(no subject)
When he smiles, he can feel his canines pressing against his lip, and he bites down on that sensation. Pretending that his eyes go dark with menace, he growls at his reflection. It's a puppyish growl, nothing like The Growl that Derek can manage, the sound of an apex predator who is Not Pleased. But seriously, when is Derek ever not Not Pleased? Stiles would have to say, about maybe five percent of the time. Three.
With a sigh, he drops the growl altogether and fishes around on the counter for his toothpaste to continue brushing his teeth. Except when he looks up, there's a werewolf in his mirror. He might have screamed and flung the toothpaste at said werewolf, but he is a manly man, and that echo just now wasn't a high-pitched scream, it was a shout.
"Derek, fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Private time, man, do you know it?" He's clutching his chest and trying to catch his breath, and -- realizing that he's barechested in a damp towel in front of the Epitome of Testosteroned Up Manliness. "Is Timmy in the well again?" he hastily says, subtly and delicately changing the subject. He'll take being thrown up against a wall for 200, Alex, instead of abject humiliation, even if he is used to it by now. "Speak."
And, oh, there goes the eyeroll. "Stiles. I'm not Lassie," Derek says, but there's a faint line of something that isn't annoyance around the corners of his mouth. It's something that Stiles has been angling for as much as he can, ever since he realized that Derek's face won't actually break in half if he doesn't scowl, but here and now, in his bathroom?
Stiles is fucked, so very fucked.
And...Derek's smiling. Not baring teeth, that's bad, but this is a smile, and that may actually be worse, oh god, his stomach is going all wobbly.