Love Bites

Stiles wasn’t above begging.

”Please, Lyds?” he whined, walking backward and narrowly avoiding bumping into tables and people carrying their lunch trays.

She didn’t even bat an eyelash. ”No.” 

”But—”

”No,” she repeated and flicked her hair over her shoulder.

”Lydia, light of my life, you’re my only hope,” Stiles begged. ”I’ll buy you something nice.”

Lydia snorted, amused. ”With what money?”

Stiles paused to blink a couple of times. ”With the money from the essays I write for desperate people in need?” he ventured and waved his hand in a dismissing move. ”Or I’ll just use my dad’s credit card. Anyway. So you’ll help me?”

Lydia shook her head and let out a long-suffering sigh. ”Uh. I guess I have to. If only just to shut you up.”

Stiles bumped air with his fist and hissed, ”Yass!” ignoring the looks he got from the students around him.

”I’m not going to kiss you,” she said with narrowed eyes.

”You don’t have to! Scout’s honor,” Stiles said solemnly with his hand over his heart. ”I wouldn’t kiss you if you were the last girl on earth.” He paused to reconsider, and, ”That came out wrong.”

Lydia huffed and walked away, her heels clicking sharply on the floor. Stiles stared after her for a moment, then shook himself like a dog after rain. He had one class left before he could leave and head out to do some shopping.

Okay, so. 

Problem was, Stiles was in love. 

Correction: being in love wasn’t the problem. After all, he’d been in love with Lydia for over a decade and had both waxed poetic about her looks and intellect as well as composed an elaborate ten-year plan to woo her. Of course, that particular plan had hit rock bottom when her true love kiss had saved Jackson from turning permanently into a homicidal lizard man. Oh, and because Stiles had realized he also liked dicks. Specifically, a dick.

So. Love wasn’t the problem.

It was the person said dick was attached to.

Stiles wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere in between Derek threatening to rip his throat out with his teeth and almost drowning in the pool together, Stiles had fallen for him. Hard. Not in the moony, fluffy way Scott was about Allison, or even the odd love/hate thing Jackson and Lydia had going, but in a full-body, gut-wrenching, I-can’t-breathe kinda way. 

It was completely different from what he had ever felt for Lydia. She’d been the goddess of his dreams, something to admire from afar — like, from across three rows in class — but it had been pure and innocent. And, unfortunately, nothing about Derek was pure and innocent: the guy had had the misfortune of losing his innocence at a relatively early age, and it showed.

Intellectually, Stiles knew he had no chance with Derek. Stiles might be a hyperactive spaz with massive concentration issues and a tendency to run his mouth without his brain making it in time to interfere, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. Derek was older than him, had a body like a Greek god, and he was most likely straight. And even if he wasn’t, why would he look at someone like Stiles?

However, Stiles was also stubborn as hell and didn’t let things like realism or common sense hinder his advances. So he tried anyway.

And God, he tried! He had tried flirting with Derek and throwing pick-up lines and innuendos around to the point of Erica kicking him out of the loft. He had even left the best of his gay porn bookmarks up and running on his laptop when Derek had last stopped by on some research business for the pack. That had been… interesting. Derek’s face had gone through some weird emotions too fast for Stiles to track, and he’d left in a hurry, leaving Stiles to wonder if Derek could smell his boner from across the room and through layers of clothes.

Probably. Damn werewolf senses.

So. Because subtle or not-so-subtle flirting didn’t work, Stiles had to try something else. He had no masculine wiles to use to his advantage, so he had to be sneaky. Stiles could do sneaky — he was awesome at sneaky — which meant that since Derek was a guy and a wolf and guys and wolves were always hungry, Stiles would woo his heart (and dick) with food. And not just any kind of food, but with aphrodisiac food. 

What could go wrong?

After he’d decided to do this, Stiles had started compiling a list of known aphrodisiacs. It wasn’t unreasonably long but it had stuff in it he was going to have some serious trouble getting his hands on, like champagne, caviar, and red wine.

Fortunately, there was stuff he could start with, for example, oysters. According to the mighty internet, they were the number one aphrodisiac out there, and if Stiles was going to do this thing, that’s what he was going to start with. Go big or go home, right? 

So he went to the store, bought a bargain package of oysters, picked up Lydia on his way home, and set to work. 

It took him bribery and a good deal of groveling to get Lydia help him out even after her hesitant yes. Stiles didn’t mind groveling: no matter what they were at this point — Friends? Slightly less violent enemies? — Lydia was the only person Stiles could  trust with this. Apart from Scott, he didn’t really have friends, and Scott wasn’t exactly someone he could gush about Derek’s hotter-than-porn biceps. Lydia, at least, could understand. Maybe.

Besides, if someone knew how to eat oysters, it was Lydia. Stiles was sure of it.

Except that she was allergic to shellfish, which she didn’t see necessary to mention until Stiles practically shoved the oysters in her face.

”Look, you don’t have to touch them,” Stiles said. ”Just… tell me how they’re eaten, okay? I’m sure you know how!”

Lydia cocked her head and gave Stiles a speculative look. ”Tell me, why am I doing this again?”

”Uh… because I asked nicely?” Stiles offered and, seeing Lydia’s flat look, he continued. ”And because I’m paying you.” 

Lydia raised a well-manicured brow. ”The things I do for a new lipstick,” she deadpanned and sat at the table. ”So… you need to check if they’re good. Ditch the ones that are open because they’re dead. Then wash them, open them, and, well, eat them.”

”Like, raw?”

She rolled her eyes. ”Yes, Stiles. Raw. You eat oysters raw. You can eat them with a squirt of lemon, with red wine vinegar and shallots, a drop of tabasco, or just slurp them plain from the shell.”

Stiles stared at the small pile of oysters in the sink, then shrugged and got to work. He could feel Lydia’s stare burning in the nape of his neck, but he ignored it. It took some effort to open one, and when he finally had the opened oyster in his hand — with the muscle cut like Lydia had instructed — he stared at it like it was about to jump him and attach itself on his face like some pygmy alien facehugger.

”Uh, so, did you know that raw mollusks, and especially oysters, are rich in rare amino acids that can trigger increased levels of sex hormones? That’s probably why Casanova always had 50 oysters as breakfast,” he said, still staring at the oyster.

”Fascinating,” Lydia said. ”What are you waiting for? Chop chop.”

Stiles swallowed, braced himself, and slurped the oyster into his mouth. 

It was slimy, salty, and tasted slightly of old socks and seawater. 

”This is disgusting,” he managed around the thing in his mouth, turned around and spat it into the trash, narrowly avoiding puking. ”I can’t believe I almost ate that.”

”Wasn’t eating kind of the point?” Lydia asked.

”Maybe? I mean, I guess I have to know how they taste like if I’m going to feed them to—” he barely caught himself in time, blushed, and finished with a lame, ”others.” 

He wasn’t even sure why he didn’t just say it — it wasn’t like Lydia didn’t know Stiles was ridiculously in lust with Derek.

Like she knew what he was thinking about, Lydia leveled him a flat look. ”Stiles, you’re an idiot.”

He made a face. ”Not helping!”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. ”If we’re done here…” she said, raising her brow and collecting her bag to leave. By the door, she stopped, whirled around with her locks flaring in that perfect way they always did, and said, ”For the record, I still think you should just tell him.”

”Yeah, yeah,” Stiles muttered as he started cleaning up. 

He dumped the remaining oysters into the trash and took them out to get rid of the smell. He couldn’t get the taste and feeling of the oyster from his mouth even though he tried washing his teeth at least six times and used half of his dad’s mouthwash. 

It. Wasn’t. Helping.

He ordered Chinese for dinner and grumbled something under his breath when Dad raised a brow and asked what was the occasion. He couldn’t tell him because then Dad would ask about the oysters, and— no. Stiles might be okay-ish with telling his dad he wasn’t exactly straight, but he wasn’t sure his dad would be so thrilled with learning that Stiles was gay for a former murder suspect. If nothing else, Dad would call it a Stockholm Syndrome and book Stiles an appointment with a therapist. Which might not be a bad thing because any therapist would have a field day with him, but perhaps this wasn’t the time. 

So Stiles stuffed his mouth full of fried rice and eggrolls and shrugged. Good thing that his dad was so fond of Chinese that he didn’t test his luck with further interrogation.

Sadly, the Epically Failed Oyster Experiment was a bullet right into Stiles’s great seduction plan. If he couldn’t even eat them himself, how the hell was he supposed to smoothly seduce Derek with them? 

He was brooding his way through a pack meeting, hardly paying any attention to what they were talking about and daydreaming about licking Derek’s abs instead. Pack dynamics blah blah, Deaton wanting to give them a lecture (shocker) blah blah, opening diplomatic negotiations with an old ally of the Hale pack blah blah. 

He closed his eyes and was on his way to undress Derek in his mind when something dropped on his lap, rudely interrupting him. He flailed and almost dropped the bright red… fruit?

”The hell?” he asked, confused.

”That’s a pomegranate,” Lydia said smartly. ”It’s quite tasty.”

Stiles eyeballed the fruit, picked it up, and raised to eye-level. ”To be or not to be,” he intoned, earning a chorus of huffs, groans, and snorts.

”Idiot,” Lydia huffed and took the pomegranate from Stiles. ”You eat the seeds. Stiles, get me a spoon. Jackson, open this up,” she commanded, handing him the fruit. 

Jackson rolled his eyes but obediently snapped his claws out and deftly cut the thing into four parts. The whole pack leaned in as Lydia put the chunks on Derek’s coffee table, presenting them with the gleaming crimson seeds. Stiles thought they were quite pretty. Without saying a word, Lydia spooned the seeds out and divided them to each pack member to taste. Cora poked the seeds on her hand with suspicion, while Erica, Boyd, and Isaac merely shrugged and chomped their portions down. Scott and Allison snuggled together in the corner of the couch and fed each other the seeds, sharing kisses in between nibbles.

Stiles sniffed his seeds and ate one. It was crunchy and surprisingly tart, but not bad. ”Huh,” he said and ate a few more.

”They’re tasty, right?” Lydia asked around with a raised brow. She seemed smug when the pack’s reactions were mostly positive. Then she cocked her head and asked, sweetly, ”How about you, Derek? What do you think?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Lydia’s sweet tone. She was never sweet unless she had something in her mind.

Derek shrugged. ”They’re nice. I like the flavor.”

”Good to hear,” Lydia said brightly. ”We should add pomegranate to the pack’s snack menu. It improves mood, increases memory, and reduces stress hormones. It also has lots of antioxidants, and it can help us girls strengthen our bones and muscles.”

Erica and Allison grinned at each other.

”What about us guys? Does it have any special effects in us?” Scott asked eagerly.

”Well, for example, it increases facial hair,” Lydia said. ”Oh, and apparently it increases the testosterone levels and acts as a powerful aphrodisiac. Especially pomegranate juice is supposed to be potent— kind of like nature’s own Viagra.”

The pack stared at her for a moment, then Scott, Boyd, and Jackson lunged for the remaining seeds as the girls shared smug smiles. Stiles gaped at them for a moment until Lydia caught his eye and winked. 

”More pomegranate, Derek?” Erica leered and glanced at Stiles who snapped his mouth shut and tried to sink in between the couch pillows.

”I have no need for viagra seeds,” Derek said calmly. ”I’m an alpha.”

”Really?” Lydia asked.

Derek crossed his arms, cocked his head, and smirked.

Lydia let out a hum, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and fed Jackson the last pomegranate seeds.

A couple of weeks went by, and luckily for Stiles, no-one mentioned oysters, pomegranate, or Viagra. That was probably mostly because of the spring exams looming above them like the harbinger of doom and, consequently, the pack meetings being on hold until the summer vacation.

After everything they’d been through during the past couple of months, Stiles couldn’t wait for the summer to begin. In his mind, summer was going to be months of freedom and awesomeness. First, no school. Second, no school. Third… well, no school, but also days of freedom when he would have the chance to continue with his seduce-Derek-with-food plan. 

Because she was awesome like that, Lydia waited all seventeen minutes before cornering Stiles and asking how his plan to woo Derek was going. In truth, it wasn’t, and Stiles was man enough to admit he might need a bit help. Despite his efforts, his crush on Derek hadn’t gone away. It had, if possible, only deepened. He dreamed about the alpha on a daily basis and Derek had become the highest value deposit on Stiles’s spank bank. 

He really had to figure out how to get into Derek’s pants before his own dick chafed through and fell off.

Stiles had halfheartedly entertained the idea of covering himself with whipped cream and/or honey and just appearing on Derek’s door, but Lydia flipped him in the back of his head and told him he was an idiot. Personally, Stiles still thought it was an awesome idea, but since Lydia was the one who actually got laid on a regular basis, Stiles decided to listen to her.

Besides, she could be scary when she was pissed, and Stiles was not going to try out his luck on that one again.

”So, why don’t you just cook for him?” she asked like Stiles was a bit stupid.

Stiles gaped. ”I’m not going to cook for him!”

”Why not?” she frowned. ”Have you seen the things he eats? Stiles, our mighty alpha lives mainly on power smoothies, energy bars, and omelets. You’ll be doing him a favor.”

”But… I can’t cook for him,” Stiles spluttered. ”I’d be like, like… his personal chef? That would be just weird. Besides, the others would freak out or be jealous, and can you imagine Erica when she’s jealously freaking out or freakin’ jealous, or… No.  It has to be for the whole pack.”

Lydia smiled sweetly, shrugged, and said, ”Fine, then you’ll cook for the whole pack.”

”Fine,” Stiles said, determined. 

He only later realized that Lydia had seemed slightly too smug, as if she knew something Stiles didn’t. It was unnerving.

In the end of the summer’s first pack meeting, Lydia imperiously announced that pack dinners were hereby a thing for the foreseeable future, and Stiles was in charge of the menus. Derek blinked, threw a confused look at Lydia, and shrugged. The others were enthusiastic about free food and showered Stiles with dinner suggestions, but Stiles didn’t want to listen.

”If I’m going to cook, I’m also deciding what we’ll eat, capiche?” He narrowed his eyes at everyone in turn, satisfied when the pack averted their eyes. ”Any food allergies I should know of?” he continued, not eager to repeat the experience with Lydia and the oysters. ”Yes? No?” He paused as a thought hit him. ”Can werewolves even be allergic to anything? Do you get rash or start puking or hallucinating? Wolfsbane doesn’t count.”

Derek looked like he had a headache. 

Stiles shrugged. Perhaps werewolves were as immune to allergens as they were to common colds.

He was on his way out of the loft when Derek stopped him with a hand on his arm. When Stiles turned around, Derek cleared his throat and shoved him a key and a credit card.

”What?” Stiles asked.

Derek crossed his arms across his chest and Stiles absolutely did not ogle at the way his shirt stretched around the shoulders.

”The key is for the loft,” Derek had said gruffly. ”And if you’re going to make food for the pack, it’s on me. Keep the card.”

”You’re just… what— giving me your credit card?”

Derek let out a long-suffering sigh. ”It’s a parallel card I actually got for Peter. But because he isn’t exactly… fit for shopping, you can keep it to cover your expenses. It doesn’t have a limit.”

Stiles’s eyes went wide. ”Oh, are you going to be my sugar daddy?” he blurted because apparently, that’s how his mind worked.

”Yes, covering the pack expenses is the cornerstone of being a sugar daddy,” Derek deadpanned. ”Just make sure you buy enough. After all, we eat like wolves,” he added, shooting Stiles a toothy grin.

Stiles decided that was the perfect time to vacate the premises.

As it turned out, nothing concerning Derek was simple, including grocery shopping.

First of all, even though Derek’s kitchen was in good condition with a new stove, pantry, and fridge, it lacked all basic supplies. Like salt and pepper. So Stiles started with gathering a massive amount of basics: the aforementioned salt and pepper along with flour, sugar, rice, oats, garlic, chilies, pasta, herbs, cooking oil, and whatnot.

It filled up the shopping cart with alarming speed and Stiles had to stop for a moment and take a couple of deep breaths. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to cook. On the contrary: with his dad working odd hours and Stiles being the one at home, he hadn’t had much choice. But most of the food he cooked was pretty basic no-nonsense food from ingredients he bought in bulk because Stiles tried to keep their food costs low.

Having the chance to go and just shop without worrying about the budget felt heady.

Of course, Stiles still had his sex-Derek-up agenda, which was the reason he was currently feeling his way around a bunch of avocados.

He had never cooked anything from avocados before. He knew how they tasted like, but he had no idea how to pick the good ones. 

”Don’t take that one,” a middle-aged woman suddenly said from his right. 

Jerked from his thoughts, Stiles flailed and dropped the avocado he had been poking, causing a small avalanche of them rolling onto the store floor.

The woman winced. ”Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she apologized. ”But seriously. Try finding avocados that are a bit soft and have a brown stem. If they’re hard and the stem is green, they are raw and taste like soap.”

”Oh, okay,” Stiles nodded. ”Thanks. This is a bit new to me.”

”Food?” the woman asked, confused.

Stiles blinked. ”Avocados,” he said slowly. ”Anyway, thanks.”

He gave the woman a small smile and turned back to the now lower heap of avocados. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was easier. In no time, he had picked a respectable amount of avocados, and after checking out (and refusing to think about the total) he went straight to Derek’s.

It took him some effort to haul the groceries up the stairs, and when he reached the door, he saw Peter waiting for him, leaning casually on the doorframe.

”Hello Stiles,” he said, raising a brow at the grocery bags. ”Did you go shopping?”

”If you knew I was coming, why didn’t you come out and, you know, help?” Stiles wheezed, pushing himself and the bazillion bags past Peter into the loft.

”But it was so much more fun, watching you work,” Peter purred, following Stiles into the kitchen. ”Did you buy the whole store?”

”Har har,” Stiles said dryly. ”You didn’t have even the basic supplies here. What was I supposed to do?”

Peter raised his hands in front of him in a placating move. ”That wasn’t an objection. Grocery stores aren’t a place where I like to go yet and Derek seems to have a warped sense of what counts as food.”

He stared intently as Stiles unloaded the bags, looking a bit like a cat pretending to be indifferent but is actually brimming with curiosity, reaching out and poking at random stuff. When he saw the avocados, he blinked, cocked his head, and then a slow smirk spread on his face.

”On the other hand, my nephew does like food. Especially finger food.” His lips twitched slightly, like he found something about the sentence amusing. Or had gas. Who the hell knew, it was Peter, Stiles thought sourly.

”This is for the whole pack, you know,” Stiles pointed out, rummaging the cupboards for cooking utensils. At least Derek had those, even if he apparently didn’t understand how they worked.

”Which is even more significant,” Peter said softly.

Stiles banged his head on the open cabinet door as he whirled around, surprised at the sudden change of tone. For a moment, he thought there had been something wistful in Peter’s eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone.

”By the way, Derek doesn’t like fish. So don’t bother with caviar or oysters,” Peter said.

There was absolutely no way Peter could know about Stiles’s unfortunate encounter with the oysters, but he couldn’t help an embarrassed blush spreading his cheeks. It took Peter about a second to spot it, and his eyes widened almost comically.

”Oh,” he mouthed, barely containing his amusement. ”Let me know when it’s time for champagne.”

Mortified, Stiles muttered, ”Screw you,” and turned his back on him.

Peter didn’t even try to contain his laughter.

”Dude, what is that?” Scott asked, eyeing the pot suspiciously.

If it wasn’t unhygienic, Stiles would’ve smacked him in the head with a scoop. Instead, he said, ”That’s your dinner; organic whole wheat pasta with avocado sauce. Nothing special, just avocados, garlic, chilies, lemon, and basil.”

Said dinner was waiting for the pack in the biggest pot Stiles had found and, if he was being honest, it looked a bit suspicious. The pasta was brown and the avocado mush pale green with specks of bright reds and green. If he was to choose a food on the basis of appearance, he probably wouldn’t have picked this either.

But it tasted good. He was totally going to cook it for his dad.

The pack shared slightly disbelieving looks. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. ”I would let you know that avocados are insanely healthy, have lots of vitamins and antioxidants, lower the cholesterol levels, prevent cancer, and might even help battling arthritis.” 

”All things werewolves need to worry about,” Jackson said snidely.

With a saccharine sweet smile, Stiles answered him, ”Well, we aren’t all werewolves, and some of us have parents they’d actually love to keep, you know, alive.” It was a low blow, but when it came to his dad, Stiles didn’t even pretend to play nice.

Jackson opened his mouth to snap something back, but he didn’t get the chance before Derek said, ”Shut up, Jackson,” and picked up a plate. Stiles shot him a grateful smile which Derek probably didn’t even see, considering how hard he focused on shoveling an impressive amount of pasta on his plate.

The rest of the pack followed his example, and for a while, everybody concentrated on their food. Stiles watched their reactions that varied from neutral (Derek) to stoic (Boyd) to surprised (Scott) to blissed out (Erica). He decided his food was a success, helped himself a portion, and flopped on the couch.

”Stiles, this is awesome,” Erica mumbled enthusiastically around her food. ”I had no idea you were this great a cook. I’m officially declaring you the pack mom.”

Derek let out a strangled noise and coughed. Isaac gave him a concerned look and slapped his back a couple of times.

”Did you know that the Aztecs called the avocado ahuacuatl, or ’testicle tree?’” Peter said conversationally, ignoring the commotion around the alpha. ”They thought the fruit hanging in pairs on the tree resembled testicles. The Catholic priests in Spain found this fruit so obscenely sexual that they forbade it.”

Scott’s spoon stopped midway and he cast Stiles a wide-eyed look. Boyd shrugged and munched down another spoonful.

”Really? I thought it was the passion fruit,” Lydia said innocently.

Peter ate another spoonful, taking his time. ”No, that name came from the Spanish conquistadors. They thought the passion’s flower reminded them about the Passion of Christ — which is all about suffering and has absolutely nothing to do with aphrodisiacs.”

Peter’s eyes glittered with mischief as he saluted Stiles with his empty plate. Stiles stuffed his mouth full of pasta to avoid answering.

”Viagra juice and testicle pasta?” Erica asked. ”Is this going to be a recurring theme, sexing us up for the weekend? It gives a casual Friday a whole new meaning — not that I’m against it.” She glanced around, getting affirmative nods and grins back. Peter was sporting a way too knowing smug smirk.

As Erica turned back to face him, she cocked her head and gave Stiles a contemplating look. ”So, Stiles… should we buy you a frilly ’Kiss the cook’ apron?”

Groaning, Stiles decided his pack was the worst.

In the days following Stiles’s death-by-embarrassment, he tried to act all cool about it. Being a pack mom? Sure, why not! He was already mothering his dad, so a pack of teen werewolves and their allies was nothing he couldn’t wrangle, right? So he decided to take it in a stride and embrace his new title.

But even though Stiles didn’t think that ’pack mom’ was a derogatory term (because Moms were awesome!), he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. As far as he knew,’Pack Mom’ equaled the heart of the pack, the one who took care of everyone, who glued them all together, and Stiles… well, he just couldn’t see himself in that role. How could he? He was an awkward teenager, less than 150 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, and he had it on good authority that he was only good at running his mouth and providing completely useless factoids about a multitude of things.

He couldn’t deny that it felt nice, though. Stiles liked it when he was useful, and in a band of werewolves, a genius, and a hunter, he was often the least useful. So, if he could benefit the pack in more concrete ways than offering lame jokes or googling stuff until his eyes dried up, he was up for it.

And if he dug out his mom’s old recipe book, so what? 

Besides, with Derek’s credit card, he didn’t have to worry about the costs, and he’d probably manage to sneak stuff back to his dad every once in a while.

”This doesn’t make any sense,” Stiles huffed. He took a sip of his coffee only to realize the mug was empty and glared at his laptop screen like it was responsible for his lack of coffee. 

He’d been researching aphrodisiac foods for some time now, trying to come up with a list of stuff he could use on the weekly pack dinners but that would have at least some influence in Derek. Some items were obvious, like oysters, chocolate, red wine, but some items… not so much. Because, honestly? Carrots? Watermelon? Walnuts?

Seemed like ’aphrodisiacs’ meant a healthy and sensible diet, which was perhaps the least seductive thing Stiles had ever heard.

Despite his established relationship with curly fries, Stiles was all for eating healthy, and making his dad eat healthy on the side was a huge bonus. But if he wanted to enter into a steaming, sexy relationship with Derek, he needed a better ammo than ”high in antioxidants.” Because Derek was Derek and Stiles was… well, Stiles.

Stiles sighed. So, it was back to the ridiculous list of aphrodisiacs and, for example, bananas. 

As it happened, a bunch of bananas (which was apparently called ’a hand’) was sitting innocently on the counter, and Stiles regarded it for a moment before taking one. To be honest, he had no idea why they were on the aphrodisiac list unless the shape counted. Sure, they were healthy, but as far as he was able to research, they didn’t have a specific ”sex factor” like some other foodstuff. But they tasted good and they were cheap, so they often had them at home, even though it usually was Stiles who ate them. His dad seemed to have a physical condition that prevented him from going to a touching distance from a vegetable unless Stiles forced him.

Anyway.

Stiles turned the fruit in his hand. Yeah, the shape was distinctly phallic, although slender. He was pretty sure Derek’s dick was thicker than the banana.  Stiles cocked his head to the side, pursed his lips, and mused, ”Yeah, definitely thicker. I bet I could fit this whole banana in my mouth without a problem.”

He paused as he realized what, exactly, he had said. Then he blinked, wetted his lips, and practically ran to his room. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a hurry because he was home alone, but he didn’t want to think about that more closely.

Once in his room, he sat on the bed, stared at the banana and braced himself. 

Slowly, he peeled it, swallowed, and raised it to eye-level. ”Okay. Here goes nothing,” he muttered, tilted his head back, and pushed the banana in.

At first, it felt like, well, eating a banana, hello, nothing new there. He tried hollowing his cheeks and sucking it deeper where it hit the back of his throat and he coughed a little. The peels pressed against his nose which wasn’t sexy in any way, although trying to blow a banana could hardly be considered sexy either. 

Admitting he might have some logistical challenges, Stiles took the banana out of his mouth, peeled it a bit more, and tried again.

The second time was easier. He experimented a little, pushing the banana in and out, sucking it deeper, and swirling his tongue around it. Closing his eyes, he relaxed his jaw and tilted his head up a bit more, trying pushing it deeper again. For some weird reason, it felt surprisingly hot.

There also might be something wrong with him.

His introspective thoughts concerning his possible banana kinks were rudely interrupted when he heard a cough from the door. Stiles’s eyes flew open and he flailed, accidentally shoving the banana momentarily even deeper. That resulted in a lot of coughing, some tears, a burning red face, and a fleeting panic that he might actually have half of a banana in his lung right now.

His dad didn’t seem exactly impressed.

Stiles knew that sheriff John Stilinski was lots of things, but he wasn’t stupid. So, walking in on his kid practically molesting a banana, he definitely knew something was up. Stiles could see it in his eyes.

”Are you trying to choke on that banana?” his dad asked slowly.

”Uh, no? At least not on purpose,” Stiles wheezed as he tried to regain his dignity. ”I just deep throated before I was ready.”

John blinked, opened his mouth, and paused. ”Did you just say—”

”Uh, tried to eat it all at once. It’s for a competition, you know? How deep can you go or something like that,” Stiles sputtered, swallowing the residual banana mush in his mouth. ”It went too deep. I gagged. Something I have to work on. It’s all about the technique anyway—”

”Stiles…” John said and let out an exasperated sigh. ”Do we need to talk about this?”

”Yes! We should talk about this— these— gorgeous fruit! You should eat bananas,” Stiles said, waving the molested banana at his father, who raised his brow at the mush flying around. ”They’d be good for your heart, you know? Also, did you know that bananas are actually berries of a herb, and a single banana is called a finger?”

His dad raised a brow. ”So, you weren’t practicing how to give a blowjob?”

”Wha—? Dad, no! Absolutely no. I was eating it, but it just went too deep. It can happen, even to you,” Stiles sputtered.

John’s lips twitched. ”Really?”

Stiles decided to keep his mouth shut and bobbed his head vigorously instead, sticking himself in the eye with a banana peel.

John sighed and shook his head. ”We need more bananas,” he muttered and turned to go. Then he paused and said, over his shoulder, ”By the way, if you’re planning on choking on something else, use a condom.”

”What?” Stiles squeaked, but Dad was already on his way down the stairs.

Because his dad was fully capable of being an annoying shit when he so chose, there was a giant bag of bananas on the kitchen counter the next day when Stiles finally shuffled down from his room. And, because his dad was in the mood or something, there was also a pack of condoms placed right in the middle of the hand of bananas. 

No way that was an accident. 

Groaning, Stiles shoved the condoms back into the bag and rummaged the fridge for milk and OJ, with every intention to forget about the condoms and to eat Cheerios for breakfast. 

It didn’t work, though, because his eyes kept drifting to the bag.

Oh God, why had Dad bought condoms? Did he mean Stiles should keep the rubbers? Or should he practice putting them on — on himself of on the bananas? 

Should he try to roll it on with his mouth?

Distracted by the bananas and the condoms, Stiles shoved another spoonful of soggy Cheerios into his mouth before he realized his mouth was already full. He ended up sputtering and swallowing them down in one, too big a portion that hurt his throat. Distracted, he finished his late breakfast and checked the calendar that yes, his dad was at work. With that sorted out, he snatched a couple of bananas and the condoms and ran back to his room like someone was chasing him, locking the door behind himself.

He sat heavily on the bed and tried to steady his breathing. The bananas and the condoms were by his side, right where he had tossed them. He eyed them, swallowed, and wiped his clammy hands on his pajama pants.

Was he really going to do this? Stuff a banana into his mouth again? Also, why was he so nervous? Was it because this time he kinda knew what he was doing instead of accidentally deepthroating a damn fruit-slash-berry?

He took a breath and, a bit gingerly, dug one condom from the package and ripped it open. It was slightly slimy and it smelled weird. Experimentally, he licked it and shuddered at the awful taste. Why would anyone willingly put that in their mouth? Weren’t there, like, flavored rubbers out there? Why didn’t his dad buy the… the… strawberry-flavored ones?

Stiles blinked and paused to retract his thoughts. 

Did he really want his dad to buy him strawberry-flavored condoms to practice his blowjob game with?

”Stiles, you’re an idiot,” he muttered to himself, put down the condom, and picked up a banana.

It was significantly bigger and thicker than the one he had last shoved into his mouth, and for a moment, he wondered if his dad had chosen the bigger ones on purpose. And that led to a violent shudder when he thought about his dad, condoms, and dick-sized bananas. 

Nope. Not going there.

Slowly, he peeled the banana and picked up the condom, checked it was rolling out correctly, and put it in his mouth, trying to ignore the taste for the time being. He then took the banana in his hand and pushed it into his mouth, effectively shoving the condom deep into his throat. Joy.

He choked, coughed, and spat, finally managing to get the condom out.

”Well, that would’ve made an embarrassing text on the tombstone,” he wheezed. ”’Here lies Stiles Stilinski, choked to death by a condom.’ On the other hand, I might’ve earned myself a Darwin award.” 

The banana didn’t comment.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the remaining condoms and stubbornly picked up a new one. He was going to learn this right, and he was going to do it now, dammit! He repeated the moves of checking the condom, but didn’t put the whole condom in his mouth, this time, leaving the ring out. Slowly, he managed to roll it on the banana, but when he drew his head back, he saw there was a small balloon of air on the tip of the banana and he was pretty sure there hadn’t been any teeth marks on the banana before he had put it in his mouth.

Also, he was quite sure that if he had practiced with a real cock, the person attached to it would’ve complained because even with his accelerated healing, Derek would still punch him if Stiles accidentally bit him in the dick.

Letting out a frustrated growl, he threw the rubbered banana to the side and picked up his laptop. He spent the next twenty-five minutes vigorously researching tutorials of how to put on a condom with his mouth and the following half an hour practicing, using the remaining condoms and repeating his moves until he felt slightly more sure about himself. 

When he was done, he collected the discarded condoms and stuffed them into the trash with the abused bananas. In theory, they were still alright, but he didn’t want to eat them or even feed them to his dad, not after what they’d been through. He took a shower, brushed his teeth a couple of times, wrote his dad a note to eat the lunch he had left him (’All the vegetables too, Dad!’), and headed to Derek’s. It was a pack dinner night and Isaac had asked for moussaka.

His hope to avoid a certain undead uncle was crushed when Peter was once again waiting for him by the door. Stiles wasn’t sure why Peter was so interested in him and his cooking, but he decided to ignore him and started to prepare the dinner instead.

However, his good mood was shot to hell when Peter sauntered past him to get a beer from the fridge, sniffed carefully the side of his mouth and asked, radiating false innocence, ”Busy day?” 

Stiles deserved a fucking medal for not stabbing him in the eye with a peeling knife.

June went by in a blur of sleeping around the clock, kicking Scott and Isaac’s asses at Halo, and cooking for the pack, and before Stiles even realized, it was July. The Fourth was often a day when Stiles hung around with his dad, grilled steaks (it was one of the rare exceptions of red meat his dad was allowed), and played board games, but this year his dad was working. It sucked, but on the other hand, it gave Stiles the opportunity to finally have a pack BBQ.

However, he wasn’t comfortable with bringing the whole pack to his home, and he was especially hesitant about Derek and Peter. Dad still didn’t know about the whole supernatural thing, and Stiles didn’t want to elevate his dad’s blood pressure by bringing home a former murder suspect and a guy who was supposed to be dead. 

So, he decided the next best thing would have to do, and dug out his phone. 

”Derek, do you have a barbecue grill?” he asked as soon as the alpha answered.

There was a moment of silence. ”I live in a loft. Where would I keep it?”

Stiles blinked. ”You have a balcony, don’t you? And are you saying you don’t have a grill?”

Derek hesitated. ”Um… not yet?” It came out as a question.

Stiles frowned at the phone. ”Okay,” he said slowly. ”Because I was thinking about ribs.”

”What?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed. ”Why do you have to be so difficult? I meant grilled ribs, as in food,” he articulated slowly. ”I wanna throw the pack a barbecue party on the Fourth.”

Derek was silent for a moment, then he said, ”Okay,” and hung up.

”Okay? That’s it? Okay?” Stiles repeated incredulously, staring at his phone. ”Stupid, stubborn sourmutt,” he grumbled while stuffing the phone back into his pocket. If Derek insisted on being his usual scowle-y and difficult self, he was free to do so. Stiles didn’t care. He was going to have a pack barbecue, and he was going to make it awesome! 

He set his mouth in a stubborn pout and headed into the store. Of course, it was full of other people just as intent on making their Fourth awesome, but Stiles had a pack of wolves to feed, and he was determined. He was a man on a mission to get his pack some ribs, and he wasn’t going to fail!

By now, the clerks had learned that Stiles would come over a couple of times a week and buy ridiculous amounts of food, and they barely lifted a brow anymore. This time, however, the cashier couldn’t suppress a double-take when Stiles pushed his shopping cart to the check-out. 

”They eat like rabid wolves,” Stiles said dryly as he unloaded the massive amount of ribs, bundles of asparagus, fresh pineapples, multiple packs of sodas, and salad supplies on the conveyer belt. The cashier didn’t comment, just beeped the food in. 

Derek was nowhere to be seen when Stiles arrived at the loft a good while later. He dragged the multiple bags into the kitchen and nearly collapsed against the counter, heaving for breath. If nothing else, he should at least have some massive biceps by the end of the summer as a thank you from hauling all those bags week in and week out.

Derek’s absence was nothing new. After he had practically handed over the control of his own home to Stiles, Derek had come and gone as he pleased. At first, it had felt a bit strange to be at Derek’s lair without him, but the more time Stiles spent at Derek’s the faster the uncomfortable feeling gave way to odd easiness. He could say the loft almost felt like home. 

He didn’t bother to scrutinize the feeling closer because that way lay madness.

After gulping down a big glass of water, Stiles donned the apron Erica had gotten him. Honestly, it had been a gag gift — it wasn’t the ’Kiss the cook’ apron Erica had threatened to buy, but an ’Eat my meat’ version instead. Stiles loved it. It had received an honorary hook in Derek’s kitchen, and if the special constipated look on Derek’s face when Stiles had squealed meant anything, it was there especially by Derek’s request.

When he was on his way gutting the fourth pineapple, the loft door opened and Derek marched in, carrying a massive grill.

Stiles gaped, the pineapples momentarily forgotten. ”Is that new?”

Derek stopped and blinked. ”Yes,” he said without putting the grill down.

”Dude, did you just go and buy a brand new grill?” Stiles almost squeaked.

”You said yourself that I have a balcony,” Derek said and frowning. ”So now you have a grill.”

”That’s not what— is that the newest Weber?”

”Yes?” Derek looked worried. ”Why? It’s not good enough?”

”No, it’s definitely good enough,” Stiles hurried to say. ”But you didn’t have to—”

”The man in the store said this is the best,” Derek interrupted, oddly defensive.

Stiles raised his hands in front of him in a placating gesture and almost stabbed himself in the eye with the knife he had totally forgotten he was holding. ”Hey, I’m not criticizing, I was just surprised.” He cocked his head to the side. ”Do you know how to set it up?”

Derek nodded brusquely. ”I have instructions,” he said in a clear dismissal and hauled the grill to the balcony. 

For a moment, Stiles just stared. Had the damn alpha rushed into a hardware store to buy the best grill they had just because Stiles wanted a pack barbecue? What the hell?

Huffing, he shook his head and continued with his pineapples. It was surprisingly time-consuming, both because the fruits were hard and because Derek still didn’t have proper knives in his kitchen. Stiles decided to change that as soon as possible. 

However, he couldn’t help trying to peek a look at what was happening at the balcony, even though he wasn’t going to walk over and hover by Derek’s shoulder. He just wanted to make sure Derek was okay with the grill. Which he seemed to be, considering an occasional flash of red eyes through the window or a deep growl that sounded mainly annoyed and frustrated. Standard Derek behavior.

The rest of the pack dribbled slowly in in twos and threes, lazing around and pestering Stiles with questions of the menu, and being general nuisances. After smacking Erica on the fingers for the fifth time, Stiles chased everyone out of the kitchen with his pitiful excuse of a knife and forbade them coming in two feet from him or the food. The resulting pouting and grumbling reminded him eerily of toddlers denied a cookie before dinner, which meant he really was the Pack Mom. 

What a time to be a teenager.

If Stiles was honest, it was perhaps one of the best Fourths he had ever had. 

After growling the grill into submission, Derek took care of the barbecue with the age-old pride of an alpha male providing his family. That was, of course, after Stiles had prepped everything and made sure all Derek had to do was posture and make sure he didn’t burn the food. It didn’t change the fact that the food was excellent and Derek looked content, which made Stiles’s stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with grilled ribs.

The whole pack ate more than was probably healthy for them, werewolf metabolism or not. Everyone else except for Lydia and Isaac tried to complain about grilled asparagus and whole roasted garlic, but Derek glared at them before dumping both asparagus and garlic on every plate. 

”We made food, you eat it,” he said in a voice that brooked no arguments. 

Stiles wasn’t sure what to think about that. On one hand, he was thrilled that Derek was on his side on this one, but on the other hand, he wasn’t sure he wanted his pack to be force-fed stuff he had cooked. He’d rather they ate it because they wanted to. Then again, after years of forcing his dad to eat healthily, Stiles was pretty much immune to any complaining about food, so there was that.

When it was time for dessert, Allison was an angel and ran to the store to get a dozen cartons of vanilla ice cream Stiles had forgotten. The whole pack ended up in a giant puppy pile in the general area of the couch sans Peter, who opted to sit in his holy loneliness in the armchair. On one corner of the couch, Lydia was cradled in Jackson’s arms and nibbling a piece of grilled pineapple while Allison and Scott fed each other ice cream from one carton on the other corner. Erica was snuggled against Boyd and already passed out in a food coma, and even Derek was relaxed, reveling in the contentedness of his pack.

”I need more ice cream,” Isaac whined from the floor, too lazy and too comfortable to get up. 

Without looking, Boyd threw at him the carton he had been slowly demolishing and hit him in the head. 

”Thanks,” Isaac mumbled happily and started eating the ice cream with his eyes closed. 

Watching them from the kitchen doorway, Stiles grinned. Yeah, this was definitely one of the best Fourths he had had in a long while.

”Dude, what are you doing in there?” Scott asked.

Stiles lifted his empty bowl. ”Getting more pineapples and ice cream,” he answered.

”Consuming fresh pineapple is supposed to make sperm taste better,” Peter pointed out from his chair, popping another slice of grilled pineapple into his mouth with his claw.

Stiles raised a brow. ”First, that’s grilled pineapple and second, are you offering samples for field testing?” 

His words earned him a chorus of sputtering and coughing, but he kept his eyes on Peter who chewed his pineapple slowly, swallowed, and gave Stiles a wolfish grin. ”You pass,” he said smugly.

Stiles rolled his eyes and put his bowl on the table before fleeing into the bathroom. What the hell did Peter mean by passing?

When he opened the bathroom door, he took a step back and nearly gagged. It smelled terrible, and by that, he really meant terrible. As a teenager, he was well versed with the pungent aroma of his own socks, not to mention boys’ locker room, but this surpassed it by tenfold. But since he actually needed to pee, he braced himself and took care of his business.

And because it was his life, his own pee smelled just as peachy.

”Why does the bathroom smell like death?” he asked when he came back.

”Most likely because the majority of this pack seems to have the so-called asparagus gene,” Lydia said without opening her eyes. ”That makes urine smell horrible after eating asparagus.”

”That’s… disgusting,” Scott said. 

Stiles thought for a moment and shrugged. ”Well, we could always pretend to live in the middle ages.”

”What?” Jackson asked with a frown.

”Or was it renaissance?” Stiles mused. ”Anyway. Back then, people didn’t really bathe, so they just doused themselves with perfume. Hence, when everybody stinks, nobody stinks.”

His words were met with silence.

Then Boyd said, ”You’re strange.”

”Yep,” Stiles nodded. ”In a pack of werewolves and awesome humans, strange and sarcastic is the only way for me to go. More pineapple, anyone?”

Later, when everyone was so full they couldn’t physically eat more, Stiles started packing the leftovers into containers. There was some ribs, perhaps a dozen asparagus, and a handful of grilled pineapple. It would make a nice lunch for Dad for the following day. 

He didn’t even realize Derek had wandered to his side until he said, ”You know it’s not just that?” 

Confused, Stiles asked, ”What’s not what? Context would be nice.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but it was oddly fond. ”Strange and sarcastic,” he said. ”You are more than that.”

”Uh, okay,” Stiles said slowly, a bit thrown.

Derek didn’t really meet his eyes, choosing to frown at the leftover food instead. ”You are important,” he said quietly. ”To the pack, to—” He swallowed. ”Yeah. You are.”

Then he turned abruptly around and left the kitchen, leaving Stiles to stare after him, wondering what the hell had that been about.

Stiles’s Great Seduction Plan wasn’t doing so great. 

For starters, Stiles was pretty sure Derek wasn’t even aware of his presence in the loft, and it was proving difficult to seduce a person who didn’t even notice the seducer. If he happened to be at home, he’d wander around in his obnoxiously tight Henleys, read stuff, or work out — shirtless. That had almost caused Stiles a heart attack once: there were few things that could be as shocking as a topless Derek, chest glistening with sweat. Stiles had promptly walked against the wall, apologized to it, and fled into the bathroom before Derek could tell him what a klutz he was.

But as weeks went by, Stiles started to realize he had something a bit more serious going on behind his initial plan. It looked like Derek was lonely. He wasn’t alone, per se, but he also had no-one else but his pack and the only guidance in his life was Peter, which was either pathetic or just plain scary.

True, Derek could be a total asshole if he wanted. He was stubborn, headstrong, and used to getting things his way. On the rare occasion that didn’t happen, he’d pout in a dark corner like a toddler with stubble, which would’ve been adorable if it wasn’t so ridiculous. 

Be as it may, Derek spent most of his time trying to be a better alpha. Everything he did, he did to be better and to keep his pack — and consequently the whole Beacon Hills — safe. The more Stiles observed Derek, the more he started to realize that Derek simply didn’t consider himself worthy of having anyone close, to be there just for him. And that was a big load of bullshit. Also, Stiles guessed Derek probably hadn’t let anyone close since the Kate-catastrophe and the Hale fire. 

But most importantly, Stiles had started slowly to realize that he wasn’t so interested in getting all hot and bothered with Derek anymore. Sure, he wouldn’t protest if it happened, but he’d rather make Derek smile a bit more, feel relaxed and at home. He wanted to give him a chance to belong and to have a family — even if it was a dysfunctional pack of random ragtag teens and a supposedly dead maternal relative.

In short, Stiles’s Great Seduction Plan slowly morphed from how-to-get-into-Derek’s-pants into how-to-be-Derek’s-friend. And he was surprisingly okay with that. 

Even though Stiles’s agenda had changed, the pack dinners stayed because he liked cooking for the pack and they’d all started to enjoy the evening together. And no matter how much Jackson rolled his eyes, spending time together as a pack was important: it relaxed them, made them more attuned to each other, and slowly started to smooth out the sharp edges of each other’s personalities. On top of that, it seemed to enhance the werewolf senses and stamina, and the feedback loop from a contented alpha to his well looked after betas benefited them all.

Simply put: they were family. 

Sometimes, Stiles wondered what his dad thought about the pack nights, even though he never called them that, of course. His dad was still happily oblivious about the supernatural, and Stiles had every intention of keeping him that way. Dad had enough on his plate: the Beacon Hills police were severely understaffed and John was working himself to the early grave. Stiles knew his dad was worried about him, but he tried his best to convince him that yes, hanging out with a former murder suspect was a good idea. Having Melissa on his side helped a lot, even though both his dad and she knew from the first-hand experience that Stiles and Scott combined did not equal staying out of trouble. 

Then again, Dad was perhaps just relieved he had something else to do than play Halo until his brain melted. The leftovers Stiles brought home from the pack dinners probably helped, too.

Melissa, of course, knew about the whole werewolf thing and she didn’t seem to have much trouble accepting Scott’s summer activities, which was perhaps mostly because she felt Scott was safer with his own kind than alone as an omega. She had always been a practical one, and it was one of the reasons Stiles loved her so much.

As far as Stiles knew, neither Lydia nor Jackson’s parents really gave a shit as long as they kept up the appearances and didn’t tarnish the family name, and none of Derek’s bitten betas had close relations with their family. Erica was estranged from her dad, Boyd never talked about his family, and everyone knew what had happened with Isaac’s father. 

Chris Argent was still salty about Allison and Scott’s dating, but he really wasn’t in any position to complain. As if his psycho-homicidal sister hadn’t been enough, his wife had been almost as crazy, and his father had proved to be the gramps of the year, what with brainwashing Allison, beating up Stiles, and torturing the werewolves. Perhaps Chris had decided that compared to his own family, Scott wasn’t that bad after all.

And then there were the remaining Hales.

Derek had never been very open about his family, but Stiles had both learned to read between the lines and pestered Peter enough to get some information to get the bigger picture. Born wolves tended to have strong ties with their families, and a stable pack acted both as an anchor and a backup battery, grounding and benefiting the wolves it was made of.

Both Derek and Peter had loved their family deeply and the aftermath of their loss was visible even now, years after the Hale fire. For all his trying, Derek was barely holding it together, channeling his need for a family into strict rules and vigorous training. He would’ve probably ended up micromanaging the pack if Stiles hadn’t stepped in and redirected his energy into organizing a rotating weekly meal plan.

Stiles wasn’t even sure what was going on with Peter, but as long as he didn’t completely lose his mind (again) and go on a homicidal rampage (again), he didn’t exactly care.

One Tuesday evening, Jackson arrived at the loft, marched straight to Stiles, and handed him two grocery bags.

”Uh,” Stiles said and blinked.

”They’re from my mom,” Jackson said gruffly and shrugged. ”She flew to Paris with my dad, again, and wanted me to take these to you. Apparently, they’re ’a nice light snack to share with friends.’” He didn’t make the air quotes, but Stiles had no problem hearing them.

”Um… okay?” Stiles said, took the bags, and wandered into the kitchen as Jackson made his way to the couch. He ended up frowning at a heap of slightly squishy, tear-shaped things, a packet of what looked like dry ham, another package of some fancy-ass blue cheese, and a jar of artisan honey.

”Jackson, what the hell?” he called.

”Don’t ask me,” Jackson said from the couch. ”That’s courtesy of my mother.”

”But I have no fucking clue of what these are,” Stiles whined.

Curious, the rest of the pack padded into the kitchen to stare at the stuff on the table.

”Oh, fresh figs,” Boyd said and shrugged at the incredulous stares he got from the others. ”We used to have several fig trees in our yard. They’re pretty good when they’re fresh.” Gently, he picked one up and sniffed it. ”These smell ripe. Just rinse them under cool water, nip the stem off, and cut them into chunks.”

”And what am I supposed to do with that other stuff?” Stiles asked him because, apparently, Boyd was the pack’s resident fig-whisperer. 

Boyd shrugged. ”It’s prosciutto, blue cheese, and honey. Bring them too.”

Apart from the oysters that had been just plain disgusting, this was by far the fanciest thing Stiles had ever eaten. He rinsed the figs like Boyd had instructed and cut off the stems, but piled them on a plate after, deciding that werewolves with claws could cut their own damn figs. He put the ham on another plate and the blue cheese on a third. 

When he tried getting the honey jar open, he wasn’t surprised when he failed spectacularly. He never got the jars open at home either. He whirled around to call for help and almost collided with Derek.

”Um… help?” he said and shoved the jar at Derek’s chest, not-so-subtly brushing his hand along Derek’s ridiculously toned chest.

Derek’s eyebrows made some elaborate dance, but he didn’t say anything. He twisted the lid open with effortless ease and handed the jar back to Stiles.

”Thanks,” Stiles said. ”I’m hereby naming you my personal jar-wrangler. Need to put those wolfy muscles into a good use, right?”

Derek gave him an odd look, huffed, and took the figs and the ham into the living room area. After a moment of internal screaming, Stiles followed with the blue cheese and honey.

It was a lot different from the pack’s normal snacks, but it was surprisingly nice. Stiles didn’t really get the fuss about the fancy stuff, but he couldn’t deny that Jackson’s mom had an excellent taste in snacks.

”Guys… is this a thing we do now?” Isaac asked slowly from the couch, staring at the phone in his hand.

”What do you mean?” Scott asked, munching his ham.

Isaac cleared his throat and glanced at Derek. ”Well… I googled about figs.” He hesitated, oddly awkward. 

”Yes,” Derek prompted, raising his brows.

”According to these sites, eating a fresh fig while naked in front of a woman is supposed to be, like, one of the most erotic acts in the world,” Isaac said. ”And a fig that’s split down the center is said to resemble a woman’s genitals.”

They all took a look at the figs sitting innocently on the plate. 

Peter pursed his lips, picked one up, deftly split it with his claws, and frowned. ”That’s… not exactly the orifice I’d call this,” he said. 

Stiles absolutely didn’t try to peek a glance. 

Peter shrugged, lifted the fig to his mouth, and ate it with considerably more slurping and licking that was probably necessary. As the others made gagging sounds, Stiles flushed bright red, and Derek rolled his eyes. Isaac, curiously, didn’t say anything, just hunched over his phone like he was trying to hide something.

”What are you reading?” Erica asked, leaning over Isaac’s shoulder to see better.

Isaac blushed as his head snapped up and he looked around. ”Nothing?” he squeaked. It came out as a question, and even all-too-human Stiles knew he was lying.

”A dirty poem!” Erica breathed out, her eyes glued to the screen. ”Isaac, you tart!”

As Isaac tried to push Erica off, Jackson snatched his phone and started reading aloud, cocky and grinning,

”The proper way to eat a fig, in society,

Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,

And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four- petalled flower.

Then you throw away the skin

Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,

After you have taken off the blossom, with your lips.

But the vulgar way

Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take—”

The further he read, the quieter the words became until he fell silent, read a bit forward in silence, and blushed.

”Thank you, Jackson,” Derek said dryly and returned Isaac his phone. ”That was D.H. Lawrence, by the way.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped. ”You know that poem?” he asked, a bit breathless, which had nothing to do with either Peter’s show or the poem. He just hadn’t pegged Derek knowing about poetry, that’s all.

Derek shrugged. ”It’s a classic.”

Stiles blinked. ”Classic as in erotic poetry, or fruit knowledge, or—”

”Classic as in English literature,” Derek interrupted, amused.

Stiles was about to offer a witty come-back when Peter sighed. ”I still don’t see the resemblance,” he muttered forlornly, examining a piece of fig. ”Then again, it’s been a while.”

As the whole pack thanked him with groans, Stiles caught Derek’s gaze and rolled his eyes. He got back a small, hesitant smile and counted that as a win.

So far, the Beacon Hills’ supernatural community had had a suspiciously quiet summer. That’s why it made perfect sense that it decided to cook up some action as soon as Deaton informed Derek that he was going for a holiday and couldn’t be contacted in any natural or supernatural way until he came back. Stiles swore the damn vampires waited exactly fifteen minutes past Deaton crossing the town border before they made their presence known. In the most unpleasant way possible.

Yes, vampires. Apparently, they were a thing.

For some reason Stiles couldn’t comprehend, they saw fit to announce their claim for Beacon Hills by nailing a freaking cow carcass on the side of the partially crumbled Hale house. Now, Stiles had had his share of dead deer on the doorway and burning maternal relatives, but none of that prepared him for the sight of a slaughtered cow that had been used as a carry-on paint container. He had no idea where the hell the vampires had even gotten the cow since there weren’t any farms nearby. The closest the Beacon Hills residents got to a cow was a milk container.

Damn vampires and their need for dramatics.

It took the pack a couple of days to figure out where the vampires had their nest. Derek wanted to persuade the vampires to leave Beacon Hills area, preferably the most permanent way possible. They argued strategies back and forth, considered the most efficient way to eliminate the threat, and even agreed to test one of Lydia’s most recent concoctions as a bomb.

When they were done, Stiles bounced up and said, ”Okay, we should probably get going as long as we have sunlight, right?”

”Not you,” Derek said, stopping him on his feet.

Stiles turned slowly to look at him. ”Excuse me?”

Derek crossed his arms and scowled. ”I said, no.”

”Yes,” Stiles countered, staring Derek down. Not literally, because Stiles had decided he wasn’t going to be distracted by deliciously bulging muscles. 

”I’m not going to argue with you about this. You’re not coming, period.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. ”You. Can’t. Stop. Me,” he said stubbornly. 

Derek’s eyes flashed red. ”You’re not a wolf, Stiles,” he gritted out. 

Stiles wanted to point out that Derek’s words collided with his attempt to intimidate him with the alpha eyes, but the comment actually hurt. After everything he had done for the pack, he was dismissed just like that. ”Well, neither are Allison or Lydia,” he said. ”And they are coming, right?”

Derek let out a long-suffering sigh. ”Allison is a hunter, and Lydia has her powers,” he explained like Stiles didn’t know. ”You on the other hand—”

”I am nothing,” Stiles interrupted, his tone bitter. ”Yeah. I get it, thanks.” Derek frowned and opened his mouth, but Stiles didn’t want to hear it. He turned and waved his hand over his shoulder, and said, ”Well, run along then. You have the world to save, right?”

Without bothering to wait for a comeback, he stomped away, cursing that the loft didn’t have enough doors to slam behind him. Because he couldn’t just march into Derek’s bedroom to slam the door, he ended up locking himself in the bathroom and decided to simply wait for the pack to leave. 

Sitting down on the toilet seat, he leaned his head on his hands and seethed. 

He knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help it. He already knew he was the puny, vulnerable human and the weakest link of the pack. There was no need for Derek to rub it on his face, dammit!

Almost immediately, Stiles heard steps that stopped right behind the closed bathroom door. He waited, staring at the door, but nothing happened and, after a short moment, he heard steps moving away, followed by the sound of the loft door sliding shut soon after. He let out an inarticulate sound of combined man pain and frustration, punched the wall once with his fist and almost brained himself on the bathroom sink as he flailed around in pain. 

For a short moment, he entertained the idea of heading home and sulking alone in his room for the next couple of days, but since he actually didn’t want to be all alone, he abandoned the idea almost immediately. Besides, after they had wreaked havoc on the vamps, the pack would want something light to eat. Like a couple of lambs or a half of a moose. Heaving a sigh and feeling decidedly like an overworked Mom, Stiles condemned himself to the ungrateful task of food duty and headed to the store.

The supply run was just as uneventful as one could imagine a late afternoon grocery shopping on a lazy July Thursday to be, and it did nothing to improve his mood. Back at Derek’s, he was still amped up and muttered curses under his breath as he unpacked his Jeep. Thinking about the impending journey to the Mount Doom — a.k.a hauling the groceries up the stairs into the loft — Stiles wondered if he could bully Derek into installing a food elevator to the loft. With the speed the pack ate, they sorely needed it.

He paused mid-curse when he thought he had heard something from behind him and frowned as the started to turn around to check.

And then someone hit him in the head.

Stiles came back to slowly, with a buzzing in his ears, a bright light in his eyes, and an odd, floating feeling about him. He tried to sit up but only managed a weak attempt before pain exploded in the back of his head. Even groaning out loud hurt.

”Where am I?” he asked. Or meant to, but it came out as a gurgle.

”Stiles? Stiles!” someone said urgently and gripped his shoulder.

With a considerable effort, Stiles managed to open his left eye to see a blurry form of his dad hovering in front of his face.

”Hi Dad,” he slurred.

”You scared the crap out of me, son,” Dad said gruffly and wiped a hand over his face. ”What the hell happened?” he asked someone on the other side of Stiles. Stiles didn’t even dream about turning his head to look who it was.

”I don’t—”

Oh, that was Derek.

”The truth, Hale,” John said sharply. ”I want to know what the hell is going on in my town.”

Derek sighed. After a moment, he said in a low voice, ”Fine. But not here. We need to get him out of here.”

”He needs to go to the hospital—”

”No,” Derek barked. ”Hospital isn’t safe.”

John raised an incredulous brow. ”And your loft is?” 

”Yes.” 

John was silent for a moment, giving Derek a considering look. ”Alright,” he finally said. ”But it’s not going to be pretty. He’s in pain.”

”I’ll take care of that,” Derek said. 

Stiles heard shuffling from his right side, then Derek’s voice right in his ear said, ”Stiles? I’m going to pick you up now.” 

Gently, Derek took him in his arms, carefully placing his hands on Stiles’s skin so that he could drain his pain. As the familiar, cottony feeling of the pain drain settled on Stiles, he was vaguely aware of his dad asking something and Derek answering, his voice a low rumble that resonated through Stiles. For some reason, it felt soothing.

He lost his sense of time, but was rudely jolted back into painful consciousness when Derek placed him on something soft — a bed perhaps? Pain bloomed in his head again, and he couldn’t hold back a hiss. The mattress dipped slightly as Derek sat beside him, took a hold of his wrist, and drained the headache away. 

”I’m going to talk with your dad now,” Derek said softly and made a move as if to stand up.

Stiles let out a slurred sound that was meant to be an articulate ”Please, don’t go,” and groped blindly after him, managing to grab Derek’s forefinger in his fist. If he had been on his right mind, Stiles might have felt stupid, but he now he was just satisfied he had a tight hold on the finger so that Derek couldn’t run away.

”Stiles,” Derek huffed but stayed sitting beside him.

”You might as well stay sitting,” John said. ”He’s not going to let go of your finger anytime soon.”

Derek didn’t say anything but his thumb rubbed a small circle on the back of Stiles’s hand.

Satisfied that Derek wasn’t going to leave, Stiles started slowly drift into sleep, listening to his dad and Derek’s hushed conversation about werewolves, vampires, the pack, pain draining, and oddly, grilled steaks. 

He hoped Derek didn’t try bribing Dad with steaks — not because bribing a law officer was bad, but because Dad would most likely say yes.

He woke up disoriented, lying on a wet spot of his own drool. It took Stiles’s sluggish brain a moment to reorientate and remember what had happened. So, he had hit his head somehow, his dad had been there and, apparently, he now knew about werewolves and stuff. Also, Stiles seemed to be back in the loft and currently in Derek’s bed, which meant he had drooled on the alpha’s pillow.

Awesome.

With some difficulty and a lot of wobbling, Stiles managed to get up and make his way out of the bedroom. He was hungry and he needed to use the bathroom, but the sight of the spiral staircase almost made him turn back. It took time, but he finally made it to the ground floor, staggered into the bathroom, and took care of his business with a relieved groan that in some other circumstance, might have raised eyebrows.

In all honesty, Stiles would’ve loved to lay down in the bathtub and sleep some more, but he had to get something to eat. The headache was back with a vengeance and he had to close his eyes into small slits on his way into the kitchen, which resulted in awkward shuffling with groping and flailing hands to avoid colliding with furniture. 

He was fervently relieved the rest of the pack wasn’t present to see him right now.

When he finally made it into the kitchen and to the fridge, he was ready to faint in a manly heap on the floor. Instead, he gritted his teeth and opened the fridge to get some OJ he knew he had bought a couple of days back. When he reached out, he didn’t get OJ but some scaly weird thing.

Stiles stared. ”Dude, why do you have a baby armadillo in your fridge?” he muttered to himself.

”It’s not an armadillo, you idiot,” Derek snorted from somewhere behind him. ”It’s an artichoke. Peter got it to you as a present. He mentioned something about ’restoring your energies.’” 

Stiles had no idea when Derek had entered the loft, but he was totally cool with the surprise. He didn’t even scream. ”Dude, it’s totally a baby armadillo,” he insisted, trying to focus on said creature. He was pretty sure there was only one, but his eyes might lie. He decided to poke it.

”Don’t poke an innocent vegetable,” Derek chided, rudely took the armadillo from Stiles, grabbed him gently by his shoulders, and started leading him away.

”But… armadillos!” Stiles whined through his headache.

Derek sighed and steered him towards the living room. ”I’m sure you can talk to the artichokes tomorrow,” he said softly, muttering something about stubborn, injured idiots under his breath. His hands were very gentle and warm and the palm of his hand felt heavenly on Stiles’s neck. 

”Promise?” he asked as the headache started slowly leeching out as Derek drained his pain.

”Yes, Stiles. I promise,” Derek repeated. ”Now, into the bed with you.”

”With me? Will you come to bed with me?” Stiles asked hopefully, craning his neck to see Derek. It might have worked better if he’d had his eyes open.

”I meant—”

”I’m game! I’m so game that it’s the gamest of games,” Stiles babbled, ignoring the gray fog that started to creep over him. ”Can I use your chest as a pillow? Please? I bet your chest would make an awesome pillow, it’s so broad and oh my God shut me up now.”

”Shut up, Stiles,” Derek huffed and caught him as his knees gave out.

The next morning, Stiles woke up to a lingering headache, a multitude of aches around his fragile body, and an odd dream that had something to do with armadillos. He forgot about all that, though, when he realized he was in Derek’s bed. 

With Derek.

He almost didn’t dare to breathe as he slowly turned to take a proper look at the alpha sleeping next to him. Derek was laying on top of the blankets with his clothes on, so Stiles figured he hadn’t actually meant to stay. He didn’t care, because holy shit he was in bed with Derek!

Derek’s brow was smoothed from the perpetual scowl and his lashes threw a shadow on his cheekbones. Stiles could see his bunny teeth peeking from under his upper lip, and, no, he didn’t just think it was adorable. He forced his eyes away from tracking Derek’s lips and back into his lashes, which was the perfect moment to realize Derek’s eyes were open and he was staring at Stiles.

”Morning,” he said.

”Did you carry me into your bed like some damsel in distress?” Stiles asked because, apparently, that was the proper thing to say in the morning after.

Derek’s lips twitched like he forced back a smile. ”Nice to see that they did no lasting harm.”

Stiles scrunched his nose. ”They?”

”The vampires. They had decided to use the same ’Strike before they know we’re here’ strategy as we.” Derek winced and turned his head, avoiding Stiles’s gaze. ”They knocked you out and drained you just enough to prevent you from regaining your consciousness too soon. You weren’t here when we came back, and we had to call your dad, but we were able to trace you into their secondary nest and take you home.”

Stiles had a feeling Derek didn’t exactly tell him everything, but he was sure the details could wait because—

”What do you mean ’you had to call my dad?’”

Derek refused to let him drive, but insisted on taking him home himself. Stiles complained out of habit, but he was silently grateful. Even though he would vehemently deny it if asked, he really didn’t feel that peachy yet. Besides, this way he was able to bully Derek to tell him what had actually happened with the vampires. He had rushed to the bathroom before leaving the loft and he hadn’t seen any teeth marks on his neck, but it didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t bitten. 

”I refuse to be team Edward anyway,” he said haughtily, craning his neck to see it from the small mirror on the Camaro’s sun visor.

Derek blinked and shot him a flat look. ”Twilight? Really, Stiles?” 

”Hey, it’s a perfectly fitting reference!” Stiles retorted. ”Werewolves and vampires, you know. Do you think our vampires glitter in daylight?”

”They won’t do anything anymore, daylight or not,” Derek growled under his breath. Stiles opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but Derek raised his voice and continued, ”And, apparently, they preferred to drain their victims’ life essence in more… humane ways.”

”You mean, they wanted to, like, keep me as their feels lollipop to lick when they wanted?” Stiles asked.

Derek didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline. Fondly, Stiles was sure.

”Yeah, that didn’t sound weird at all,” Stiles muttered to himself and blamed his lingering headache for the stupid things that came from his mouth. Thank fuck they were already almost at his house because the air in the Camaro had turned a bit awkward. 

When Derek parked at the curb, he fussed about his bruises and asked several times if his headache was bearable. He didn’t escort Stiles inside only because Stiles told him no, but stayed put to watch that he got safely inside anyway. It was almost like he didn’t want to let Stiles go, and he wasn’t sure what to think about that.

”Weirdwolf,” Stiles snorted under his breath as he closed the door and turned around.

And faced his dad.

”So… werewolves,” John said slowly, arms crossed on his chest.

Stiles swallowed. ”Hi Dad!” he said cheerfully. ”Fancy meeting you here. At home. In the morning. Having coffee like a regular Dad.”

John raised a brow and pointed sternly at the table. Stiles sighed, marched past him, and sat down. ”How much did Derek tell you?”

”Too much and not nearly enough,” John answered and turned to rummage the cabinets. ”I’m going to make breakfast, and you’re going to tell me every single detail about everything. And don’t even dream about leaving something out because of some misguided wish to not make me worry.”

Stiles opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. ”But—”

”If I suspect you haven’t told me everything, I’ll call Derek. I have him on speed dial now.”

Stiles gasped. ”You wouldn’t dare!”

”Try me,” Dad said dryly. ”Coffee?”

Stiles banged his forehead on the table for a couple of times — gently, though, because it rekindled his headache, and since his personal pain relief wasn’t present, he didn’t want to go to extremes. 

He heaved a deep sigh and said, ”So, remember that night when you said there was a body in the woods?”

He went over everything. He told how it had all started when Scott had gotten bit by Peter, moved on to the so-called mountain lion attacks, told about Allison’s crazy aunt Kate who had tortured Derek, explained that the Kanima had actually been Jackson controlled by Matt and then Gerard, and how Peter had killed Kate and then Derek had killed Peter. Except that Lydia had somehow resurrected Peter, and she was actually a banshee, and, also—

”Whoa! Hold on,” Dad said, raising his hands in front of him. ”Let me get this straight: The dead girl in the woods was Derek’s sister who was actually killed by Derek’s uncle, who, instead of having been in a catatonic state in an institution, was running loose and terrorizing the locals until Derek killed him?”

”Yeah,” Stiles said.

”But he didn’t stay dead and is now, in fact, living with Derek?”

”Yeah,” Stiles repeated.

”And Allison’s aunt was responsible for the Hale fire and later returned here to finish Derek off?” Dad was looking a bit wild around the eyes.

”Yeah, and her mom tried to kill Derek and Scott,” Stiles said helpfully. ”Derek bit him out of self-defense and she committed suicide, which kinda messed Allison up for a while.”

”Jesus, kid… You really know how to choose your friends.” Dad rubbed his face and fell silent for a moment. ”So this pack… it’s Derek’s?”

Stiles nodded. ”Yeah. He’s the alpha, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson are his bitten betas. Allison is the hunter extension, Lydia is a bad-ass banshee and I’m… well, I’m the pack’s quota human,” he finished lamely.

”I think you’re much more than that,” Dad said quietly.

Stiles sighed. ”No, I’m not. I’m the fragile human who needs to stay out of the way in case he gets hurt. And sometimes, I get hurt anyway.”

”Speaking of which, I want you to see a therapist.”

”What? Dad, no!” Stiles protested. ”It’s not like I do it on purpose.”

”I know,” John said pointedly. ”I’ve lived with you for over sixteen years. But you have been attacked and abused, and that leaves a mark.” He shook his head and glanced at Stiles, something haunted in his eyes, like too many things made sense now. ”I don’t even want to think about how many times I’ve almost lost you, and never knew about it.”

Dad fell silent for a moment and continued, softly, ”I know you can’t sleep. I know you have nightmares. Now that I know how much everything else is out there, I know there’s a lot I can’t help you with. But I can help you with this. So, please.”

Stiles dropped his eyes on his lap. ”Okay,” he said in a small voice. 

Dad cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee. ”Good,” he said gruffly.

They poked their rubbery, now cool scrambled eggs and gulped down their cold coffees. Stiles could see his dad was mulling things over, categorizing new information and comparing it to the knowledge he already had. He guessed there was a lot of questions coming up in the foreseeable future.

After finishing his eggs, Dad put his coffee mug on the table, raised his brow, and said with slightly forced nonchalance, ”So, you and Derek?”

Stiles nearly choked on his eggs. ”What? Oh my God, Dad, there’s no me and Derek.”

”Really?”

”Really,” Stiles said emphatically. ”He just worries about me because I’m the weakest link of the pack.”

”That’s not how it looked like,” Dad said. 

”It didn’t?” Stiles squealed. No, he didn’t. Shut up.

”No, it really didn’t,” Dad said. He gave Stiles a long and hard look. ”I hope you understand how different you are.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. ”I know he’s older—”

”That’s not what I meant,” Dad interrupted. ”You’re barely an adult, and you’ve been crushing on Lydia since you were five. Derek is a grown man who lost his whole family because he made a mistake. He’s desperately lonely and cares for you all probably more than he should,” Dad listed and then continued, more gently, ”He’s not some toy you can test your new feelings on.”

”I’m not— who do you think I am?” Stiles asked, unsure if he was supposed to be embarrassed or offended.

”You’re a high school boy who has recently discovered he’s also attracted to boys,” his dad answered. ”But since you brought up his age: if he has sex with you while you’re under 18, I’ll arrest him for statutory rape. Understood?”

Thoroughly mortified and face burning bright red, Stiles nodded.

Dad downed the rest of his coffee, stood up, and said, ”Good talk, son. Dishes are on you.”

Stiles decided to crawl to bed and sleep until school started.

When he woke up, he had multiple texts from the pack members, including Derek, asking if he was okay. He wrote a group message to tell everyone he was fine, his dad was okay-ish, but he’d take a couple of days off from pack business to make sure his dad didn’t freak out on his own. It was a slight lie because he knew his dad wouldn’t have left him alone if he was freaking out, but Stiles wanted some time alone.

Dad’s comments about Derek bugged him more than he wanted to admit. Did dad really think Stiles treated Derek like a toy? Or, well, would treat in some imaginary world, considering there was nothing to be worried about.

Or was there?

Did Dad honestly think there was something more than Stiles’s unrequited one-sided crush?

His mind churning with too many conflicting thoughts, Stiles resorted to cooking. Or, well, he didn’t cook but tried out a smoothie recipe he had found online a while ago when he had been researching aphrodisiacs. It combined nuts and some superfood powders he had just happened to purchase and store at home because he didn’t want to leave any suspicious packages at Derek’s. Not because he was afraid Derek would use them, but because the undead sociopath that sometimes answered the name ’Peter’ would probably use them to some weird experiments Stiles didn’t want to know anything about.

He dug the blender out from one cabinet and checked it had all the parts needed. A couple of years ago, Stiles had gone on a milkshake rampage and, after three weeks of a diet that consisted mainly of chocolate and strawberry milkshakes on varying ranges, his dad had confiscated the machine and banned Stiles from using it. Now, it would become handy again.

He made a test batch and after adding a bit of vanilla and honey, he was pretty satisfied. If nothing else, he could make it at pack dinners and leave it in Derek’s fridge for the next morning. The alpha had an unhealthy love for protein shakes after his morning runs, and at least this smoothie would be a healthier alternative. 

Curious to see how much the taste changed with time, Stiles left the glass in the fridge with every intention to taste it before he went to bed. It was a good plan, except he totally forgot about it until the next morning when he walked into the kitchen and saw his dad drinking the smoothie with a strange expression on his face.

”No! Dad!” Stiles groaned. ”Dammit, that wasn’t meant for you.”

Dad frowned and looked at the glass. ”Why? What was it?” He smacked his lips together and made a face. ”It tastes weird…” He gave Stiles a sharp look. ”You didn’t put weed in this, did you?”

”What? First, where would I get weed because who the hell would be stupid enough to even try selling to me? And second, how do you know what weed tastes like?” Stiles asked, exasperated. ”No, it’s not a weed smoothie, as amazing as it sounds. It’s…” he sighed and raked a hand through his hair. ”It was a power smoothie,” he explained. ”Almonds and pumpkin seeds with ginseng and maca.”

”And banana,” Dad added, narrowing his eyes at the glass. ”Do I want to know why?”

”Umm… probably not?” Stiles hazarded, offering him a sheepish smile.

Dad pursed his lips, chugged down the rest of the smoothie with only a slight grimace, and rinsed the glass. Then he turned around, leaned on the counter, and crossed his arms across his chest.

”Is this about you cooking for the pack?” he asked quietly. 

Stiles shrugged, avoiding his dad’s eyes. ”Maybe,” he said.

”Huh,” Dad said and scrutinized his toes for a moment. ”You know, when Derek said you were responsible for the pack dinners, I first thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. He said that although he didn’t understand the weird banter about odd ingredients you have going on with Peter, he values your efforts a lot. He seems to think you as some kind of… a pack mom?”

”That’s Erica’s name for me,” Stiles corrected.

Dad rolled his eyes, exasperated. ”I don’t think it matters who initially named you, son. It was more than obvious Derek thinks the term as a praise,” he said. Then he cocked his head and gave Stiles a sly glance from the corner of his eye. ”Does this have anything to do with your close encounters with bananas or the oysters I saw in the trashcan weeks ago?”

”I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles said stiffly. ”And even if I knew, I wouldn’t admit anything. What are you talking about, anyway?”

”You know, I was young and on honeymoon with your mother once,” Dad said pointedly. 

”Eww, Dad, no!” Stiles protested. Knowing his parents had obviously had a sex life to produce him in the first place was bad enough — Stiles didn’t want to imagine his parents young and having steamy honeymoon sex. And now he desperately wanted to bleach his brain.

”All I want to say is this: there’s no scientific evidence of aphrodisiacs, but you can charm people with food. All you need is love, Stiles,” he said with a wink.

”No,” Stiles said flatly. 

”Love is in the air,” Dad hummed and patted Stiles on the shoulder as he left the kitchen.

”If you get any sudden moments of unexpected excitement, it’s all your own fault,” he called after his dad, just to get the last word.

”I’ve survived worse,” his dad called back before leaving for work, humming the theme from Married… With Children under his breath.

Stiles buried his face in his hands, wondering how this was his life.

After Derek’s pack had wiped the vampires out, the wayward supernatural beings deemed Beacon Hills was off-limits. Deaton returned from his holiday with a suspiciously glowing demeanor, and things slowly settled down. The pack was back to its regular lounging, training, bickering, and dining, which was surprisingly nice, considering they were a bunch of teenagers with a multitude of issues. 

Because everything else was kinda okay, Stiles made the mistake of thinking that things between him and Derek would be different. Or at least there would be a thing between him and Derek. After all, they had literally slept together and they’d both had an awkward talk with the Sheriff.

He was so wrong.

Derek was just as infuriating as ever, scowling his way through the days like he always did, and to Stiles’s untrained eye, he didn’t act any differently. Not for the first time, he wished he had a werewolf nose so that he could at least sniff Derek out. Asking others for help didn’t sound like a good plan because they would either mock him or bully Derek, and Stiles wasn’t amiable to either. He was fine with his ass being the pinnacle of a joke, but he didn’t want Derek to be included. First, Derek didn’t deserve it and second, combined with his particular brand of lack of humor, he’d end up with an aneurysm. Or at least heartburn.

However, since being a punchbag wasn’t listed as Stiles’s future career choice, he decided he wanted to learn some self-defense. In Stiles’s mind, letting him attend the pack training sessions was the reasonable way to go, because he had a habit of getting into trouble with and without the pack, and even though he was pretty good with his beloved aluminum baseball bat, it wasn’t exactly the most discreet or weapons. 

Derek, naturally, said no. 

The resulting screaming match had the pack vacating the premises with their proverbial tails between their legs, and even Peter muttered something unflattering under his breath and stomped into the second floor of the loft. It took Stiles some heavy negotiating and repeated threats to stop cooking for the pack before Derek relented. Stiles was allowed to train with the others once a week, and Derek took personally care of his training. Stiles was too happy to question the slightly constipated look on the alpha’s face.

In the morning after the first training day, Stiles thought it was probably good that Dad was in the know of the werewolves and Stiles’s new hobby. His whole body was one big, aching bruise, and despite Derek’s best attempts to catch him, he had repeatedly landed badly, which resulted in odd limping. The fact that, this time, he didn’t have to lie to his dad about his injuries, was one massive pro in the sea of cons.

Oddly enough, on the days Stiles wasn’t training, Derek didn’t even allow him to watch. It made no sense because he was physically able to shut up and he could totally learn from watching, couldn’t he? But no amount of begging or whining turned Derek’s head. When Stiles pestered him long enough, Derek managed to growl out that Stiles was a distraction. 

Stiles hit him in the head with a cherry tomato and burned his steak on purpose.

It was Isaac who finally revealed him what was really going on. The pack had been training in the preserve and after Isaac had landed badly on his hand and splintered it in five parts, Derek had sent him back to the loft.

”Well, at least you can go back tomorrow,” Stiles said, shifting to sit properly on the couch instead of sprawling upside down in a position he was told should be humanly impossible. ”Not that I’m bitter, but… I’m bitter.”

”It’s… complicated,” Isaac said carefully.

Stiles thumped his head back against the backrest and groaned. ”Well un-complicate it for me then! How can I be more of a distraction to you there than I usually am everywhere else?” he exclaimed. ”I’m sick and tired of being shut out all the time, dude.”

Isaac winced and chewed his lip. ”It’s not us you’re distracting,” he finally said. ”It’s Derek.”

Stiles blinked because, ”What?”

Isaac shrugged. ”He needs to lose to teach us how to win. He can’t lose in front of you.”

Stiles scrunched his nose. ”Why? It’s not like I’d joke about it — well, more than usual.”

”Uh… it’s not that,” Isaac mumbled and hesitated. 

”What he tries to say but, for reasons unbeknownst to me, cannot is that my emotionally constipated nephew is trying to prove himself to you,” Peter said from the stairs behind Stiles, startling the hell out of him. 

”Jesus fuck, wear a bell or something,” Stiles squeaked after he had collected himself from the floor. 

He turned to give a stink-eye at Isaac. The beta had surely known Peter was lurking behind Stiles and said nothing, the traitor. Isaac’s sheepish smile proved Stiles right. 

He decided to ignore him and turned to look at Peter instead. ”What do you mean ’prove himself to me?’”

Peter smirked and sauntered down the stairs to sit delicately on the armchair. ”Why do you think Derek never lets anyone else train with you?”

Stiles blinked. ”Because I’m a fragile human who breaks from a single punch?”

”Exactly.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what the hell Peter was talking about and failing spectacularly. ”You know, you are absolutely no help. Like, at all,” he said and stomped into the kitchen to make coffee.

”While you are in the kitchen, dear, make yourself useful and bring me a beer,” Peter called without bothering to get up.

Stiles gave him a calculating look. 

”Sure, honey,” he said to himself, fully knowing that Peter would hear him. 

He took a beer can from the fridge and shook it while filling the coffee pan to cover the sound, and took a great pleasure in the look on Peter’s face as he foamed himself with beer.

Sometimes being petty paid off.

The beginning of August cradled the town in a sweltering heat wave. The unrelenting sun heated up Derek’s building into sauna-level degrees by day and the walls stored heat long to the night. As a result, the pack was forced to relocate, and because Lydia had a pool, they practically moved in. Stiles never found out what her parents thought about the whole deal because they were never there. 

If Stiles had been feeling self-conscious about his looks before, he felt it even more now. Not only was he a skinny bag of pale skin and fragile bones, he also burned faster than should’ve been humanly possible. It meant that, in the end of the first day, he was a skinny bag of bright red skin and fragile bones, doomed to stay in the shadow, lathe himself with aloe cream and feel inferior in the middle of gorgeous, supernaturally beautiful people.

Also, he was feeling morose.

”Why are you pouting in the corner?” Lydia asked him one day, raising one, perfect eyebrow behind her huge sunglasses. 

”Because I’m trying to stave off skin cancer and blisters,” Stiles answered glumly.

She rolled her eyes. ”Don’t be stupid. I’m not going into the sun either, but I’m still not brooding like a kicked puppy,” she pointed out. ”Come on, I’ll teach you how to make cherry knots with your tongue.”

She didn’t wait for an answer but strutted into the open bar by the pool like the queen she was. 

Because of the heat, none of the pack had craved anything solid for days. They had lived mainly on cold drinks, chilled watermelon, and ice cream, but even Stiles, who usually loved fresh fruits, was finally craving something more. Perhaps they should order pizza later.

”Here,” Lydia said and handed him a cherry, jerking him from his pizza dreams. ”Make some use of that tongue of yours.”

Stiles stared at the cherry. ”You know, a year ago I would’ve creamed my pants just from hearing that,” he said. ”Now it’s just creepy.”

She didn’t bother answering, just popped a cherry in her mouth and a moment later presented Stiles with a knot on her tongue.

”Your turn,” she said.

After perhaps twenty-three cherries, at least ten swallowed stems, and no knot, Stiles gave up. ”I think I’ve sprained my tongue,” he complained.

”What are you doing?” Allison asked curiously from behind them, reaching for a fresh can of soda.

”We’re making cherry knots,” Lydia said. ”Or more like I’m making cherry knots, Stiles is whining.”

Because Stiles was mature and almost an adult, he blew a raspberry at her.

Allison wanted to try her luck, and after her, Erica, Isaac, and Scott wanted a go as well. Stiles watched with growing dismay as they succeeded — even Scott, who usually had the fine motor skills of a toddler, managed to tie a damn cherry knot.

Barely suppressing a growl, Stiles grabbed a handful of cherries and retreated into yet another corner to practice. 

He didn’t notice Derek walking over until he heard a huff of laughter.

”You’re doing it wrong,” Derek said. He was tanned, with his hair in disarray and chest hair curled after swimming loops around the pool. His swimming trunks clung to him, outlining everything in excruciating detail right in front of Stile’s face. Stiles was glad he was already burned because otherwise, he would’ve been flaming red.

”What?” Stiles croaked, dragging his eyes from the V of Derek’s hip bones to his eyes.

Derek raised a brow. ”The cherry knot,” he said. ”You’re doing it wrong.” 

He took a cherry from Stiles’s hand, put it in his mouth, and a moment later took a knot from between his lips. Stiles barely paid attention to his words, more intent on staring at Derek’s lips, red with cherry juice.

”You have to bend the stem in half and then knot it,” Derek explained. ”The trick is to grab and hold one end with your teeth and tighten it as you pull it out.”

Stiles stared open-mouthed at the knot on the palm of Derek’s hand. ”That’s not fair!” he whined. 

Derek frowned, confused. ”What’s not fair?”

”You!” Stiles said and flailed his hands. ”As if it wasn’t enough that I was totally in love with you already, and now you parade around with all your muscles and stubble and I just want to lick you. And you can tie cherry knots with your tongue, and it’s not fair! I’m just me, and— I can’t— I— oh God.” He flapped his hands over his mouth and stared wide-eyed at Derek.

Derek looked completely shell-shocked. ”You— what?”

Stiles suddenly realized two things. One, he had actually said all that out loud and two, he was in the company of werewolves. He swallowed and leaned slowly right to see behind Derek and, yep. The whole pack was staring back at him.

”Oh shit,” Stiles whispered. ”Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” he chanted under his breath, jumped up, and darted around Derek.

”Stiles—” Derek said, reaching half-heartedly after him, but Stiles evaded him easily, rabbiting inside like he was chased.

Fuck. 

He had never meant to blurt things out like that, but of course he had. If there was one thing Stiles could trust in his life, it was his mouth that took off and running without asking permission from his brain. Not that his brain was that good in rationality and reason either, but at least he could negotiate with it. Sometimes.

Oh shit. He had confessed his undying love for Derek in front of the whole pack. 

Fuck, what had he been thinking? Nothing, apparently, what with practically naked Derek right in front of him.

For a short moment, he considered giving in to the burning embarrassment and leaving, but since his Jeep had busted a radiator earlier that week, he didn’t have a car. Making a gigantic fool of himself or not, walking in the blistering heat didn’t sound that appealing. Instead, he gave in to the lures of proper AC and ran upstairs into the guest bedroom he had been using and fell face down on the bed.

It didn’t take long until he heard determined steps and then someone entered the room and sat beside him on the bed. He recognized the scent of Lydia’s hand cream and didn’t react when she started crafting her fingers through his hair.

”I’m an idiot,” he groaned.

”Yes, you are,” Lydia agreed and continued petting his hair.

”I’m such an idiot,” he repeated and sniffled into the pillow.

”If you’re getting snot on the pillow case, I’m charging you the dry cleaning bill,” Lydia said.

Stiles snorted a watery laugh and turned his head to look at her. 

She shook her head and sighed. ”You both are idiots: You drop the L-word bomb on him and then run away, and instead of coming after you, he growls the pack silent and takes off.”

Stiles felt his heart drop. ”I chased him away? Good job, Stiles, well done.”

Lydia cuffed him on the back of his head. ”No, you idiot,” she huffed. ”I think he ran off to ask your dad a permission for your hand.” She paused and frowned. ”Actually, I don’t think he even put clothes on.”

Stiles let out a strangled sound and buried his head back on the pillow.

Perhaps Stiles should’ve had a bit more faith in his friends and his pack. 

That was exactly what Scott said, a bit hurt when Stiles a couple of hours later finally crawled out from his self-appointed pillow fort of shame and faced the others. Well, others except for Derek who was still MIA, allegedly gone meeting Stiles’s dad. Wearing only his swimming trunks. 

Turned out that everyone, including Jackson, was happy for them. Apparently, both Stiles and Derek had been silently pining for each other for some time now, and since they’d been unable to use their words, the situation had been… taxing to the rest of the pack blessed with either common sense or werewolf nose. The others felt they had been subjected far too long to Stiles’s all-over-the-place hormones and, on top of that, Derek’s silent brooding had amped up to bazillion after the vampire attack. 

Also, Stiles realized that both Derek and Scott had withheld some vital information about Derek’s behavior after Stiles had been taken. According to the pack, Derek had gone almost feral and had single-handedly ripped the vampires to shreds while the others had been keeping watch. After that, he had concentrated on the unconscious and drained Stiles and had refused to let anyone else but Stiles’s dad approach.

In short: Derek’s wolf went full on protective mode when it came to Stiles. It also explained why Derek didn’t let anyone else touch Stiles during training.

”Just make sure you fuck all this pent-up sexual frustration out of your systems so that we all can return to the normal life,” Jackson said from his deck chair.

Stiles had every intention to do exactly that, and then some.

Derek was gone for so long that Stiles was seriously tempted to call his dad and order him to let Derek go or he’d never have red meat again. Then he started worrying that Derek had actually run away because why would he want to have anything to do with Stiles? He almost managed to work himself into a panic attack in the silence of his own head, before Scott’s trained eye saved him from embarrassing himself even more. He spent the following hours deeply in the age-old debate of Batman vs. Superman and didn’t even bother calling Scott out for keeping his mind occupied.

It was late when their alpha finally got back, all in one piece, and still wearing only his swim trunks. He walked into the pool area and flickered his eyes over everyone to make sure the pack was alright,  before smiling hesitantly at Stiles. 

”I— can I talk to you, Stiles?” he asked quietly.

Ignoring the catcalls from Erica and, shockingly, Allison, Stiles trailed after Derek. Derek was scowling as usual, but Stiles had learned to look behind the bushy eyebrows a long time ago and he knew it was merely a mask, something Derek put on to fool others about how painfully insecure he was about certain things.

When Stiles pulled the screen door closed behind him, Derek stopped, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. 

”Are you hungry?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded, so Stiles jerked his head to the direction of the showers. ”Go take a shower and put some clothes on. I’ll make us sandwiches.” He didn’t wait for an answer before marching into the Martin’s spacious kitchen and started putting together some heavy-duty sandwiches.

When Derek entered the kitchen, freshly showered and in clean clothes, Stiles was waiting for him at the table with a pile of sandwiches and two mugs of coffee. He seemed tense, but when he realized that the pool stereo was blasting the tackiest 80’s hits on full volume, his shoulders sagged. It wasn’t like they could keep things from the pack, but the music would still help them to keep their private discussion private.

Stiles pointed at the chair opposite him and took a gulp of coffee to relieve his nerves.

Derek sat down and started, a bit hesitant, ”So…”

”Did you actually go to see my dad?” Stiles blurted because he really wanted to know.

”Not at first,” Derek admitted a bit sheepishly. ”First, I just drove around for a while.” He fell silent for a moment before picking up the topmost sandwich. He made no attempt to eat it, though, just sat and stared at it, lost in his thoughts. 

Stiles stifled his urge to fidget, determined to give Derek the time he needed. 

Finally, Derek raised his head to look at Stiles, a slightly lost look in his eyes. ”Why?”

Stiles frowned, confused. ”Why what?”

”Why me?” Derek asked and continued slowly, searching for words. ”I’m… I’m not a good choice.”

Stiles wanted to call him an idiot, but his brain blessedly caught on before his mouth went off. Instead, he pressed his lips together in a tight line and chose his words with care. 

”We all make mistakes, Derek,” he said leaning forward and looking Derek in the eye. ”But we shouldn’t let our past define our future. You’re a good person and a good alpha. You screw up a lot, but that’s given — I mean, we all screw up. But you…” Stiles sighed and braced himself to reach out and grab Derek’s hand. ”You’ve lost your whole family except for a mentally unstable uncle that can’t either be trusted or be taken as a good role model. You’re trying your best, and that’s all you can do.

”If it made you feel better, I could write you an essay about what an exponentially disastrous choice I am, but…” He shrugged and grinned. ”I’m not going to do that because I guess you already know. Anyway, why don’t you let me decide whether you’re a good choice or not, okay? I should let you know that I make excellent choices.”

Derek was staring at him with something akin to pained fondness. ”But I smashed your face into the steering wheel!” 

Stiles shrugged. ”And I tried to frame you for murder, so we’re even.” He cocked his head and gave Derek an appraising look. ”I’m going to kiss you now, just so you know,” he announced. Ignoring Derek’s wide eyes, he stood up and walked around the table to Derek, cupped his face in his hands, and bent down to press their lips together.

It was… surprisingly anticlimactic, but given that Stiles’s experience on kissing so far was limited to his own hand, he wasn’t surprised. 

”This sucks,” Stiles announced.

Derek blinked, startled. ”I’m sorry—” he started, sounding apologetic.

Stiles shrugged and dove back in. ”Well, that means I just have to practice more, right?” he muttered against Derek’s lips, earning a soft huff.

The second kiss was better. Derek’s lips were soft and his stubble tickled, and when Derek’s lips parted under his, Stiles couldn’t help himself: he dipped his tongue in, just to get what all the fuss was about. It earned a small moan from Derek, which went straight to Stiles’s dick, and that? That was fucking awesome.

It was probably still too sloppy and uncoordinated, but Stiles hoped his enthusiasm earned him at least some points. 

A way too short moment later, Derek drew back a bit and pressed his face against Stiles’s stomach. He wrapped his arms around Stiles and drew him between his thighs. Bewildered, Stiles wasn’t sure what was happening, but he carded his fingers through Derek’s hair slowly.

Then Derek let out a long, shuddering breath and Stiles understood.

”Okay,” he whispered and leaned down to kiss the top of Derek’s head. ”Okay,” he repeated.

He closed his eyes and held on tighter, letting Derek slowly fall apart.

Sadly, there was no fucking. At. All.

After their first kiss in Lydia’s kitchen, Derek seemed to settle in the role of a perfect gentleman. Apart from some wolfy behavior — like nuzzling, keeping him close, and making sure Stiles got the best pieces of food — Derek kept his hands to himself, to Stiles’s everlasting disappointment.

In a way, Stiles got Derek, he really did. He knew that Kate had used Derek when he had been younger than Stiles, and Derek was terrified he was going to take advantage, which was why every time Stiles wanted to take things further, Derek stopped him. No amount of pleading, batting his eyelashes, or grinding down on the very obvious bulge in Derek’s jeans would sway him. At best, he would bodily move Stiles several feet from him. At worst, Derek would go for a walk, which was something Stiles had learned the hard way, pun totally intended.

But you couldn’t blame a guy for trying, could you? And Lord knew, Stiles tried.

”Stiles, stop,” Derek huffed out a frustrated breath one day when Stiles was sitting on his lap and attacking his mouth like a man starved. ”I’m six years older than you, and…” he paused to swallow, ”sex with a minor is a felony if there are three or more years between them,” he said. 

It sounded like a direct quote. ”Have you been talking to my dad lately?” Stiles asked flatly, drawing back a bit.

”One, your dad is the sheriff and two, he has wolfsbane bullets,” Derek reminded him. ”And even though the law only mentions a very vague definition of penetration in the ”sex” part, I’m not going to test my luck.”

Stiles thought for a moment. ”So… sitting back to back pretending to have phone sex should be fine?”

Needless to say that Derek didn’t buy that one. 

Seriously — Stiles was dating the hottest guy in California and he was going to die either of blue balls or chafe his dick away. 

And yet. 

Derek really was the sweetest guy Stiles had met. Their mighty alpha might be all scowls and growls on the outside, but he was a huge sap on the inside, willing to do his everything to make his pack feel safe and taken care of.

When Erica’s birthday rolled up in the middle of August, the pack decided to have a combined birthday party and an end-of-summer gathering. Stiles researched the internet for the best party recipes and was totally going to bake Erica the best birthday cake ever. However, when he asked Erica what flavors she wanted, she said, ”I don’t want a cake.”

”What? Dude, how can you not want a cake?” Stiles asked, horrified.

”Well, I don’t want a cake. I want a chocolate fountain.”

Stiles blinked and turned to look at Derek who raised a brow. ”Yes, you can have a chocolate fountain, but I’m not cleaning up after you,” he said not bothering to look up from his book.

Erica let out a delighted squeak and gave Derek a wet kiss on the cheek. Derek rolled his eyes, but it didn’t fool Stiles the slightest. He saw how Derek’s cheeks went a bit pink and his mouth turned into a small, pleased smile. 

Yeah. Sap.

The task of hunting down the fountain fell on Stiles, and armed with Derek’s credit card, he was having a hard time limiting himself to reasonably priced, simpler fountains. He totally wanted to order a giant, five-tiered fountain fit for hotels, but he suspected that Derek might have something to say about that. So he settled for a smaller machine, ordered several different chocolates, and started planning a shopping list based on what to dip.

Erica had said she didn’t want presents, but Stiles knew that at least Boyd and Derek had bought her something. He wasn’t sure what to get, but he figured that making the party the best birthday party she had ever had would most likely suffice. 

Which it did. 

Erica got all teary-eyed, gave Stiles a tight enough of a hug to make Derek growl, and whispered in his ear, ”This is the best ever, Batman. Thank you!”

Stiles agreed. In addition to everything else he had baked, he had bought massive bags of marshmallows and cut huge piles of fruit to dip in the chocolate. They started with white chocolate and ate their way into milk chocolate, trying out also weird combinations like Doritos, popcorn, sliced cucumber, and pizza, which made them gag.

As Stiles was filling the fountain for the third time, he paused to look how Allison fed Scott a chocolate dipped strawberry in a way that was bordering obscene. He sighed and shook his head — and stopped, narrowing his eyes at the molten chocolate.

”If I dipped my dick in there and asked Derek to lick it, do you think he’d do it?” he mused aloud.

Lydia looked pained. ”First, you will not dip your dick there or I’ll cut it off. Absolutely not. The pizza was bad enough. Second, what?”

”He refuses to do more than kiss,” Stiles whined. ”Which is awesome, I’m not complaining,” he hurried to add. ”Kissing Derek is awesome. But I want more.”

”So, he wants to take things slow,” Lydia said, sounding unconcerned. ”What’s the big deal?”

”Easy for you to say when you get laid on a regular basis,” Stiles hissed. ”He wants to wait until I’m eighteen!”

”Unfortunately, I can’t help you with that,” Lydia said with absolutely no compassion whatsoever. 

”You’re not helping, Lyds,” Stiles said. ”I want to have sex! Or if I can’t have sex, I want to have a chocolate dick to lick!”

Of course, that was the moment when there was a pause between songs, and the whole pack heard him loud and clear.

”What?” Scott and Isaac asked, horrified.

”I don’t know!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. ”I’m a sexually frustrated boy, I don’t have to make any sense!”

Lydia patted him on the head and exited the kitchen.

The evening ended somewhat awkwardly with Stiles making lame excuses and fleeing the loft. He was sure he was never going to live that one down. He went to bed feeling stupid and morose, and not even Scott’s texts about Peter teasing a spluttering and blushing Derek lifted his spirits. 

The next morning, when he woke up, it was to see his dad staring narrow-eyed at something on his nightstand. Stiles frowned and turned to look. 

It was a life-sized chocolate penis wrapped in cellophane. Tied on its base, was a pink balloon with a cheery text, You only needed to ask!

Stiles fervently wished Peter hadn’t used his own dick as a mold.

When the school started, everything was back to the plain and boring normal. Considering their spring semester had been filled with horror, terror, and death, the whole pack agreed that plain and boring was a good alternative. They formed a loose group at school and ignored every raised brow and incredulous stare thrown at their direction. Getting almost killed for several times helped to gain some perspective and learn some valuable lessons, like who your true allies were. Sure, Lydia was just as biting as always and Jackson was still an asshole, but they were pack. They looked after each other.

Of course, Stiles’s thing with Derek didn’t fit in the category of plain and boring. 

First, Stiles was actually getting some sexy action, even though that the steamiest part still happened  mostly with his right hand due to Derek continuing with his chivalrous act. But if Stiles was being honest, taking things slow wasn’t actually that bad. It was nice to snuggle close to Derek during pack meetings, share lazy kisses in between doing homework or watching a movie, or even fall asleep in his arms. They had even fallen asleep together on the couch and woken up a couple of hours later, covered in the cashmere blanket Lydia had given Derek as a house warming gift. Stiles knew Derek had saved the picture Erica had snapped of them on his phone.

Who would’ve guessed their broody alpha was a total cuddle monster? And no, Stiles wasn’t allowed to ever call him that in public. Ever.

Second, Stiles took great pleasure from bullying Derek into picking him up from school every now and then. As a former social outcast, he absolutely reveled in the thick air of jealousy when he walked out and saw Derek waiting for him, leaning on the Camaro with his shades on. Stiles could just don a shit-eating grin on and walk over to kiss him senseless.

Or, well, he could if Derek actually let him. For a guy with such a flashy car and good looks, Derek was surprisingly prim about PDA. Stiles was allowed one proper kiss (without tongue, what a shame!) and then Derek herded him in the car.

It still earned them a lot of whispers. Stiles could totally live with it. Besides, Derek always apologized with a thorough kiss later.

After the initial shock of finding out about the supernatural in Beacon Hills, Sheriff John Stilinski took things surprisingly well. Stiles guessed his dad had never really bought the stories about mountain lions anyway, but his rational mind had protested against more eccentric explanations. As far as Stiles guessed, it was probably a huge relief to finally have a thorough account of the odd events during the past year.

”You know, if you want peer support, you should call Melissa,” Stiles helpfully pointed out one day. ”You could have a long and profound bonding night over your idiot sons who got themselves involved in the were business.”

Dad gave him an unimpressed look over the old file he was reviewing. ”Stiles, if this is your way of setting me up with Scott’s mother, you surely have an odd way to do it.”

”No, Dad, please! I’m not—”

”Yes, yes, I know,” Dad interrupted and put the file on the table, stood up, and swiped Stiles in a long and tight hug. ”Never keep things like these from me again,” he whispered into Stiles’s neck. ”Ever. You hear me?”

”Yeah, I hear you,” Stiles mumbled. ”I love you, Dad.”

”I love you too, kid,” Dad said. 

Then he gave a couple of manly slaps on Stiles’s back, cleared his throat, and let Stiles go, concentrating on the old file again. Stiles didn’t bother mentioning he was holding it upside down.

What did surprise Stiles, however, was the fact how easily Dad adopted Derek. Or, more specifically, how easily Derek let John adopt himself.

At first, it was a hesitant and stiff ’Derek’ and ’sir,’ but it quite soon turned into ’son’ and ’John’  and, after the compulsory I-have-a-gun-and-I-know-how-to-use-it speech from Dad, they fell into an easy relationship. Derek started coming over more often just to ask advice about renovating the Hale house or dealing with some pack dynamic thing he needed an outsider opinion but didn’t want to concern Deaton with. Every now and then, Dad asked Derek’s opinion about some case he was working on, and he soon used him as an unofficial consultant on supernatural matters.

It was surprisingly domestic, and even though both Dad and Derek rolled their eyes when Stiles pointed it out, he knew they both enjoyed their talks. Derek had missed having a father-figure to talk to (Peter definitely didn’t count) and John was happy to have one member more in his little family.

Stiles was just glad that the two most important people in his life liked each other.

The pack dinners still took place on Fridays. They sometimes met during the week too, but since 98% of the pack attended high school, they needed to concentrate on their school work. Apart from Lydia and Stiles, they had some serious grade lifting ahead of them, but hopefully, they’d actually have the chance to do that instead of fight for their lives. 

Apart from occasional Halo night with Scott, Stiles usually spent his evenings with Derek either in the loft or at his house, doing homework or just lazying around. They often ordered pizza just to annoy Dad who had a habit of making pointed comments about meat lover’s pizza with extra cheese, even though Stiles had never denied his own hypocrisy. If his dad had clogging arteries and elevated cholesterol levels to look after, it didn’t mean Stiles and Derek couldn’t enjoy their pizzas, right?

Then again, Stiles understood how painfully normal this was for them all; Stiles having a boyfriend over and Dad calling ”Keep the door open, understand? I’m not above surprise checking in on you!” It was so different from the lying and sneaking around of the spring semester, let alone getting hunted and tortured to the inch of their lives. So Stiles rolled his eyes, yelled ”Yeah yeah,” at his dad, and snuggled close to Derek.

Normal was so cool.

One Saturday afternoon, they were lazying on Stiles’s bed while Dad was sleeping after his night shift. Stiles was absently watching Firefly reruns on Netflix and rubbing circles on the base of Derek’s neck with his other hand. Derek had his head on Stiles’s lap and a book in his hands, but he was practically purring with his eyes half closed. Stiles had learned early on that scalp massage was Derek’s kryptonite, and he unashamedly used the knowledge to his advantage in every turn he could.

”You want the last slice?” Stiles asked, nodding at the remaining pizza. 

Derek made a declining noise and shook his head. 

Stiles wasn’t really hungry anymore — he was actually a bit too full — but he ate the last slice anyway because you just didn’t waste food. Besides, he was too lazy to take it to the fridge downstairs. After he was done, he licked his fingers clean but stopped when Derek made an odd sound. Worried, he glanced at his lap and saw Derek red-eyed, staring at his fingers.

”What?” Stiles asked, popping his finger out of his mouth.

Derek swallowed as his eyes zeroed on said finger.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and slowly sucked another finger clean. He couldn’t believe it when Derek let out an almost subvocal growl.

”Stiles— you can’t—”

”What?” Stiles asked again and sucked two fingers into his mouth because he wasn’t above teasing.

”Jesus, your fingers,” Derek grated out, and before Stiles realized, he was pinned down by a very turned-on Derek.

”What? You mean these skinny guys?” Stiles asked innocently and wiggled his fingers. Derek nipped at one and nuzzled his face against Stiles’s palm.

”All this time, I tried to come up with aphrodisiacs that would turn you on,” Stiles mused, tracing his fingers lightly on Derek’s face. ”I had no idea you liked my fingers that much.”

Derek stopped the nuzzling and rubbing and lifted his head to look at Stiles. ”Aphrodisiacs? That’s what all that cooking was about?” he asked curiously. At least he wasn’t offended. Hopefully. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. ”Not all, dummy,” he said, a bit sheepish and reached up to poke a kiss on Derek’s nose to cover it up. ”I just thought that if I pumped you up on aphrodisiacs, you would, like, notice me?” 

”I noticed you a long time ago,” Derek said quietly.

”Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

Derek shrugged and buried his face in Stiles’s neck. He was kinda heavy and a lot suffocating, but Stiles didn’t even dream about asking him to move. Getting Derek on top of him like that was a rare treat and there was nothing on earth that would get him to move.

Except for his phone beeping a message.

”Mmrrgh,” Derek said eloquently on Stiles’s neck as he groped for his phone.

”It’s from Peter,” Stiles said with a frown. ”Why is your creepy uncle’s number on my phone?” he muttered as he clicked open a picture of two bottles side by side with a text ’Dry or Extra Dry?’

Derek turned his head to look and asked, confused, ”Why’s Peter sending you pictures of champagne?”

Stiles groaned and wondered if Derek would be okay with him strangling Peter the next time they met. 

After he’d given them the champagne, of course.