Stiles started so violently that his hands slipped. He was leaning out so far, and his balance had been relying on his hands so much that he just tumbled right out the window, rolling along the slanted roof and letting out a loud shout when he fell over the end.
He landed hard on his side, pain shooting up his shoulder and let out a very loud curse that his neighbours probably all heard. He rolled onto his back with a groan, clutching at his injured shoulder, and opened his previously closed eyes in time to see Derek standing on the roof, staring down at him with the eyebrows.
How was Derek’s entire language just eyebrows?
“What the hell?” Stiles demanded, sitting up and still holding his injured arm. “Where did you come from?”
“The door,” Derek informed him, giving him a look.
Five times Stiles’ baking changed the course of history in Beacon Hills (and one time somebody stepped up for him). Or, Stiles Stilinski: Baking is Magic!
Rule one of kidnapping Stiles Stilinski: he is required to be entertained.
Not that he got kidnapped a lot!
Or... not like, all the time, at any rate. His being kidnapped seemed to have increased lately, but he attributed that to being distracted more often than usual because of school. Sure, he’d had high school to contend with back in the day, but high school was less demanding than university. He always watched movies where people were out partying it up or solving crime or having huge campus-wide mass murders or whatever and all Stiles wanted to know was where they found the time.
To be fair, most of them didn’t have the Supernatural breathing down their neck, or a pack constantly coming to them for advice. Like he was the poster child of good decisions, who was dumb enough to believe that? His best friend was a Werewolf because of all his so-called ‘good decisions.’
