Stiles wasn't sure why he was expecting any differently. Honestly, he sort of deserved this for not putting two and two together, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable.

"Stiles." Derek seemed to be torn between making his usual scowls at him, or sniggering helplessly, leaning a little bit too much on literally the least-qualified to be doing this, ever. Seriously. Why pick the only non-were-or-warrior-princess-person, when there was clearly a glut of those? "St- Stiles," Derek wheezed, trying to hold a frown, or at least a straight face, and failing miserably. And again, he should've seen this coming a mile away.

It started with a text from the usually reclusive Alpha around an hour ago. Now this was strange in itself, because Derek never texted anyone, or at least not Stiles; he either got somebody else to it, usually Stiles (mostly Stiles), not unlike an ex-boyfriend with a misplaced sense of entitlement, or just showed up on his bed in the middle of the night, also like an ex-boyfriend with a misplaced sense of entitlement. Not- not that he and Stiles had, uh, dated at all. Uh. (He totally wasn't bitter about this.)

God dammit.

The text read as this:


brin gyour lapto

scott wan tsto sho evron somth

And Stiles just stared at it, because it had to be a joke. It had to be. Isaac must have nicked Derek's phone and sent it to screw with him. But then lo and behold, not twenty minutes later, he received another text, this time from Lydia (Lydia. Seriously.), with perfect grammar and punctuation and everything.

Stiles, get your ass over here now. This is an emergency.

Also, please bring your laptop; Scott won't shut up about it and it's getting annoying.

And if he wasn't suspicious before, well.

After peeling out of his driveway and down the streets, heart pounding against his ribcage entirely too quickly, arriving at the Hale house shortly.

He was greeted by Derek slumping over him the minute he stepped through the front door, shaking with what appeared to be repressed laughter. Which now brings us back to the present.

Derek was now hugging the ever-living shit out of him.

"Hey buddy," Stiles gasps, all of the air pushed out of his lungs. "You feelin' alright?" His usual word vomit was currently impaired by were-hugs, which should not sound as nearly as adorable as they did, because he's pretty sure Derek is systematically cracking all his ribs. This is a god damn health hazard.

Allison appears behind Derek, hovering tentatively with an apologetic brand of her Disney Princess Smile ©.

"What did you do." It was supposed to be a question, but again, he was impeded by Derek's giggling and incessant were-hugging, so it came out like a hiss of air out of a wilting balloon.

"What- I didn't mean- I didn't do anything!" she flails. She falls silent. Stiles just stares at her, and is trying to sigh in disappointment, but Derek has now taken to swinging him side to side because apparently Stiles' legs flopping around like a marionette was fucking hilarious. So again, not enough air.

"…Okay, I might have used the wrong ingredient in the cookies I made for pack night. Accidentally!" she insists. He just stares at her.

"…How," he asks once Derek has stopped flinging him about like a toy. (This is what he is now. A toy. This is his life now.) He just seems content to snuffle into Stiles' neck, still fighting off fits of residual, insanity-flavored snickering, when he abruptly got maybe an eighth of an inch away from Stiles' face. Allison blanches.

"Stiles," he starts, seriousness returning all at once. It manages to be comforting and alarming at the same time. "Stiles, Stiles I need- Just let-" He kept starting and stopping, continuing to be cut off by the giggles stubbornly pushing through the fragile hold on his ability to focus.

"Stiles, I need- just let me pet your face."

And Stiles stares at him.

And stares.

And stares.

He stares for so long, in fact, that he nearly missed Derek actually following through with this. Only he doesn't, and suddenly Derek's clumsily pawing at yes, his fucking face.

Stiles immediately Kermit-flailed out of the way, sputtering out "What the actual fuck-" before Derek's on him again.

"Stiles let me pet your face." The worst part of it wasn't that he was being rough- he was actually going out of his way to be so, so gentle with him that it's frightening. And Stiles knows there is something, deeply, deeply wrong with him- and with Derek- when his roughness is so inherently commonplace, that he become legitimately concerned it's not there. He should not be the only one in therapy.

No, the worst part of it was that Derek deadpanned so seriously, so deadly fucking seriously, like petting Stiles' fucking face was a life-or-death scenario, that Stiles for a second thought that Derek had somehow reverted back to his old dickish, humorless self, and for some reason, the thought of Derek in his right mind doing this of his own volition was absolutely fucking terrifying.

"Dude- dude, no, quit fuckin' petting me-" he manages to get out between slapping Derek's hands away. Derek continued to stare at him, actively fighting Stiles trying to get away from him by closing the distance (read: lumbering into him like a drunken jackass).

"Stiles I need to pet your face," he says, like it's the direst of situations. Another moment passes, and he breaks down and snickers. He can't stop. "You- you need to-" He really can't, and he pins Stiles down with his head on his shoulder.

It's then that Scott takes the opportunity to be a good friend at a really bizarre moment.

He comes stumbling into the front hall seconds later, stomping noisily on the relatively new carpeted floor. And he, apparently, was also giggling uncontrollably.

"For fuck's sake, really-" The palm of Derek's hand cuts him off. Stiles barely chokes back a snarl. Out of his mind or not, snarling at an alpha was pretty high up on the list "Spectacularly Stupid Ways to be Justifiably Mauled." He shoves Derek away from him, and it erupts into a mini slap fight of trying to keep Derek off of him. Who is. Still. Giggling.

"Allison what did you-"

"STILESSSS!" Scott exclaims, overjoyed, sweeping him up into yet another bone-crushing were-hug. He now has a shiny new set of cracked ribs to match his other cracked ribs. It barely lasts a second, but it's enough to distract Derek, who is now directing his laughter at Scott, who directing the same creepy fucking giggling right back. Allison just looks dumbstruck.

"God dammit, Allison, what did you do?" Stiles prompts, damn near hysterical. He can tell because his voice has leapt up two octaves and he now is even more like a Muppet. Scott grabs Stiles' bag and runs with it before she can answer, as does Derek. With Stiles. Slung over his shoulder. Like. A sack. Of potatoes.

"ALLISON I WILL SERIOUSLY SHIT IN YOUR FATHER'S MOUTH IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT YOU DID RIGHT GODDAMN NOW," Stiles yells (in vain) as he's carried away. Neither Scott nor Derek seem to hear him, and Allison just sort of feebly reaches for him, still in shock. Traitor.

He's plopped on the sofa in the refurbished living room (and he is glad beyond words that Derek actually got around to fixing up his shit hole of a house, because he does not want to imagine having to deal with this in the charred wreckage of the old Hale house) with… literally every single other werewolf in the pack. An arm is immediately thrown over his shoulder, and the owner of that arm awkwardly shuffles onto his lap. It turns out to be Jackson (Jackson, for fuck's sake), who was… noisily snuffling his shoulder. Stiles isn't sure if this was a wolf-thing or a Jackson-thing, because although the two weren't mutually exclusive, he's pretty sure Jackson is crying. (He should not be the only one in therapy.) He holds back a sigh when Isaac and Boyd crowd his sides, grudgingly accepting his apparent destiny as pack mom.

"Jackson, you alright there?" he asks numbly.

Jackson burrows into his neck and nuzzles him, holding on tighter. Isaac and Boyd take this as an opportunity to hold on too, Boyd encasing all of them with one arm and Isaac taking Stiles' other shoulder while somehow worming his way under his arm, because hey, why not. Why the fuck not. His day clearly wasn't bizarre enough, so might as well traumatize him even more. Because this is his fucking life now.

Erica lays across his feet. Stiles tries really hard not to scream. He fails a little bit when Isaac and Boyd start blatantly sniffing him. He keeps his mouth closed, but that doesn't stop the strangled noise coming from his throat. They think it's hysterical.

Allison comes into the room just in time to see the four of them laughing (well, three of them; Boyd was just sort of silently shaking), and Stiles frowning so hard he thinks he might turn into Derek.

"Allison. Seriously. I'm going to come to come to your house in the middle of the night, go into parents' bedroom, and just take a big, runny shit in your father's mouth. And, just a reminder, this is coming from the guy who helped set an Alpha on fire, so don't doubt that I can do this, because I can, and will, if you don't fucking tell me right now. Right god damn now." The sheer amount of eerily calm fury in his voice startles her. It's probably the murderous intent. He would be surprised himself if he hadn't been otherwise preoccupied. She grimaces.

"Well, I was making the cookies, and I must have misread the labels, because I think I ended up using something that Dad put in the cabinet by mistake."

"What, exactly," he grinds out through his teeth.

"I… don't really know," she admits.


"What, I don't know!" she exclaims. "It's not anything toxic-"

"Well, that's a relief," he seethes. Boyd decides that Erica should be in this cuddle party officially, by way of picking up both him and Jackson, taking their spot, and putting both of them of his lap. Erica immediately takes his former spot, and there's something that sounds suspiciously like purring. Stiles is kinda sick of people getting' all up in his grill. Allison frowns.

"My dad started to research non-fatal ways to take down werewolves- you're welcome- it must be one of the plants he found. It's probably just a really specific strain of wolfsbane."

"When is it not…" Stiles mutters under his breath. He openly glares at Scott and Derek, who are crowding his laptop on the floor in front of them, still snickering. "So how did they get their hands on it?" he asks, rubbing his temples with one hand, the other preoccupied by way of Erica clinging to it. Correction, Erica was playing with his fingers.

"Your skin is so soft," she marvels in what could be way too easily mistaken for the voice of Hannibal Lector. She makes an entirely too self-satisfied sound.

"Wouldn't they have realized something was wrong after the first one was eaten?"

They share a look.

"…those cookies were gone before you even put the plate down, weren't they."

"Yeah. I think they even ate the plastic wrap."

Jesus Christ.

"…Hey, where the fuck is Lydia? She was the one who yelled at me to get over here." Allison looks very strained very quickly. She just points at Jackson, like it explains everything. It sort of does.

"Ah. Right."

Scott and Derek suddenly seem to realize they're not alone, by way of Scott shouting something that sounds suspiciously like "ohmygod, kayaking!" and scrambling off the floor with the laptop. Derek does this by turning around and staring really fucking intensely at Stiles.

"Stiles," he says.

"No, god dammit, no no-" He tries to squirm away, but he's foiled by Isaac and Erica clinging and whining at him, Boyd releasing a hellhound snarl, and Jackson crowding him even further. Also he's crying again, undoubtedly mumbling about his pretty boy "oh nobody loves me" bullshit.

"Stiles." He gets up.

"NO. NO, YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT THE HELL OFF-" He lurches- lurches- at Stiles like a fucking zombie. "NO MEANS NO, ASSHOLE." Apparently, that's not what it means for werewolves, because Derek basically drags him kicking and screaming away from the puppy pile, who are also kicking and screaming. Stiles shamelessly shoves Allison at them as Derek pulls him away. She is assimilated alarmingly fast, her eyes screaming "TRAITOR. TRAITOR," when Jackson gets on her lap instead.

"FIGHT ME," Stiles challenges grumpily. Derek picks him up by holding him under his arms and around his chest, like a toddler that's trying to pick up the exceptionally patient family cat, but they haven't learned the right way to, yet. He carries/drags Stiles away like one, too. Stiles' lungs don't appreciate it. They don't appreciate Derek forgetting that he's basically Mr. Incredible but with wolf parts, either.

"Derek," he wheezes. "Put me down- P- please-"

"No," Derek grunts, the fucking caveman.

"DudeIcan'tbreathe-" he manages to say in a single breath. He doesn't realize where they're going until Derek starts dragging him up the stairs. The rasp that leaves Stiles' mouth makes him thing that he somehow inherited Scott's asthma. He could see this as some previously unknown werewolf rule that only surfaces when Venus and Mars align and the moon is in the seventh house or some unnecessary bullshit like that. He could really, legitimately see the universe going "Well, all that asthma has to go somewhere, and you've been saving his sorry ass this whole time anyway, so you might as well." That's how fucked up it was.

The resignation of this thought only distracts him momentarily, and oh my fucking lord Derek is taking him upstairs dsakjgdksaf-

"Derek-" he squeaks.

"Nope," Derek interrupts. "Nope. Nope. Nope." Stiles starts flailing so he solves the problem by scooping him up and carrying him bridal style.

"Oh my god, why," Stiles says, giving up. Derek kicks open a door that really isn't at all reassuring in the "someone is probably going to get ravaged" way that he does it. It also doesn't help when he dumps Stiles gracelessly on the bed and holy shit this is Derek's room fffff-

"You smell different and I don't like it," Derek pouts, like it's Stiles' fault. "You need to smell like me." He sort of just falls onto the bed on top of Stiles and oh hey we're just going to stare up at the ceiling because in no way is Derek going facedown in his groin fascinating, nope. Neither is the fact that he's crawling up his fucking body holy fuck-

Stiles twitches, trying very, very hard (Bad word choice, his brain tells him hysterically) to not start freaking the fuck out- at least not on a physical level. He succeeds only marginally, mouth clamped shut but a noise escaping his throat that sounds suspiciously like the distressed whining sound that the werewolves make when they're upset. He's certainly upset enough to warrant it, but privately he wishes that Derek had not interpreted it as such, because, being the grumpy, viciously over-protective papa wolf that he was, he was now rumble-purring on top of him and chuffing into the side of his neck. While Stiles really, really appreciates this on some level that he'd rather not talk about, the point remains that Stiles is human, and this is not the correct reaction.

"I thought you were a dog," his mouth says independently of his brain, his debilitating need to fill awkward silences kicking in. "Isn't it only cats that do-"

"Your skin is so soft," Derek stage-whispers loudly into his neck.

"God dammit, not again," Stiles mumbles before he can stop himself. He thought maybe this was just a Hale thing, considering how fucking creepy Peter was, but with Erica in mind, but he's alarmingly sure that he's just really tasty to werewolves. He sincerely hopes he's not.

Stiles has about a fourth of a second to realize that Derek was taking his molestation to the next level, which apparently was sticking his hands up his shirt, which was slightly too nice for all of a second before his entire fucking head followed. Derek peeked at him through the neck hole, still purring at him almost insistently, red eyes unblinking. Seriously- Stiles is pretty god damn sure that Derek hasn't blinked in the past ten minutes.


"Yes, Derek," The Alpha's rumbling increases approvingly. In a moment of sheer insanity, he swears he can see a wagging tail. He would be a wigglebutt, his traitorous brain tells him. He tries really, really hard not to laugh at the thought of Derek, in full Alpha form, on all fours, making up for the fact that he has no official tail by wagging the entire lower half of his body like any dog with a short or docked tail. He fails. It comes out a wheezing, frantic sob.

Derek manages to wedge himself even further into his shirt, nosing into his chest.

"Dude, you're stretching it out," Stiles whines. "You owe me a new shirt."

"Safe," Derek says. She would appreciate the sentiment if he weren't completely certain of the fact that Derek popped the stitching of his shirt, oh, half a dozen places.

"Yeah, okay," he replies, mildly belligerent. Derek, satisfied with his answer, nuzzles his chest, and just goes the fuck to sleep, are you fucking shitting me-

"D-Dude, are you-" Stiles sighs. "Are you fucking kidding me." Derek mumbles something. Before he can translate it into some sort of coherent, human language, one of werewolf's hands flops around his head awkwardly before landing on his face with a slap, and then pets it reassuringly (or at least, what passes as reassuringly, but in reality Stiles is probably going to need surgery to realign his nose with the rest of his face.) He shoves it back up the abused shirt and then wraps his arms around his waist.

"Yuss," Derek says.

Stiles seethes.

Stiles fell asleep there somehow, because his phone wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn. Scott has changed his ringtone.

"GUUUURRRLLL I'M GONNA GET MYSELF A NEW MAN!" it greets cheerily in the voice of his now former best friend, with giggling from Isaac and Boyd in the back. The hatred he has for his phone is now bordering on the intensity of a thousand burning white-hot suns. He's not the only one, apparently, because oh right, Derek is still on top of him, and he's growling and holding on tighter.

"Just chill, okay," Stiles snaps, fishing his phone out of his pocket and silencing the motherfucker. The growling stops abruptly. "So, you with the world of the living yet, Sourwolf? Or are we still wandering the happy, rainbow meadow of special cookies and the Grateful Dead?"

Stiles blinks and Derek's on the other side of room, facing the wall. Also his shirt is completely fucking ruined. It's more a large scrap of fabric with a neck hole or a poncho that shrank in the wash at this point than an actual shirt. There is a large tear that is suspiciously close to where Derek's mouth was, and Stiles doesn't even want to process that right now.

"Just letting you know right now, you are getting me the most expensive shirt in the universe. This is a thing that is happening," he tells him. Stiles rips off the now-ruined shirt and throws it onto the bed. He starts to leave, and pauses upon seeing one of Derek's jackets strewn across the floor.

"Hey Derek."

He doesn't answer.

"I'm taking your fucking jacket," he states. And he does.

Three days later, the same day that he discovers an orange baby tee with the words "The Most Expensive Shirt in the Universe" emblazoned in pink, glittery letters shoved into his mailbox, he gets a text from Isaac.

hes been using ur old shirt as a safety blanket. i think its time for an intervention

Stiles twitches a little.

He gets another text a minute later.

It's a picture of Derek. Snuggling. His shirt.

Stiles screams. And screams. And screams.