Ice Cream Sandwiches Are Fucking Bitches

rage

Look, he was trying to make ice cream sandwiches from scratch. It was a weird, slightly misplaced in judgment decision he made out of boredom and a need to do something with his hands. Baking isn't usually something he does to calm down, but from time to time it'll soothe the need to learn, to do, to be productive.

Unfortunately, right now it is also going to drive him Fucking Insane.

The worst part is that Scott is also here. He isn't helping Stiles bake, because that would simply not end well, he's in the living room playing on the Xbox 360 because Scott has the PS4 out of the two of them.

But that's not the point, the point is that Stiles has finally finished mixing the dough and portioning it into four pieces to roll out, but there's so much crap all over the counter (A box of gloves, an empty box of parchment, a roll of parchment, aluminum foil (for some reason?), scissors, a knife, various tools used when mixing the dough, the actual dough itself-) and he has no space to roll it out flat.

Not to mention, the parchment keeps curling and he can't keep it flat enough to actually roll the dough out, and he's managed to kinda-sorta get one portion rolled out. It's not 8x8 like it needs to be, it isn't the right thickness and it's not even remotely a square, but damnit it's rolled out and on the pan. However, he's yet again run out of parchment, and this second piece is fighting him. By the time he finally has managed to drop it onto the pan and shove everything in the oven, he's about five seconds away from murdering someone.

He's going to become Beacon Hill's next threat- two times in a row! Take that, nobody else has managed it yet!

He's glaring at the timer he's set, trying to calm down from what he knows is just overstimulation, to ignore the loud TV just behind him, and the sound of the time tick, tick, ticking.

Stiles groans, because it's not working and he's just too pissed off to deal with Scott- who's just asked if he's okay, probably thinking Stiles burned himself or something. Instead of responding, the human turns on his heel, yanking off his apron and grabbing the timer on his way out of the kitchen.

Scott's worried voice follows him when he runs up the stairs and slams the door behind him. Headphones are grabbed off his desk and plugged into his phone with probably more force than necessary (They get caught on the edge of the port several times, and he almost considers throwing the two offenders out the fucking window before it finally goes in.)

His locked door and screaming headphones block out the sound of the stupid timer he resisted the urge to throw out into the hallway, as well as Scott worriedly sitting down outside the room. He knows the werewolf can definitely hear the music- hell, a human would be able to hear the music on the other side of the door. Spotify is blaring in his ears, a song with heavy bass from his overstimulated playlist crashing into his senses and drawing him away from everything.

Stiles practically melts down to the floor, laying on his side and letting his eyes unfocus, one hand tapping at the ground in tune with the music.

When the timer goes off, heard just over the music, he begrudgingly sits up (Hey, at least he feels a bit better now, but he's still not calmed down enough to deal with Scott. He's just going to get up, take the pans out of the oven and set a new timer, then go back to laying on the floor for a while.)

His best friend is up and by his side the moment Stiles opens the doors, and Stiles sees the moment his eyes glance towards the still blaring headphones and he takes a step back. Good. Murdering the only True Alpha werewolf anybody seems to have heard of isn't exactly how he initially planned to spend his Sunday.

He slips down the hall on the balls of his feet, skips a song along the way, and grabs the oven mitts from where they're lying in the mess of other crap on the counter. Scott's still trailing behind him, but he's staying a decent distance away and just observing, like he expects Stiles to break.

(He still might)

(Stiles is trying very, very hard not to lose his fucking mind, because just the presence of Scott, the knowledge that he's being watched, is so beyond grating that the time he spent relaxing has been entirely for naught.)

The trays of haphazardly made ice cream sandwich shells are practically tossed onto the counter, and he resets the timer for ten minutes on his way back to his Cave™

The floor continues to be incredibly comfortable, and when half the rest of the pack finally shows up with the ice cream Stiles needs, Scott helps him put away the rest of the groceries and nobody tries to talk or touch him because he's still got his headphones on. Also because he elbowed Lydia in the tit for tapping him to get his attention. Oops.

(The treats were pretty good, for someone who's never made this before. They insist on trying one each before Stiles can get them into the freezer, which means they're all soft and squishy, and ice cream gets all over everyone, but there's at least a few that made it through the cooling time.)

-=-

fun fact the name of this fic in my docs is just "ICE CREEEEEEEEEEM YOU WHORE"

also I was listening to will wood while posting this (much like stiles, at full volume in a pair of headphones) and the amount of times i just had to stop to happy stim agndhjkg it also made me realize i didn't write any of stiles stimming to Good Notes because there are parts of songs that make me bluescreen /pos