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lube and determination

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Stiles just wanted to make a pumpkin pie. He didn’t— he didn’t expect this.

Well, he’s already here. He might as well go in.

Stiles takes a deep breath and one more look at the window displays and the mannequins wearing bondage gear and thongs, and then steps inside the sex shop.

A bell jangles merrily as he walks inside. There’s the sounds of classical piano playing somewhere in the background, but otherwise the store seems to be deserted.

Stiles walks pasts aisles of butt plugs and sex toys, all labeled in Greek. He shakes his head, laughing to himself. Maybe he should just get himself a new toy while he’s at it.

No, he should stick to the plan as is.

Stiles keeps scouring the store, but he can’t seem to find an aisle where it might be.

Of course, the only store in all of Athens selling vegetable shortening had to be a sex store.

Stiles loves his study abroad program; he’s having the best time studying classics and mythology, loves the food, loves getting to explore the country and learn about Greek culture. He’s not too bad at the language now, too. It had been an easy choice when he signed up for the fall program last year, freezing his ass off or partying it up on beaches and looking out over sparkling water and pretty white houses with blue doors everyday. It had been no contest, really.

But missing Thanksgiving with his dad—it’s hit Stiles harder than he thought.

So much that he just wanted to make a pumpkin pie. The smell of it baking in the oven, the cinnamonny-clove-pumpkiny-goodness, the flaky crust— he could have a little taste of home.

Stiles found a can of pumpkin puree and most of the other ingredients in a specialty grocery store, but went round town three times before almost giving up on vegetable shortening.

After searching through Skrout, he found one listing in the search engine, but had been surprised when a popup asked him to verify if he was over eighteen.

Apparently, the only place in town that sells what he’s looking for has it classified as a sex essential.

So now he’s here.

Stiles looks at the wall of toys once more and wanders down the next aisle, which is full of DVDs and books. He almost loses his train of thought and gets distracted by the porn, but no. He’s on a mission. Where the hell is it?

Butter, butter, butter.

Stiles shakes his head. The only butter to be found in town— vegetable shortening in this exact form, to be precise— is used for fisting.

“Fisting, fisting, fisting,” Stiles mutters to himself, thinking of his classmates off in bars and gallivanting around, some not even in Greece anymore— traipsing all over the UK and coming back late for class, regaling with stories of hookups.

Stiles has not had any luck in the romance department. Not even with any of his fellow exchange students, let alone other kids in the university.

« Χρειάζεστε βοήθεια?»

A voice—deep and almost melodic— speaks up in curious Greek, interrupting Stiles’ sex reverie. He loses his balance, flailing, accidentally knocking over a display of vibrators.

Setting down a textbook is an incredibly beautiful man with a chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. Stiles has lamented to Scott so many times about how many hot people are here; literally Greek gods, and yet— and yet— this man just exudes this otherworldly, ethereal beauty.

He’s also giving Stiles the most unamused, flat expression and apparently has been sitting here the whole time at the counter, watching Stiles wander around the shop like a fool.

Stiles blinks—right, he should stop staring, stop it, Stiles— oh right, he asked something. Stiles is getting better at Greek! He actually understood. He’s like, asking if Stiles needs help.

« βούτυρο για fisting? » Stiles asks brightly, hoping he isn’t blushing too much.

The man just stares at him.

«Βούτυρο,» Stiles repeats again. “For fisting,” he adds. “Like, um,” he makes a fist with his hand and demonstrates in the air, but the guy just continues to look him over, like he isn’t sure Stiles is real.

Stiles sighs, trying to remember how to talk about food. What’s the word for pumpkin? Is there a word for pie in Greek? Oh yeah, his classmate had told him to say this one when they went out, it’s fruit related, so maybe it should work. «Την κουνάω την αχλαδια.»

The man’s eyebrows lift up— and what majestic eyebrows they are, and his lips quirk up in amusement, like he wants to laugh.

Stiles snorts. “Okay, go ahead, laugh at me. At least I’m trying!”

The man gives Stiles a half-shrug, and now he’s smiling like he can’t help it. And Stiles can’t stop looking— he’s incandescent, really. Stiles can’t believe he’s been going to bars hoping to meet hot people and he finds this guy hiding in this dusty old shop. Not that he’s having any luck trying to talk to him, anyways.

Stiles admits it: he has no idea what he’s doing most of the time when talking with people. Mostly he’s just figured out what the food words are and pointing menus works for him.

“Are you sure you don’t have any butter? Βούτυρο? For fisting? Like, I’m not actually like, gonna use it for that, not that I don’t— I don’t—” Stiles blushes, and now he’s just rambling to himself. Whatever, it’s not like Adonis here knows what he’s saying anyways. “I mean, I’ve never done it but, like a fist is pretty ambitious, but like, when I think about like the toys I’ve used, it’s not that much thicker, right? I mean I could, probably with enough lube and determination. What do you think?”

«Α, ωραία. Θες να βγούμε για φαγητό πρώτα?»

Stiles has no idea what that means, but he just nods along. “Yeah, okay. I know you probably wouldn’t have it. It’s just a longshot, you know?” He sighs, nods to himself. “I just wanted to make a pumpkin pie. I mean, my mom always made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas and I just really miss my dad and friends and everyone back home, everyone is like ‘study abroad is great, you’ll really find yourself’ but like, it’s more of the same.” Stiles sighs, toeing a display rack filled with condoms, swiveling it to the side and looking at all the funny and cute and themed packaging. “Like I still go to class and study and sure, yeah, the city is gorgeous and there’s all these cool museums and stuff but I’m still awkward, I’m still me, you know? Half the people in my program are like archeological grad students and I don’t know anything of what they’re talking about and most the undergrads here just want to party; I’m just not any of that, man.”

The guy tilts his head, like he’s waiting for Stiles to continue, and Stiles realizes he’s probably been talking his ear off. “Sorry to bother you,” he adds, stepping backwards. “I’m just gonna— yeah.” Stiles turns, hurriedly, and dashes out the door.

He’s only a few steps down the cobbled streets when the door flings open again.

Stiles turns around at the sound, surprised.

The man is even more stunning in the afternoon light; his skin golden, his eyes sparkling with mirth, jawline striking as it catches the last of the sun’s rays, dancing and dappling down the street.

“Hey, wait,” he says, in perfect English. “We have what you asked for, but I wouldn’t use it to make a pie. Uh— I do know where you can get some Crisco, or even actual butter, though.”

Stiles stares. “You— you speak English,” he says, a little faint.

“Yeah. Hi. My name’s Derek.”

The smile stretches ear to ear, and if Stiles thought him absolutely captivating before, it’s got nothing on this. Derek’s face just lights up like the goddamn sun.

Stiles takes the offered hand and shakes it. “Stiles.”

Derek’s hand is warm and soft, and his fingers linger on the handshake, like he doesn’t want to let Stiles go.

“So I take it you’re learning Greek? It wasn’t bad, your accent.”

“Oh. Good,” Stiles says, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. “But you heard me talk about all the fisting — and the— ambition— I — that was a rhetorical question, actually—”

Derek grins. “It was cute.”

“Cute,” Stiles repeats.

“So you didn’t answer my question,” Derek asks. “I’m free tomorrow night. Or tonight, if you’re available.” He dips his head a little and actually— oh gosh, this beautiful man is blushing too.

What the hell did Derek say? Stiles blinks.

“Dinner,” Derek says with a soft smile. “Or we can go get you that butter. My sister stockpiles it whenever she visits France.”

“Yes!” Stiles finds his voice. It does squeak a little in his eagerness, but hey. “Yes, I’d love to go to dinner! And bake pie with you!” All the things, really.  

“Okay,” Derek says, pleased. “Tonight? I can close up the store. We usually don’t get many visitors.”

“Sure!” Stiles can’t believe this is happening.

Derek leans in a little closer and gives him a conspiratorial smile. “And ah, fisting isn’t really a first date question, but we can talk about that in the future if you’d like.”

And he fucking winks.

 


 

 

« Χρειάζεστε βοήθεια?» [Can I help you?]

« Την κουνάω την αχλαδια »  [I like to shake the pear tree] Greek euphemism for men having sex with men

«Α, ωραία. Θες να βγούμε για φαγητό πρώτα?» [Oh. That sounds nice. Would you like to go to dinner first?]