Stiles doesn't take notice of it at first-well, no, that's not right. He does notice, he just doesn't dwell on it for too long. Refuses to.

Of course, it's on a Wednesday in the last week of November that it becomes hard to ignore, with the way Scott is kissing Allison like he's some kind of a Golden Retriever slobbering all over its owner. A really shitty Golden Retriever if Stiles is to be blunt about it.

'I hope you choke on her tongue, you asshole,' he says bitterly.

They continue to suck harder against the lockers.

God, what is his life.

It's not that Stiles is against free love and french kissing, but these heavy make-out sessions start taking place right in the middle of their weekly meetings with Derek, too, and God, is nothing sacred, no place safe from these two pair of eels?

Jackson spends most meetings waggling his eyebrows in a really dirty way-it's funny how cheerful he's become now that he's part of the hairy wolf club-and Scott is typically occupied, which leaves Stiles. And Derek. Stuck together in the same room, during which Stiles must listen to Derek's monologue about safety, and bringing in new members. At one point Stiles is pretty sure he's about to start preaching about safe sex with a pointed look at Scott.

Stiles stops that shit right there.

'Uh, no that's fine. Just stop, thank you very much,' he practically yells, face beetroot red. 'I think it's all good. Next topic,' he says hurriedly.

'Ah, young love,' Jackson says wistfully, eyeing Scott and Allison.

Derek scowls furiously.

Suddenly Stiles can't stop noticing how much PDA Scott and Allison seem to take part in. It's unsettling and disgusting, and at one point Stiles has the great privilege of seeing Scott's tonsils.

This is the point where he starts bitching about it to Derek.

'I mean, look at them,' he says, as Derek is sweating and hammering away at the counter tops for his kitchen, because Derek is secretly Ina Garten and has a stash of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks hidden somewhere.

Derek grunts in response.

There is a hint of awe in Stiles' voice as he continues on, because, sweet Jesus, they've been at it for twenty-minutes. 'Don't they get tired of it? What's so great about swapping spit?'

'It's a delicate art, Stilinski, you wouldn't get it,' Jackson says sagely from behind them, making Stiles shit himself and jump closer to Derek. 'People tend to do it when they like one another. Of course, you wouldn't understand the concept,' he says, before looking pointedly at Derek. 'What do you think, Hale?'

'I think you should shut up,' Derek says, head stuffed under the sink.

'I'm just saying, Stilinski's never been kissed before, you should explain the reasoning behind it,' Jackson says, a wicked glint in his eye.

Stiles splutters. 'That's bullshit,' he says, outraged, and Stiles can feel his cheeks burning hot. Suddenly Derek shifts behind him, watching him intently, his fingers fidgeting to do something it seems.

Stiles flushes harder.

'Aah,' Jackson says, dramatically.

Derek looks abjectly mutinous.

Well.

Alright. OK. Fine. So he's never been kissed, but he's not Drew Barrymore OK. He's not.

'It's not that bad you know,' Jackson says, while Stiles throws Scott, his good-for-nothing-former-best-friend a dirty look. 'Sure there's occasionally a fuckton of spit involved, but it's all about perfecting it. Kissing is an art you know,' he says.

'Well it looks pretty gross with the way these two are doing it,' Stiles snaps back.

'Like I said,' Jackson says carefully. 'It's all about the art.'

Derek comes up behind them, lasagne in hand, when Jackson adds in a neutral tone, 'You can always practice, Stilinski. I bet Derek would be willing to help. He is alpha after all, always up for anything for the sake of the pack.''

Suddenly it feels like there's a frog stuck in Stiles' throat and he croaks out, 'Uh, no, oh my God no. There's no need for that. I'm fine, everything is good,' he babbles, voice panicky, 'and Derek wouldn't want that anyway.'

Derek glares hard. 'I'm a pretty good kisser,' he says stiffly, before slamming the pot down hard on the table. Scott and Allison don't even move an inch.

'Uh, I'm straight,' Stiles says faintly.

'Of course you are,' says Jackson.

It's not that he's against it. It's just that it's Derek. Stiff and awkward Derek, and-yeah, it's Derek. Stiles is straight, completely and totally straight. Stiles likes curvy, light haired women. Like Lydia. Of course he notices that Derek is good looking, who wouldn't.

But Stiles likes chicks, man.

He's straight.

None of it matters, two-weeks later, when he accidentally bumps into Derek right under the mistletoe that Stiles' dad stuck around the house with manic glee.

'Oh,' Stiles says dumbly, because of course his dad just had to go stick it right up on the porch, the crazy fool.

Jackson is standing at the bottom of the steps, a shit eating grin aimed at Stiles. In the distance Stiles can see Scott waiting in the car, nose pressed against the glass and Stiles can hear Jay-Z rapping, if you're having girl problems I feel bad for you son, and Stiles thinks, he sure as fuck hasn't got that, but he's definitely got a problem in the form of a scowling Derek Hale.

'You usually don't knock,' Stiles mutters eventually, giving a quick furtive glance towards the ceiling, hoping to God that Derek hasn't noticed it yet. 'You tend to sneak in like a creep through my window.

'It was important,' Derek says, and then Jackson has to go fuck it all up, the wombat.

'Oh hey, look, is that mistletoe?' he says, high pitched and utterly dramatic.

Derek quickly looks up, before he shoots a murderous look at Jackson.

'We don't have to, it doesn't even matter dude, let's just ignore it,' Stiles says quickly, ignoring the way way his heart picks up speed.

'Now, now Stiles,' Jackson chides, 'it's tradition. Can't screw with tradition can we.'

Derek whips back around, eyes dark and Stiles isn't sure if it's nerves or anger. Then Derek says, 'It's fine, it's just a kiss. Doesn't change anything.'

Stiles wants to protest, but he swallows hard and nods frantically, because holy shit, Derek's OK with this. 'Of course not,' he says shakily, watching the way Derek starts to lean in, and Stiles lowers his eyelashes, hesitantly tilts forward.

'Sure,' Derek says, as he drops his mouth to Stiles'.

All Stiles can think is that Derek's lips are dry and that maybe this is wrong, as they test the waters out. He feels the brush of Derek's tongue against the seam of Stiles' mouth-which somehow he's managed to keep firmly shut-and he's surprised by the sharp tingle that shoots up his spine.

Stiles tries to reason with himself that this could be anybody, he can pretend he's kissing Lydia, not Derek Hale, the moody douchebag. Derek moves closer, thigh pressing against Stiles' and their noses bumping, and Stiles gasps, breath huffing into Derek's mouth, lips parting.

Derek is suddenly right there, tilting and slotting their slick mouths together before thrusting his tongue into Stiles' mouth. He feels his heart fall in a downward spiral into the pit of his stomach before shooting back up like he's on a roller-coaster.

He lets out a breathy gasp and Derek attacks his mouth, biting his bottom lip before lapping at it and soothing the sting. Stiles feels himself burn hot and fierce with the way Derek runs a possessive hand over the back of his neck, thumb digging into his pulse and Stiles suddenly wants this more desperately than he's wanted anything in his life. Stiles grabs Derek's forearm, hears himself moan and is about to drag his hand into Derek's hair and-

Derek pulls away.

Stiles opens his eyes, lets his arms dangle foolishly and feels the way his lips are swollen, and yet Derek doesn't look like he's just fucked his way into Stiles' mouth.

They stare at each other before Derek says, calm as ever, 'We're all going out for pizza,' before turning away and walking back to his car as Scott gives him the thumbs up. Stiles itches to touch him which scares the shit out of him and makes Stiles want things he's never wanted before.

Jackson coughs delicately and Stiles stares at Derek's twitching hand and thinks, with wonder, shit.