hm?”
You moaned a response, your fingers playing with his messy blonde locks as he kissed up and down your bare thighs. It took every ounce of self-restraint for you not to shout his name in pleasure, after all, it probably wouldn’t look too good on his name if the company found out that their CEO was tongue-fucking his wife in the office.