msdistress said: I saw that civilized werewolves being super competitive when it comes to other packs, and now I can only imagine an AU where (adult) Stiles and Scott are renting a house together, and Derek moves in the same area. And while the McCall pack and the entire Hale pack (Talia, Laura, etc.) are on civilized terms, Scott and Derek just can’t help themselves. And maybe a part of the showing off is actually a way to impress (court) Stiles, as in “My lawn ornaments are much nicer than his!”
So this is kind of that, but kind of not? This is pretty silly :) Happy Halloween!
“You’re not dead,” Stiles says as Scott bangs open the door and shucks off his shoes in the next movement. They hit the wall and then bounce into an ungainly pile in the middle of the hallway that Liam will no doubt trip over when he gets home.
“Nope,” Scott says. He looks confused by that part.
“So… That’s good?” Stiles has pumpkin guts all over his hands, but offers Scott a fist bump anyway.
Scott follows Stiles back into the kitchen and then plops down across from Stiles’s half-finished jack-o-lanterns at the counter. He’s a couple weeks early, but Halloween has to be taken seriously. These are practice pumpkins.
Scott says, “It was weird. I think they’re all models. They force-fed me pie.”
Stiles arches a skeptical eyebrow.
“I mean, the pie was great,” Scott says, face screwed up. “I think they were happy I ate the whole thing?”
Werewolf metabolism, Stiles thinks sourly. He’s getting to that age where he has to watch his beer and pizza intake. It sucks. He says, “I’ll make them brownies,” and then apparently it becomes a thing.
Stiles doesn’t know if the Hale pack are actually all models, but they’re definitely taking the supernaturally hot thing to a whole other level.
Scott’s betas are reasonably attractive, sure, but Liam’s the size of a cave troll and Mason’s on this whole hippie-chic kick that makes him look like a train hobo.
Stiles holds out the plate of brownies and tries not to stare at Erica’s boobs. Boyd has the bulging chest of a roman gladiator and Stiles could cut his hands on Isaac’s cheekbones, it’s insane.
Stiles says, “Nice to meet you guys,” and Erica’s lip curls up and her hands hover around the plastic-wrapped plate like it’s made of poison and-or possibly oatmeal. He waggles the plate back and forth. “Promise they’re wolfsbane free.”
And then Jackson fucking Whittmore comes swanning down the staircase and Stiles says, “You’ve got to be shitting me. Jackson?”
“Stilinski,” Jackson says with a scowl.
“Lydia told us you got eaten by a giant lizard.”
Jackson scowls harder. “Fuck off.”
Stiles would like to say that the addition of Jackson makes the pack less appealing, but despite having the personality of a canned ham, Jackson still looks like he was carved out of marble. Balls.
And then someone says, “Do I smell chocolate?” from behind Stiles and he definitely does not jump three feet into the air, but it’s a close call.
He flinches and spins around and says, “Fuck my life.”
The hottest mountain man Stiles has ever seen is frowning at him and Stiles wants to bury his entire body in his beard. He wants to weasel his way under that soft-looking Henley and lick his collarbones. Stiles is ninety-nine percent sure this is Alpha Derek Hale, even though Scott had failed to prepare him for the way Derek’s eyes are eating Stiles’s soul.
Stiles wordlessly holds out the plate of brownies.
Derek takes them with a resigned silence. No one else is saying anything either, and the back of Stiles’s neck is starting to prickle with unease. Are they going to eat him now? They’d moved into town so Liam and Mason could go to the local college, expecting some kind of resistance, territorial posturing, possible brawl for dominance, but Scott had been tirelessly optimistic—even more so since the pie eating thing.
Stiles slinks around Derek, hands up. He says, “I’ll just, uh… leave now,” and backs down the sidewalk so he can see any kind of attack coming. He’s got a taser in his back pocket and he’s not afraid to use it.
The Hale pack all watch him with narrow, calculating eyes and Jackson gives him the finger.
Stiles thinks that if this is the way they react to brownies, he’s going to bake them a motherfucking cake.