"Wake up."

The voice of Stiles's tormentor drilled into his skull through the haze of his lovely sleep. He would not waver under its intensity. He would stand his ground and not give in.

"Nnggghh," he tried diplomatically. Sometimes it was best to use honey instead of vinegar.

"Wake up," the voice said again.

It was an evil voice that wanted Stiles to suffer. Relentless was the evil demon who sought to wrestle him from the warmth and comfort of his bed, but he, being the paragon of virtue that he was, would not be led astray. He would speak boldly to the demon and cast it from his presence.

"Go way!" It was a command given with the strength and conviction only truly great men could muster. He put his pillow over his head, a clear sign that great things were at work and should not be disturbed.

A monster seized his blankets and tore them from his grasp. Freezing cold air coiled around him, pricked the tender skin of his back with needles of ice. Lashes of unforgiving morning air leeched the warmth from his body. His toes curled and his fingers flexed. He wanted to cry out against the cruel god who had forsaken him by allowing some monster with no soul to steal his blankets and leave him abandoned, gasping for warmth in a bed that wished for him to stay with it.

"Bed needs me," he told the beast that hounded him.

The bed needed him; the pillows would be lonely without his face to keep them company. The covers, the poor covers, he could hear them crying out for him to save them from the beast that had so cruelly snatched them from their home. They wanted him to pull them back over his body to share his warmth with them and keep them safe, to show them the love they deserved.

"Wake up," the voice commanded.

This foe was powerful. If it could not be reasoned with, if it could not be commanded to cease, there was only one thing left for Stiles to do. He would fight. Fight for the right of all teenage boys to stay in bed until they were not tired, to love and trust and hold close their covers and pillows. He would strike a true blow against the oppression of those who would pull others from their bed, who would do so for no reason other than they were full of malice and spite and they hated kittens and puppies and all the good things in the world. The beast probably hated pancakes too, because the beast seemed to be an asshole, and only assholes did not love and cherish maplely sugary syrupy covered goodness. He would fight because there was no one else to wage the war for comfort.

Stiles would be that hero; he would do all of those things. He wanted to do them later though. He curled into a fetal position clutching his pillow between his elbows and knees. He wished he was small enough to use the pillow case as a sleeping bag. He wished that he had more on than his underwear. He wished that the creature who hated him so much would take mercy and leave him in peace.

"Wake up," his adversary said again. It was unshakable, unreachable by logic, unafraid, it seemed unbeatable.

It was time to pull out the big guns. His secret weapon, that which he would not use unless he was in the direst of positions. He knew that with great power came great responsibility, and this power required control, finesse, and was greatly aided by sleepy blinking and rubbing of the eyes. Now was the time to strike. His opponent's resolve would crumble before him. He would stand victorious. Well actually he would lay victorious but whatever.

He rolled onto his back. He stretched, arching up off the bed slightly using his shoulders and neck, rubbing one hand over his tummy and using the back of the other to wipe sleepily at his eyes. He kept his eyes closed, dropped his arms lazily back to the bed. He turned his head in the direction of the voice that had been so cruel. The time had come. He opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at the towering form of Derek, who looked down on him, then he executed his counter offensive. He pouted.

"S'just five more minutes," he said.

Derek blinked at him; clearly trying to resist the power of Stiles's pouting lips. Stiles could wait. He could do this all day. No one could stand against it. Derek's resolve seemed to waver. Stiles blinked sleepily again, pulled his arms over his chest trying to clutch in the last remaining vestiges of the warmth that was abandoning him. Derek met his eyes and the hand that had thieved Stiles's covers jerked almost involuntarily. Fine, Derek had asked for it. It wasn't Stiles's fault that he had been pushed so far. He tilted his head slightly, made eye contact through his half-closed eyelids and licked his lips. It was like cocking a loaded gun, Derek had no idea what was going to hit him.

"Please?" Stiles begged. He curled his lower lip into his mouth, caught it between his teeth as he looked pleadingly into Derek's green eyes. He rocked back and forth while clutching his arms around his body, "s'cold."

Derek dropped the covers back onto him.

"Five minutes, then I will come back here, I will pull you from that bed, and I will toss you into the shower myself," Derek warned him.

Stiles curled the blankets back around his nearly naked form, luxuriating in their caressing touch. He welcomed the warmth back as though it were a playful lover that he had finally been reunited with. He let out a low moan of satisfied pleasure. It was a soft rumble in his chest.

"Kay," he said as his eyes fluttered closed again.