Yeah, okay, so the super-scary Big Bad Wolf with the glowy red eyes, hella sharp fangs and nasty black claws is a major turn-on for Stiles. So what? Everyone has to have a hobby, and Stiles has always been into the freakier side of, well, pretty much everything. So it tracks. And sure, the Greek god-like facial features and killer abs don't exactly hurt, either. The ever-heavy stubble? That razor-sharp jawline? The inhuman strength in those lickable biceps and thick thighs that make Stiles's dick jump a country mile? They all have their own very special places in Stiles's spank bank, for real.
It's funny though because none of those God's Gift To Any Sane Creature With Eyes are the things that really do it for Stiles when it comes to Derek.
Turns out it's actually shit like two stupidly bushy brows having their own highly specific language that Stiles has proudly become fluent in; the frankly unrivalled snark-for-snark banter; it's the questions that go unasked simmering in those keen woodland eyes; the tiny twitches of tasty-looking lips at the most inappropriate of times; those sometimes silences that Stiles can let linger, now, because he somehow doesn't mind the quiet when it's Derek; it's about the seemingly unshakable trust; the always knowing where, and when, and why.
It's the sun, the moon, the truth.
And look, Stiles swears he only wanted to gross-out his bestie with his disgusting porn-rants about trying to give nipple-hickies that won't bruise because of enhanced healing with the added trials and tribulations of bouncing up and down on penile knots, Scott's protests be damned. Only, Stiles apparently went and fell for the local Traumatized Edgelord Lycanthrope without even so much as noticing, until fairly recently.
Move over, Lyds. There's a new unattainable asshole in town, and Stiles is locked. The. Fuck. In.
He knows it's undoubtedly wishful thinking but he's going to invest in a mail order butt plug all the sameāsoon as he's gotten around to mowing Mrs HernĆ”ndez's front lawn and re-painting her fence, earning him enough money to pay for a decently huge one.
He's also formulating a brilliant plan to steal his dad's keys so he can let himself into the station without being caught, borrow the files on the Hale fire, and properly verify some of his assumptions that he already knows he's right about. Then he's going to hunt down Kate Argent, brutally kill the fucking bitch, and spit liberally on her fresh but soon-to-be rotting in the ground corpse. The Stilinski's own a shovel, and Stiles is absolutely not afraid to use it.
Because he's in love! And it's awesome!
