Thanksgiving has always been Stiles' favourite holiday. When he was younger it was because of the delicious smells that floated and swirled round the house: savory meat pies twining with sweet marshmallow and meringue to rouse him from sleep, whereupon he'd wander downstairs and into his mother's arms, snuggling into her while she told him how thankful she was for her family, no matter how small it was. He loved watching the games with her; cheered when she cheered even though he had no idea what was going on.

Family Thanksgivings were the best.

Nowadays, it's Derek who makes his day. Derek who wakes up at 6am every Thanksgiving (family tradition, he'd whispered brokenly when Stiles had asked) and kisses Stiles awake, worshiping his neck, face, arms and hands with his mouth until Stiles' eyes flutter open. Derek who watches every minute twitch of ecstasy and sigh of pleasure as he sinks his mouth onto Stiles' cock. Derek who closes his eyes and moans when long fingers brush through his scruff reverentially.

Later, when the Sheriff asks each of them what they're grateful for, Stiles looks around the table at Scott and Allison cooing at their newborn daughter; his dad and Melissa holding hands, finally together after years of dancing and flirting; Isaac and Danny pressing their palms to Lydia's swollen stomach while Jackson plays with her hair off to the side; Erica laughing brightly as Boyd reaches for his fourth slice of apple pie.

And Derek, tracing the veins and moles on Stiles' skin like he's been given the sun, moon and stars to map and catalog. Green eyes meet brown as Derek glances up and then reaches out, kissing him on the forehead and nuzzling him temple, sweet and chaste and everything Stiles could possibly dream of.

He's thankful for every damn second of his life.