SIAND - PDF - Derek the Domestic Failwolf.pdf

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/3462413. Rating: Archive Warning: Category: Fandom: Relationship: Character: Additional Tags: Series: Stats:

Explicit No Archive Warnings Apply M/M Teen Wolf (TV) Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, plus some mentions of everyone else Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Derek, Omega Stiles, Domestic Fluff Part 4 of Thorns Published: 2015-03-01 Words: 9937

Derek the Domestic Failwolf by standinginanicedress Summary

Stiles got training to be an omega, and Derek got training to be an alpha. Hard edges, tough, sneering at the sheer thought of fucking knitting something while he beat people up for fun. That's how his parents raised him. And, yeah. That's all good for protecting Stiles and buying things for him, the stuff he's supposed to do. But sometimes he wants to be good at the other stuff. Stiles likes the other stuff – he deserves the other stuff. or 5+ times that Derek (thinks he) was a shitty alpha.

Notes

welcome to Domestic Fluff 101 I hope you enjoy your stay (and like I always say lmao just in CASE, this is a part of a series, and it CAN be stand alone, but I'd highly recommend reading the other parts first)

See the end of the work for more notes

Derek's mother forces him into having a “house-warming” party after he and Stiles get all settled into the new place. It's nice – hardwood floors, a decent kitchen, a medium sized living room, with all new appliances and a freshly renovated bathroom. Way nicer than anything he would've been able to afford without his parents' help, so he guesses he owes his meddling mother some stupid little party, at least, after every thing she's done for him. Stiles more or less takes over the reins of the entire affair. Derek had barely gotten the words out during pillow talk one night their third week of living together, before Stiles was pulling a notebook out from out of nowhere, clicking a pen, and making a list of things to get from the grocery store while muttering under his breath about chips and dip. When Derek tried to take the notebook out of his hands so they could fucking cuddle, Stiles thwapped him over the head with it and hissed something about this is important I'm making an impression your family! As if he hadn't already made about ten zillion impressions on his family? Like the time he babysat Derek's youngest two sisters while the rest of the pack was out and busy and he came back to the apartment smelling like cookie dough, covered in glitter with bright pink makeup drawn all over his cheeks. Or when Cora's dress ripped in the back at prom and Stiles pulled a fucking sewing kit out of his pocket and stitched it up before anyone even noticed. Or, perhaps most notably, when Derek's mother challenged Stiles to a "bake-off" to see who could make better brownies - Derek had unfairly wound up as the fucking judge of that competition, and he had to sit there at the kitchen table while Stiles and his mother stared down at him. Stiles looked at him like he'd pick the brownie up and stuff it down Derek's throat to choke him if he picked his mother's, and his mother looked at him like she'd take his credit card away if he said Stiles'. He chose Stiles' and bought his own gas for a week. The point is, Stiles has already made his place in the pack as Derek's mate, Cora's friend, the younger members' favorite babysitter, and the target for a constant stream of pats on the head and hugs. No one in his family dislikes Stiles or looks down on him - which, considering the backlash when Laura brought home her new boyfriend, is a hard feat to accomplish. Stiles is stamped and approved as not just Derek's omega, but the Hale Pack's omega. All the same, Stiles devotes so much attention to this idiotic party that Derek finds himself saying "you are taking this way too seriously" several times - like when he comes home to find Stiles crafting at the coffee table in the living room with a fucking glue stick and construction paper, making invitations even though a simple phone call would've sufficed. He spends the entire Saturday before the party with Derek's credit card buying all the food, carting it all inside with arms full with eight bags each while Derek hollers why didn't you ask me to help you!? at him. If Derek had a dime for every time Stiles did something idiotic, like walk up six flights of stairs with sixteen fully loaded grocery bags that Derek could've very easily helped him with for example, just to show everyone that he's not just some hopeless omega, he'd be a very, very, wealthy man. The day of the party, while Derek is off picking up the handful of things Stiles forgot to get

himself, Stiles cleans. Holy shit, does he fucking clean. Derek comes home after noon to shining floors, fluffed pillows, take your fucking shoes off at the door do not track mud in I swear to god, and a dull smell of werewolf friendly cleaning supplies. Then, it's the cooking and the slicing and Derek being shooed out of the kitchen, and Derek starts to wonder if he's having some kind of hyperactive, like, episode or something, the way he flits all around and gets every thing done in record time. Derek's entire family shows up and crams into the apartment, yelling and fighting and bickering, play-wrestling on the ground, making a complete mess of every thing Stiles had spent so long cleaning up. Derek's mother compliments Derek on the way the furniture is set up in the place, and Cora says she likes the 'color-scheme', and both times Derek flits his eyes over to glance at Stiles with a response of compliment him. Stiles' father comes, too, and it's interesting to see him stoically and quietly eating and making the occasional comment to Derek's father, while around him is absolute and utter chaos (at one point, Laura and Cora start screaming at one another over the Sheriff's head in a near fight to the death over who gets the last pig in a blanket, and the Sheriff just sits there and eats his potato salad like nothing's happening.) He wonders how a man like that wound up raising a kid as rambunctious as Stiles, honestly. That must be more of Stiles' mother's doing than anything else. It's a sobering thought. Sometimes when Derek thinks about Stiles' mother, he has to take a second and just stare at Stiles, tracing over the lines and angles of him that must've come from the woman that Derek will never be able to meet. It makes him sad, and it makes him angry, because Stiles talks about her in such high regard, like she was his entire world for the short time he got to have with her – and he knows that probably the one thing he'd want more than anything else on the face of the earth is to have her back again, and that's the one thing that Derek can't give him. It keeps him awake at night, sometimes. Stiles spends the vast majority of the party refilling the chip bowls whenever they run low, or getting someone another drink from the kitchen, or checking on the meat in the oven again and again to make sure it's cooking just right, cleaning up soda spills and keeping the kids from coloring on the white walls with crayons, while Derek...spends the vast majority of the party accidentally getting way too fucking drunk off of his father's home-made wolf's brew. It's bad. It's really bad. As it's happening, he keeps thinking I should not be getting this fucking drunk – and yet... After everyone leaves, Derek throws up all over the floor. He laughs about it for a solid two minutes while Stiles tries to rear him off to the bathroom; somewhere along the way, he pukes again. By the time Stiles actually has him propped up in front of the toilet, he doesn't have anything left inside of him to throw up. Stiles sits on the edge of the tub, scratching at Derek's hair and feeding him water, until the alpha passes out with his head propped up on a towel for a pillow, since Stiles couldn't ever dream of being able to lift him into his own bed. When he wakes up, albeit incredibly sore from having slept inside the tub, the apartment is entirely spotless again, like the night before hadn't happened at all. There's no more puke on the floor, which means Stiles literally cleaned up Derek's vomit, which is way too humiliating and

disgusting for Derek to even fathom, so he tries not to think on that too hard. There's no more puddles of wolf's brew, no more chip crumbs in the cushions of the couch, no more empty juice boxes lying crumpled on the ground, no more dishes in the sink. Stiles had to go in for school at seven o'clock this morning, Derek thinks – and if he remembers correctly, the last of his family members didn't wind up leaving until around midnight. Meaning that Stiles somehow, someway, in six hours or less, deep cleaned the entire apartment, babied Derek through his puke fest, showered and cleaned himself up, did last minute homework at the kitchen table with a pop tart, and drove himself off to school. Derek isn't sure where sleep fit into that entire scenario. If he knows Stiles as well as he thinks he does, sleep had absolutely no place in Stiles' night. What all this boils down to is – Stiles spent an entire two days doing nothing but doting on Derek and Derek's entire family, hand and fucking foot, and Derek essentially repaid him by puking all over the floor and making a drunken ass of himself. He has a very dim memory of grabbing a bottle of shampoo and squirting it all over Stiles' clothes while saying car wash, car wash, car wash again and again for no apparent reason. Wolf's brew really fucks with him, all right? The worst part of it all is that Stiles isn't going to complain about it. He didn't complain once during the entire night. He's not going to complain after the fact, either. He'd do it all again, Derek is positive of that, and it...pisses him off that Stiles can be so unerringly selfless, willing to devote all his time on other people without giving a shit if it means sacrificing sleep or his own fun, while Derek is a piece of trash that capitalizes on that and pukes on the ground because he knows Stiles will fucking clean it up. Case and point – Derek is shit. He's a piece of shit on the side of the road, and he owes Stiles. Big time. ---Stiles jingles into the apartment the way he always does, calling alpha? I'm home! before dropping his backpack down onto the ground beside the front door, hanging his keys on their designated hook, untying his shoes and tossing them messily into the closet alongside where Derek's are lined up neatly in a row. “Derek? Are you here?” He pads into the living room in his socked feet, slides to a stop when he sees Derek sitting on the couch, waiting for him with a book in his hands. “Hey, Moon King.” Derek knits his eyebrows together in question. “Moon King?” “Yeah,” Stiles laughs, crinkling his eyes. “Last night, you basically commanded me to only address you as Moon King.”

The alpha runs his hand across his face; of fucking course he did. “I was...not myself last night.” “Yeah...you kept humming the Star Wars theme and asking me if you were turning me on.” Derek throws the book down onto the coffee table, and raises his eyes to the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? I don't want to know what else I did or said. Let me rest in blissful ignorance.” Stiles looks like he's about to mention whatever other horrible thing Derek did last night, about to go on an entire tirade, pull out a powerpoint presentation with pictures and bulletpoints, so he jumps up onto his feet, and cocks his head in the direction of the kitchen before the omega can even open his mouth. “C'mon. I have something for you.” He makes a curious noise in the back of his throat as he trots behind Derek. “For me?” Derek pushes the swinging door to the kitchen open a little nervously, and Stiles follows him inside, padding onto the tile, before stopping short with a gasp, his senses finally catching up with him. “You cooked!” He accuses, and Derek sighs. “Yeah...” He did as a matter of fact fucking cook. He spent hours, literally, hours, from the time he scattered out of the bath tub feeling sorry for himself, up until twenty minutes before Stiles got home, attempting to cook. He slaved over the cookbooks Stiles brought with him from home, frowning and pulling his hair out and cleaning out the entire fridge trying to make something; all with a fucking raging hangover. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. That's what he came up with. Stiles likes that – he used the recipe from the oldest book of the bunch, with the swirly cursive writing of a woman in the margins, editing the recipes to her own liking. “Oh, my God!” He leaps around Derek's huge frame and skitters to get a look at the mess Derek made of the kitchen, at the finished food still steaming on plates on the kitchen table, and then whirls back around to face him. “For me?” He says it again, incredulous. “For who else, Stiles?” Derek reaches forward and pulls on Stiles' arm, tugging him to sit down in his usual spot at the table. “Maybe for your other mate – Danielle.” Derek and Stiles have a long running joke (or really, Stiles has a long running joke that he cracks whenever he gets the opportunity while Derek sighs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling) about Derek having “another mate” somewhere, named Danielle. She and Derek apparently get into a lot of shenanigans. Derek smirks at him as he sits down. “Shh. Just eat.” The moment of truth, Derek thinks, staring down at his own plate. He knows he burned the meatloaf; it's obvious. It's charred and blackened and crispy – three things meatloaf is positively not supposed to be. And he knows that the potatoes came out more soupy than they did thick and sticky and smooth, like Stiles can make, but he thought, you know; maybe it looks bad but it'll taste good. There's all kinds of food like that, right?

It is not good. It is almost inedible. The meatloaf is dry and tastes as burnt as it looks, and the potatoes are too salty and runny with huge lumps of potato lurking around in the depths; probably the only thing Derek managed to get somewhat right were the beans, which came out of a frozen bag in the freezer anyway. There wasn't any room for him to mess those up. Derek takes one bite of each and puts his fork down, disgusted, disappointed, and annoyed. He worked all day on this, and for what? He's dubbing it a failure in his own head, an apology forming on his lips, when he looks up at Stiles across the table. He's already eaten half of his meatloaf. He's eaten half of the completely inedible garbage, and is shoveling up the mashed potatoes with a spoon, happily. Stiles looks up and meets Derek eyes, smiles at him, and says, “it's good!” The lie is there. The heartbeat skips, subtly, like he's trying to cover it up; but the thing about being together for as long as these two have, is that they've both learned how to recognize a lie in the other, no matter how hard they work to make it sound like the truth. This time, however, the lie almost passes over Derek's head, almost drowned out by how happy Stiles is. Happy to be sitting there eating the world's worst food. Derek has half a mind to reach across the table and rip the plate out from under him to end his suffering, but Stiles just keeps eating. Once he's literally cleaned the entire plate, he points his fork at Derek's, where only a few minuscule bites have been taken, and says, “are you gonna eat that?” Derek drops his jaw, glares down at his plate, and narrows his eyes. “You don't have to-” The omega takes the plate before he can finish. He plops it down in front of him and digs in without hesitating; shoveling the charred meatloaf covered in runny over-seasoned potatoes into his mouth, pretending like it's good, all for Derek's benefit. This is not how this was supposed to go, dammit. Stiles isn't supposed to be sitting there eating the worst meal ever created just to make Derek feel good about himself – he's supposed to be eating the best meal ever created because he deserves it. When he's finished, the second plate completely cleaned off, he pats his stomach, leaning back in his chair. “Mm. That was so good, Derek.” Another lie, and Derek is too flabbergasted to call him out on it. He just sits there in his chair, hands resting on the placemat that Stiles hand-knit for him out of yarn from his favorite color, thinks about the pillowcase Stiles sewed together in Home Ec class for him, the dinner Stiles cooks him every night and the lunches Stiles packs him, and every single one of those things is fucking perfectly done; and Derek knows it's partly because that's just the training Stiles got as an omega, it's how his parents raised him to be, and Derek got training to be an alpha. Hard edges, tough, sneering at the sheer thought of fucking knitting something while he beat people up for fun. That's how his parents raised him. And, yeah. That's all good for protecting Stiles and buying things for him, the stuff he's supposed to do.

But sometimes he wants to be good at the other stuff. Stiles likes the other stuff – he deserves the other stuff. When he snaps out of his reverie, Stiles has both plates in his hands, and is leaning over Derek to pick up his discarded silverware. As he leans over, he pecks Derek's cheek with his lips, and says, “I loved it.” Derek blinks, head inadvertently turning to follow Stiles' lips as they pull away, and watches as Stiles dumps all the dishes into the sink, rolls up the sleeves of his flannel. Turns on the god damn sink, picks up the sponge, and starts cleaning. “You don't have to do that,” he says, standing from his chair to move over and stop Stiles. “I'm the one who-” “Nope,” Stiles says easily, scrubbing the blackened remains of terrible meatloaf off of a plate, “the person who cooks doesn't have to clean. Rules are rules.” Derek glowers. Every time Stiles cooks (every single night) he either does the dishes himself or Derek helps; it's never just Derek doing the dishes, and Stiles never complains or even mentions it. He's smiling now, even, even though he has to remember that he's been the cook and the washer for pretty much his entire life, since his mother passed. “But I-” “Rules are rules,” Stiles says more forcefully, narrowing his eyes as he drops the plate down into the drying rack. “Get out of here, go study for your test. It's in two days, right?” Most of the time, Derek can hardly remember what time Stiles normally gets home from school on certain days – yet Stiles has Derek's entire fucking schedule memorized and remembers when all his tests are. “Yeah, but I can still-” “Go study.” Derek hovers in the kitchen doorway for a second, watching as Stiles cleans up Derek's mess from his terrible dinner. He's probably going to put all the leftovers in ziplock containers inside the fridge and take them along to school for his lunch; he'd suffer that fucking horror for a second time around, no questions asked, so Derek can feel like he did something good. Even though he very clearly didn't. He made shitty food and is going to slink off to his bedroom while Stiles cleans every thing up. Stiles doesn't smell upset or disappointed; he's still happy, he still has a small smile playing on his lips, but Derek knows. He fucking knows. Attempt number one : failed. ----

Stiles comes home from school on the following Wednesday, drops his backpack onto the ground, keys on the hook, shoes strewn into the closet, and slides into the living room on his socks, like always. Derek looks up from his classwork, smiles at him, and says, “I have something for you.” The omega grins at him. “Another something?” Derek stands from the couch and drops his textbooks down onto the coffee table, cocking his head in the direction of the bathroom where he can still hear the water running faintly in the distance. “How did the test go?” “Fine,” Derek says back; when in reality, he did fucking amazing, and the only reason is because Stiles helped him study and made flashcards with him. He takes Stiles by the hand and pulls him off to the waiting bathroom door, smirking. This, he thinks. This was easy. There's no possible way he could've messed this shit up. He'd have to be a complete fucking idiot, an absolute simpleton, to mess up a bubble bath. Dump the bottles into the tub, turn the water on, what could possibly go wrong? The second the he opens up the door, Stiles starts laughing hysterically. “Oh my God,” he chokes out between guffaws, “how much did you put in the water!?” Derek, incredulous, shocked out of his mind, stands there staring at the mountain of bubbles rising from the tub, almost touching the ceiling; it spills out of the tub down onto the tiled floors in blobs, coming straight for their feet and ankles like a sentient being, bobbing and flowing along on the ground. It's everywhere. On the ceiling, on the mirror, curling around the bottom of the toilet, floating as singular bubbles up in the air, poking at Stiles' socked feet. “Um...three bottles?” Stiles screams out a laugh, leaning down to put his hands on his knees, shaking his head back and forth; tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Derek frowns as he stares out at the monster; no one has ever been this fucking stupid, he thinks. No one is as stupid as Derek is. “I just wanted to make sure there'd be enough,” he says glumly. When he looks back at his omega, he's peeling his socks off and tossing them down the hallway, still laughing. Then his over shirt and his undershirt. Then his pants. “Come on,” he says to Derek as he peels off his boxers to stand completely naked, “clothes off, let's go!” Stiles literally slides across the tiled floors on his knees, giggling maniacally as he disappears into a tuft of bubbles, leaving behind a Stiles-shaped imprint in the mountain before it gets filled in by more bubbles. The alpha stands there for a second, watching with narrowed eyes and an annoyed sigh. He got himself into this fucking mess. He made his damn bed – he made his damn bath. So he might as well fucking lie in it, since Stiles is having so much fun with Derek's colossal failure. He just

wanted to do something nice and relaxing for his omega, something just for him; he was going to, like, light candles or some shit and play Michael Buble' and leave Stiles alone to just soak in the bubbles for as long as he wanted. Now, look at him. Sliding naked on slippery, bubble coated floors as he kicks and punches fluffy white mounds out of his way to get to where his mate is trying to climb into the bath tub. Derek picks him up by his slim hips and dumps him down into the steaming water – and Stiles laughs even harder. He disappears into the white cloud, vanishing entirely in a sea of bubbles, and apparently finds it hilarious. “Come in!” He starts chanting it; as if Derek has a fucking choice. He sighs, again, raises his eyes to the bubble coated ceiling, and climbs inside the water to plop himself down facing Stiles. The second his body is entirely in the water, Stiles is pawing through the layer of bubbles separating them until there's a window where they can see each other's faces. It's ridiculous. Stiles has bubbles on the tip of his nose, wrapped around his chin, sticking inside of his hair, and Derek is sure he looks more or less the fucking same, and they're literally sitting within a bubble mountain in a bath tub like they're six years old. Stiles leans forward and kisses him, hot and desperately, before pulling off with a smug smile. “Have you never taken a bath before, Derek? You're only supposed to use, like, three squirts of this stuff.” “Believe it or not,” Derek says back, turning the water off to cut off the supply of new bubbles, “I haven't had a bubble bath since I was eight years old.” “Right,” Stiles kisses him again through the bubble window, hand suddenly poking at Derek's thigh underneath the hot water. “Because you're a big strong alpha who doesn't do fun things like bubble baths.” Stiles says it with a smile and tilt of his head, like he finds it sexy and endearing, fingers tickling the underside of Derek's balls teasingly to harden him up for whatever Stiles has got planned in his sex-obsessed head (like Derek is any better off on that front), and for a second, maybe Derek thinks the way that he is isn't so bad for Stiles, after all. If Stiles likes it, enough that he's able to be in the mood for sex after Derek just completely fucked up the easiest thing on the face of the planet, covered in bubbles and a mess waiting to be cleaned up...then what's the big deal? “I'd do things like this, for you,” he says earnestly, chubbing up from the bare amount of stimulation Stiles is giving him underneath the water. “Because – I love you.” The omega pushes more of the bubble wall aside, to slide his body even closer to Derek's, until he's climbing up into Derek's lap, wrapping on arm around his neck while the other hand works its fingers over Derek's cock, slowly and methodically. “You know that, right?” Derek breathes out, searching Stiles' face now that it's this close. His

amber eyes look fucking beautiful framed by the white of the bubbles, and for a second, all Derek can think about is, bizarrely, marrying Stiles, like the humans do. Werewolves don't get married, though. They do something different. Much different. “Of course I know that, sourwolf,” Stiles smiles back into his face and raises his chin in the air, the way he always does when he's about say something really... “do you think bubbles make good lube?”...filthy. Derek chokes out a laugh in spite of himself. “I highly doubt that-” Too late. Stiles is already spinning around in Derek's lap so his back is up against Derek's chest, already wrapping his hand around the tip of his alpha's dick, lining it up with his entrance. “Fucking hell, Stiles,” he grabs onto his hips and helps him steady himself, “I don't think this is such a good-” “I want you to bubble-fuck me,” he says with a lilting laugh, like he knows how fucking ridiculous it is, but is turned on by it shamelessly. “Do you not want to?” Since Derek would have to be psychotic to ever not want to have sex with his mate, he shakes his head and takes his dick out of Stiles' fingers underneath the water, pushing it gently against Stiles' hole, slowly and gently pressing the head in. Bubbles and water don't make great lube, and Stiles is too fucking tight, way too tight, but he keeps saying come on, come on, in panting breaths in front of Derek, so Derek pushes deeper in, slow and steady. Stiles braces himself with a hand on the edge of the tub; or, he tries to. His fingers keep slipping in the bubbles, and the other hand he's trying to prop himself up against the wall with is useless as well. As soon as Derek bottoms out, he sits there for a moment, letting Stiles stretch over his dick and get comfortable before he starts fucking him. He presses his lips to the back of his omega's neck, tonguing at the teeth marks indented into his skin from the last time they had sex the night before. “You know I'd do anything for you. You realize that, right?” Derek asks him, gently nudging himself in and out with an accompaniment of Stiles' breath catching. “I just want you to know – I, I...appreciate every thing you do,” a second thrust, and then a third both as slow as the first, while Stiles whimpers with hands scrabbling along the walls. “You say the word, and I do it for you. Understand?” “Mmmhmm,” Stiles manages to squeak out; before he looks over his shoulder, directly into Derek's eyes, and says, “now, I want you to fuck me.” Derek's brain goes moosh the way it does every time Stiles says something like that, and the alpha wonders if his omega has any fucking clue, any idea whatsoever, exactly how much power Stiles really has over him. For Christ's sake, they're having tub sex in a sea of bubbles all

because of Stiles – he has to fucking know that he's the one who's got Derek completely wrapped around his finger, and not the other way around. He fucking has to be able to see that. He surges forwards, pushing Stiles down onto his hands and knees in the water with a sploosh. He has to punch away a wall of bubbles, and Stiles laughs as he rocks himself back onto Derek's cock. “I think I like bubble sex,” he says around another laugh, “it's funny.” “Yeah?” Derek grabs onto Stiles' hips – there's not a lot of extra room in the tub, and he wants to make sure Stiles isn't going to slam his little head into the tiled wall – so he holds him down steadily with his fingers, before absolutely and positively letting loose. Fucking him as deep and as hard as he dares in the situation, and apparently it's more than enough for Stiles, judging by the wanton moans and whimpers he makes underneath his alpha. He leans forward as much as he can, still holding Stiles steadily down in place as he moves mercilessly inside of him, and says, “is this funny?” Stiles makes a sound like mmmff and shakes his head back and forth again and again as he dips forwards until his face winds up buried into a tuft of bubbles underneath him. The water splashes around them as Derek moves, and bubbles rise into the air from Stiles breathing heavily down into them, and it's probably the fucking weirdest sex they've ever had (including the time Stiles sucked his dick in the bathroom of the movie theater after they got bored during the show – maybe that wasn't his proudest moment.) Taking the initiative, Derek curls his fingers down into the water and paws for Stiles' dick – he manages to get three good pumps in before Stiles comes in the water with a choking noise. He stays put exactly where he is as Derek finishes himself off, coming inside of his omega and relishing the way it feels to lay claim on him, like this; to literally fill his mate with himself. He told Stiles this once, and Stiles crinkled his nose up and said, “that's fucking gross,” with a laugh. Gross, it may be – Derek fucking loves it. When Derek pulls out, Stiles falls face forward into the water, floating there for a second before flipping over onto his back, blinking up at the bubble ceiling. “So,” he begins, clearing his throat, “we're sitting in my watered down come right now.” “Christ,” Derek rolls his eyes. “Just an observation.” He pauses. “Another observation is that bubble sex is amazing.” Attempt number two : failed – but...bubble sex was amazing. ---“Honey,” she gives him an apologetic once over, before flicking her eyes back down to his driver's license – with the huge blue letters reading status : omega right underneath his name. “You know I can't sign you up. Not without your alpha.”

Stiles sighs through his nose, taps two fingers on the top of the desk. “He goes to his own school, though.” An actual University, which Stiles isn't even allowed to set foot inside of. “He can't just – follow me around all day to come with me to classes.” The woman behind the admissions desk does look genuinely sorry for him; and not just in an aw, you poor, poor little omega way that everyone always looks at him whenever he encounters the obstacles and unfairness of being what he is, but in an actual, honest-to-god sorry way. “Rules are rules. No omegas are allowed to register for classes without an alpha to escort them.” “But, I thought if I got his signature, then-” “It's a no, honey.” She slides his paperwork and license back across the desk to him, frowning. “Maybe ask him to tag along with you to class in the summer, when he has the spare time?” Stiles knows she's just trying to be helpful; and she's been a lot more helpful than anyone else he's tried to talk to about getting himself a higher education, but asking Derek to fucking “escort” him to his classes like some kind of baby who needs to have his hand held just isn't an option for him. Derek would jump at the chance to do it, of course, and that makes it a thousand times more embarrassing to him. He's an eighteen year old legal adult, almost nineteen. He should be able to at least register for a god damn college class or two at the community college. At least. Allison and Scott are both going to the same school as Derek, so they'll still be around, and he'll still have friends, and he'll still have Derek – but he'll be doing...nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing with his life, while everyone around him is off getting educations or going off to Europe or Asia, working on starting up their own businesses, joining the family business, while he – what? Works as a bag boy at the real food store because it's one of the only places that will actually hire omegas. Because, as it turns out, colleges aren't the only places that discriminate against his kind! Gee whiz, who'd have thought! They get away with it because they write omegas off as a liability for their reputations. Omegas are more likely to be assaulted, attacked, involved in lawsuits, and so on and so forth. Most places don't want to have to deal with that type of shit, which Stiles guesses is understandable. What's not understandable is how he's fucking blamed for the fact that some alphas are animals who can't control themselves around the scent of an omega. If Derek and Scott and most (but not all) of the alphas he went to high school with managed to never physically attack him during the four years he spent with them, then it's obviously possible. They just don't want to do it. None of them are ever held accountable for their actions, and as a result, all his opportunities are taken away from him. Unfair. Un-fucking-fair.

When he gets back home, Derek is camped out at the kitchen table with a book and a plate of the leftovers Stiles made for dinner last night. He looks up when Stiles comes in, beams, and says, “how'd it go?” Stiles had a speech planned, one that he rehearsed a few times over in his head on the drive back home. He was going to say I didn't like the way the place looked or they were all rude to me and I didn't want to go there anymore or I don't really want to go to college anyways, heartbeat carefully controlled to the best of his ability, and then go to bed early citing something about a headache. Instead, he manages to only get half a word out before he's crying. Derek slams his book down on the table and is right in front of Stiles in an instant, putting one of his big hands on his shoulder and the other underneath his chin, tilting the omega's head up to look at him. “What happened? Did someone-" “No, it's just -” he sniffles, swiping at the idiotic tears with his arm lengthwise. “...they wouldn't let me.” Derek blinks at him, cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?” Of course he wouldn't understand. For as much as alphas and betas hear about how different omegas get treated from them, it mostly just goes straight over all their heads. They hardly ever have to actually experience or see it, since there are so few omegas around these days, and as a result, none of them even notice it anymore when it happens. Stiles looks pointedly away from Derek's face, focusing on a spot on the wall instead. “...because I'm an omega. I'm not allowed to go to classes without my alpha.” Just as Stiles expected he would, Derek knits his eyebrows together and looks even more confused. “Then what's the problem? You know I wouldn't mind-” “No,” Stiles snarls, pushing Derek's hand off of his chin so can he can cross his arms over his own chest and stare downwards at the floor. “I won't do that.” Derek sighs above him, and Stiles feels his breath tickling against the hairs on top of his head. “Stiles. You know it's great that you're so independent and – outspoken. But, sometimes, it's best for you to just...follow the rules, every once in a while. Not because they're right, but because if you don't, you'll miss out. Right?” Stiles thickens his resolve, tightening his jaw. “You can't take me to all my classes, Derek. You don't have the time.” There's a beat of silence, in which Stiles knows that Derek is realizing the truth behind Stiles' point. Derek is taking five classes this coming semester; he doesn't have the time to take Stiles to even a single class in between his own classes and study time.

“I just can't go. Whatever. It's not a big deal.” He just might be doomed to a life as a houseomega. Stiles knows that Derek would be satisfied if all Stiles did all day long was clean, cook, and be available for copious amounts of sex whenever they're both in the mood. He also knows Derek would be satisfied if Stiles did nothing but sit on the couch watching Say Yes to the Dress (his guilty pleasure show that Derek despises) eating bon-bons and packaged cotton candy. Pretty much anything Stiles could do, Derek is into. But, all the same – Stiles wouldn't be satisfied. He wants to be productive and do things for himself and be his own fucking person. He wants to get an education and an actual job and not just wait around for when Derek feels like starting up a family. That's not who he is. He has his own job and makes his own money (however little he makes – omegas only get 8.75 minimum wage, while betas and alphas make 9), but it's just not enough for him. A lot of other omegas just accept their fates and churn kids out like it's their entire job. It's the norm. Stiles wouldn't be surprised if he were the first omega to try and sign up for classes at the community college in years. “It's important to you.” Derek affirms this in a no-nonsense tone of voice, keeping his hand firmly on his omega's shoulder. Stiles shrugs, sniffling once more. There are a few seconds of prolonged silence, and Stiles is already mapping out what he's going to make for dinner tonight, thinking how much laundry he has to do, mentally counting how many hours of sleep he'll get before work in the morning if he stays up late watching the Law and Order marathon on tonight – and then Derek speaks once more. “I have an idea.” Five minutes later finds them sitting in front of Derek's laptop, and Derek opens up an application for an online university. “They still ask you,” Stiles points to the section marked status right beside where Stiles is asked to write his name; there's not even an option for omega. It's just Alpha, Beta, and Human. “They won't know, though,” Derek says, checking the box marked beta. Stiles gasps, pushing Derek's hand away from the touchpad on his laptop, like he's scandalized. “You can't do that, Derek!” “Why not?” He demands, a smile playing on his lips. “You think they're going to come and investigate you, make sure you're not really a no-good omega trying to swindle an education out of them?” “Yes!” Derek snorts, rolling his eyes. “They're never going to find out, Stiles. Just fill the rest of it out -”

“They will find out,” Stiles affirms, nervously chewing on his thumb nail, jiggling his leg up and down – growing up the son of the Sheriff makes a kid particularly frightened of consequences. “I'll get in trouble; they'll put me in one of those omega jails!” Solitary confinement, all the way around. "Remember when you wanted a fake ID? You weren't so concerned about jail time or your father ripping me a new asshole back then." Stiles glowers at him, not amused in the slightest. “All right,” Derek sighs, “so, what if they do? I'll just tell them it's all my fault. That I forced you to do it with my alpha influence over you, or something, and I'll be the one who gets in trouble for coercing you into nefarious activities. Right?” Stiles stares at him with huge brown eyes, eyes flicking in-between the laptop screen and his alpha's face; his mind is already made up, he knows. The particular school Derek chose is one of the best places to receive a degree online that Stiles knows of – he's done quite a bit of research, long nights in high school spent poring over things he never thought he'd actually have – and it'd be way better than whatever he could get at the community college down the road. “What if I don't get in?” He asks in a small voice, scanning the application with worry. “You had a 4.0 in high school, Stiles.” “What if they recognize Stiles Stilinski from some top secret database of omega-borns and-” Derek taps in Stiles Hale into the namebox, effectively causing Stiles to snap his jaw shut with a click of his teeth. But the alpha just shrugs, like it's not a big deal. “It's more or less true.” It is more or less true – but more on the less than on the more. Even though Stiles and Derek are mates, even though Stiles is effectively claimed as Derek's, even though he's got the triskele tattooed on his body, he still hasn't been officially inducted into the Hale pack. Derek is still finishing up school, which is probably most of the reason. Also, Stiles has never really brought it up before; if he did, Derek would probably go oh, yeah, forgot about that like he forgets about literally every thing Stiles doesn't fucking remind him of. But it still sends a thrill up his spine to his name written out like that. It doesn't have a very nice ring to it, his real name flows much better, but still. “Are we doing this? Come on and fill this out – I'll microwave some leftovers for you.” Derek runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, once, twice, and stands from the table. Stiles only hesitates for a few more seconds, before smirking to himself and tapping in the rest of the answers to the questions on the application; the worst they'll do to Derek even if he does get caught is have him pay a two hundred dollar fine for the unfair and unjust coercion of an omega (and that's if they decide to even charge him – proving that an omega was forced into something

is getting harder and harder these days), so there's really no reason for him not to do it. He wonders, not for the first time, how he wound up getting so fucking lucky with Derek as his alpha. ---Derek tries to bake Stiles a cake. It's been months since the party at the apartment, and Stiles has graduated high school and gotten himself a job; while Derek fumbled around in the background trying to not be an absolute fucking fail-wolf. He tried his hand at knitting, and even with his sister's help the scarf came out lopsided and ugly and unraveled at the ends. He tried making Stiles a god damn watercolor painting like a fucking tool and his flowers came out as brown splotches on the canvas. He tried sitting down at his desk to write Stiles some doofy poem and wound up doodling in the margins of his notebook for two hours. The cake is his last hope. Maybe it was a horrible fucking idea, especially considering what happened when Derek tried to cook – why he thought baking would be any different whatsoever is completely beyond him. This time, he calls his father to get the easiest recipe possible, while also getting complete and total play by fucking play instructions so that there's no way he can possibly mess it up. He writes every thing down in his chicken scratch handwriting word for word as his father tells him, and sets out to work. The first hard thing about baking is that he has to find all the ingredients hidden away in the cabinets – since Stiles is the one who does all the shopping and sticks every thing into the cabinets and refrigerator, he has next to no fucking idea what he actually has. What the fuck is the difference between baking soda and baking powder? Chocolate comes in powder form? Since when do they have so many spices? He measures every thing perfectly, swiping the excess powder off the top of the measuring cups with a butter knife, being extra careful not to get egg shells into the bowl when he cracks them, running through the batter with the hand mixer until everything is seamlessly blended together in a chocolatey, gooey concoction. It doesn't look half bad he thinks to himself as he dumps the stuff into two round cake pans. It looks exactly like Stiles had made it, or his father, or even Scott, loathe as he is to admit that Scott is a better cook than Derek is. And, Scott wasn't wrong – Stiles does like cake. Derek has never once seen Stiles eat only one slice of cake at a time, and it probably stems from his year of getting entire cakes just for him thrust at him by his best friend for an entire week every month. This is a smart, simple, quick thing for him to do for Stiles. Not every thing has to be some huge statement, right? Like how Stiles always replaces the mouth wash before Derek forgets, or how

Stiles sews buttons back onto Derek's coats or shirts whenever they fall off without Derek even having to ask or mention it. Simple things. Small gestures. He turns on the oven light and stares intently at his creation for the entire half an hour it's cooking in the oven, not taking his eyes off it for a second out of fear that it'll spontaneously combust or something. The timer dings – and he slides the rack out from the oven carefully, jabbing the cake with a toothpick and inspecting it for any residue like his father instructed him. Finding nothing, he makes a noise of approval and dumps the finished cakes onto cooling racks. They came out fucking perfect. Not burned, or underdone, and they smell fucking delicious. He thinks for a second that he's actually done something right, that he's finally going to be able to do something nice for Stiles that isn't a complete fuck-up on his part. Then, he makes a mistake. He picks up one of the cakes as soon as the pan isn't hot enough to burn him, and tries to flip it over and dump it out. Before it's done cooling. Half of the cake sticks to the bottom of pan – because, fucking of course, he forgot to spray them before dumping the batter inside. The top half of the cake flops down onto the kitchen floor, and Derek stares at it for a second, blank faced. A rage unknown to man bubbles up inside of his chest, filling him with so much fucking fury – fury over a fucking cake – that he literally rips the cake pan in halves, then quarters, and throws them across the room with a roar. He's so fucking angry, literally seeing red around the edges of his vision, that he doesn't notice Stiles has come home until he hears “whoa, what the fuck?” Whirling around, he sees Stiles in his dorky green work vest, the yellow nametag with his handwriting scribbled across it dangling from one side, as he stands in the doorway with his mouth agape, surveying the cake splattered all over the floor, the broken picture frame of the Hale pack shattered on the wall, the pieces of the cake pan lying on the floor beneath it. “What's -” Stiles looks at everything individually for seconds at a time, before focusing his eyes onto Derek; who's just standing there, cake all over his hands, looking guilty as sin. “...going on?” Derek tries to come up with an excuse – but what possible excuse is there? He's still fuming mad, his eyes are probably glowing red of their own accord, and he's got the evidence all over his claws. “...I'm making you a cake.”

Stiles glances at the chocolate mess all over the floors. “...I was trying to make you a cake.” “All right,” Stiles steps into the kitchen, careful not to tread his socked feet on any of the cake as he comes closer to Derek, putting his hands on his hips, “what has all this shit been about?” Derek sets his jaw. “What shit.” “You know what I'm talking about, alpha!” Stiles narrows his eyes and surveys the damage for a second time, shaking his head. “The dinner? You don't fucking cook!” “I was-” “The bubble bath? You hate bubbles. You hate baths!” “Well-” “When you tried to do the laundry?" Derek bleached all of his dark clothes on accident, shrunk Stiles' jeans, and somehow managed to lose half of all the socks they owned. "The fucking puppy?" Right - the time Derek brought home a puppy with a bow tied around its collar for Stiles. Naturally, the omega became immediately and obsessively attached to the white fluffball, aptly named "Puff", and spent the two short days he got to spend with the thing hardly ever putting it down on the ground. And then the landlord told them they had to get rid of him, and Stiles cried when they had to put an ad up on craigslist, and then cried even more when the teenage girl swung by the apartment to take him away. Derek had said about four times that they could just move if it was that big of a fucking deal, and then wisely never mentioned it again, because Stiles snapped. He ranted and raved and raged for a solid hour about how impulsive and careless Derek had been, how they can't just move for a fucking puppy, and how come he didn't check to make sure they could have him first before Stiles went and named him, and that was probably the maddest Stiles has ever been. Derek had sat at the kitchen table hanging his head and feeling like the biggest piece of shit ever to exist. At the reminder, Derek hangs his head again. "And now this!” He gestures to the kitchen at large, pursing his lips before eyeballing Derek up and down again. “What's this all been about?” Derek wipes the cake off onto his jeans carefully, lowering his eyes down onto the ground, cheeks burning in shame. He doesn't say anything for several seconds, at a loss of how to put anything into words or how to explain himself out of this situation, and Stiles sighs heavily. “I'll get the broom, and I'll-” “Touch that fucking broom and I swear to god, Stiles,” Derek growls, side-stepping his way in front of Stiles before he can take another step. The omega throws his hands up and steps backwards, but his heartbeat doesn't spike in fear or anxiety.

He just gives Derek a befuddled look, taking a couple steps away from him in concern. “I'm cleaning this up,” he affirms this by walking over to where the ripped up cake pan is, picking the pieces up in a rage and walking them over to where the trashcan is sitting. Stiles watches this with wide-eyes, and right as Derek is opening up the bin, he says, “you should wrap those in tinfoil.” The alpha pauses – he raises his eyes to look at him, and then looks down at the pieces in his hands. “The sharp edges might rip the trash bag,” Stiles explains calmly, his palms still raised like he's trying to calm Derek down, “so...tinfoil.” Un-fucking-believable, he thinks. It is literally unbelievable that Stiles is even better and more clever at throwing things away than Derek is. How is that even remotely possible? How can any one person be so adept at everything while literally every thing Derek tries to do turns into garbage? And, here's the real kicker – he has no fucking idea where the tinfoil would even be. In the pantry, maybe? In the closet down the hall? So, still raging, he just throws the pieces into the trash and Stiles sighs. “You're mad.” “Not at you,” Derek hisses, wandering back and forth across the floor of the kitchen as he tries to decide how to clean up the cake all over the ground – Stiles had said broom but that doesn't seem right to him, and mop is out of the question until the huge chunks are taken care of. “I'm mad in general. At myself.” Stiles watches him silently as Derek bends down and pulls the dustpan out from underneath the sink, growling the entire time. “I was just -” he sweeps a mound of cake into the pan, “...trying to do something nice for you.” As he dumps the contents of the pan down into the trash, he huffs. “Turns out I'm shit at that.” “Shit?” Stiles repeats the word incredulously, and the next thing Derek knows, Stiles' socked feet are right in his line of vision on the floor – when he looks up, Stiles has got his hands on his hips again, glaring down at Derek on the ground. “What the fuck are you talking about?” “I'm talking about,” another load of cake drops down into the trash, “how you do everything for me, and I do nothing for you. At least nothing right.” Stiles makes a shocked noise from his throat, and then stutters for a couple of seconds, dropping his hands down from his hips and narrowing his eyes. “That dinner I cooked you was terrible.”

The omega doesn't miss a beat. “It was sweet and thoughtful, Derek.” More cake into the trash. “That bubble bath was a complete fucking disaster.” “That was fun.” "The puppy?" Stiles opens his mouth, and then closes it with a click; saying nothing. It would be idiotic to try and claim that Derek hadn't fucked up that time. Derek snorts and rolls his eyes to the sky as the last of the cake is thumped into the trash and he rises up to his full height, a few inches taller than Stiles. The omega stares at him with a look of annoyance and confusion, his lips set in a tight line. “And now this.” Stiles' eyes flick to the only thing not taken care of yet, the shattered glass in the picture frame on the wall, and then flick right back to Derek's face. “You did all this stuff because you wanted to do something nice for me?” Derek nods glumly as he drops the dustpan down onto the counter and huffs out a breath. This is not the way this was supposed to go at all – and how many fucking times has he said that after trying to do something for Stiles? So it comes as a bit of a huge surprise that Stiles grabs him by his chin and forces their eyes to meet, a look of intensity all over his face as he spits out, “why do you have this idiotic idea that you do nothing for me, dumbass?” “Because I'm-” “Last time I checked,” Stiles cuts him off, “I live here rent free. You pay for pretty much everything, anything I fucking want you'll get for me,” Derek remembers forcing himself up out of bed at four o'clock in the morning to sit refreshing ticketmaster to buy Fall Out Boy tickets after Stiles expressed interest in going to see them, and paying for all the repairs on Stiles' Jeep, offering to buy Stiles a brand new car (rejected and shot down, but the offer still stands anytime Stiles feels like asking), “anything I need you get for me, and, if you remember, the only reason I'm in college is because of you.” Derek blinks down at his omega, surprised, befuddled, and about a million different emotions running through him. He's not angry anymore, doesn't have room inside of him to be angry; and it's also scientifically proven to be impossible to stay mad at Stiles when the omega is touching him. He's tried before. Doesn't work. “You do amazing things for me constantly – so I have no idea where this is coming from.” “I can't do what you do, though.” Stiles pulls his neck back in shock, narrowing his eyes. “So? I can't do what you do, either!"

Derek thinks on that for a second - he does have a point. Stiles can't do what Derek does (mostly because society at large won't let him do most of the things Derek does), but all the same. Stiles couldn't pay for the repairs on his own Jeep, and he couldn't get himself into college, and he couldn't defend himself. It's alpha bullshit, it's all the things Derek is preternaturally determined to be able to do - but... "I'm good at what I'm good at," Stiles pokes him in the chest, finally taking his hand off of his alpha's face, "and you're good at what you're good at. It's called give and take, alpha." Right. Stiles having fingers that are good at creating things and a mind for planning and an attention to detail, that's all omega bullshit. And Derek is never going to be good at any of it, and Stiles doesn't expect him to be. Stiles expects Derek to do exactly what he's capable, and Derek expects the same from Stiles. It works. As often as Stiles tries to defy omega norms, and tries to carve out his own path for himself and distance himself from being Derek's little lapdog, he genuinely enjoys doing some of the stereotypical omega duties - he likes making invitations and organizing the furniture and putting a plate of food down in front of Derek. And Derek genuinely enjoys beating the shit out of anyone who fucks with his omega and buying him things and giving him everything he could ever want or need. So, it's a stereotype - Derek doesn't care what people think about them. What matters is what Stiles thinks about him, thinks about their relationship; and he's happy. So Derek's happy.

End Notes

there's one more part left to this series - and I heavily hinted at what's to come - and I'm wiping the tears out of my eyes haha I'm going to miss these two :(

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