#jerakeenc

“This is bullshit,” Stiles says, dropping down on the couch next to Kira. He's early to the pack meeting for once, and there's only Kira and Scott and Liam. “How is Derek qualified to judge our dates? I mean, you and Scott are so lucky you don't have to put up with this crap, right Liam?”

“Um.” Liam pokes his head of the kitchen – he's got his hands full of soda bottles, his hair is sticking up all over like a tiny baby hedgehog. He looks at Stiles with wide, endearing eyes - geez, Stiles just wants to hook him around the neck and give him a friendly noogie - and says, “What?”

Stiles waves a hand at him. “He's not even the alpha! I get that he's all damaged by psychos and evil druids and shit, but the worst I've done is, like, go out with that barista last year that wouldn't stop calling me ‘bro’.” Really fucking annoying, yeah, but definitely not dangerous or traumatic. Like—Derek can ease off, okay, Stiles isn't going to get himself accidentally killed going to pizza with that library lady who keeps making eyes at him when he asks her for all the heavy books on German folklore. Probably.

“I'm not sure I know what you're talking about,” Liam says carefully, setting down his treasures on the coffee table.

Stiles snags a Mountain Dew and says, “Exactly.” No one knows what's going on with Derek, it's weird. Or not weird, because, honestly, when does anybody know what's going on with Derek – he's like everyone's estranged cousin that lurks around at holidays and is possibly a homeless professional mini-golfer. He doesn't like talking about himself, is what Stiles is getting at, and the silently judging eyebrows are getting on his last nerve. No one who's lived in a diseased ridden abandoned train depot has any room to point fingers at anybody else's life choices. “Now, the important question is: are we ordering pizza?”

*

Stiles and Malia never actually broke up; it was more like they agreed to see other people and then just forgot to see each other, too.

So, like, it's weird in the least possible way when they hang. They eat like they've been starving themselves all week and watch movies and they cuddle a little, because Stiles likes to cuddle and sometimes Malia indulges him. It's like if Scott was a girl but also heartless and not anything like Scott at all as a person.

There's also the potential for strings-free making out, which Stiles is always down with.

Stiles cell buzzes halfway through Thor and he lifts it up over his face from where he's sprawled out with his head in Malia's lap.

It's Derek. Of course.

Malia says, “Don't answer it,” but not like she actually cares if he does or not. She's just reacting to Stiles's tortured groan, because he's beginning to understand that it's Derek's mission in life to ruin everything.

He answers and says, “No,” and, “I'm comfortable, dude, I'm not moving for anything less than life or death.”

There's a lengthy pause, and then Derek says, “Scott's been attacked.”

*

“What the hell, man,” Stiles says, because he should have been so suspicious about that lengthy pause, oh my god.

Derek scowls at him, arms crossed.

“No,” Stiles says, wagging a finger at him, “you don't get to pout over this. How in the world does this translate to Scott being attacked?” Those words should never be uttered so recklessly – Stiles nearly had a heart attack, there might have been crying, okay, and he's sure everyone in the pack will know that by tomorrow, thanks to Malia.

“It's been savaged,” Derek says, almost petulant, and yes, yes this— whatever-it-was has been savaged, but this whatever-it-was is not Scott.

“I'm pretty sure this was a deer, dude,” Mason says, because Mason is there, of course he is, Stiles isn't even needed as the token human here, and Stiles doesn't care if it's a deer or not, because he's not looking at it. If he doesn't look at it, there's less of a chance of him throwing up.

There are dead, savaged deer parts all over the McCall front lawn. It's concerning, Stiles will grant that, but Stiles will never forgive Derek for letting him think, even for one second, that this was Scott.

“You are the worst,” Stiles says to Derek, and Derek at least has the good grace to look slightly shame-faced. Until his gaze shifts to Malia and he goes back to scowling at everyone. Ugh. The worst.

“All right, guys,” Scott says, and he's giving Stiles his play nice frown, like Derek's bad mood is Stiles's fault, when all Stiles was doing was having a nice, relaxing night without mutilated wildlife. “Let's bag what we can and take it to Deaton's.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles says, and gives Derek the stink-eye.

*

“Dogs,” Deaton says. He has the gruesome remains of the deer spread over an exam table, and Stiles has to fight not to cover his nose.

“You mean wolves,” Stiles says, and Deaton shakes his head and says, “Perhaps,” which tells them absolutely nothing.

Stiles throws up his hands. “Come on. Most likely scenario here is another pack challenging Scott, right?” Not ideal, but at least they know how to deal with that. Scott goes all True Alpha on their asses and the rest of them loom threateningly in the background – it's pretty great.

Derek frowns. “It doesn't smell like wolves. Or dogs,” he says, tipping his head toward Deaton.

Stiles doesn't know how he can smell anything but rotting deer parts, but sure. “So not a dog or a wolf but like a dog or a wolf—”

“More than one, most likely,” Deaton says, and Stiles points at him.

“Yeah, okay. I'm going to go home and research. Malia can—”

“We're going to do a sweep of the preserve first,” Derek says, and then tilts his chin up like he's daring Stiles to contradict him, even though this is Scott's show he's trying to run here.

Scott is the king of let's all just get along, though, now that he's been promoted and has a junior werewolf and responsibilities, and Stiles can sympathize with the Derek-fondness, he kind of grows on you, sometimes Stiles wants to pinch his cheeks or kiss him or whatever. He's hot, okay, and Stiles has little to no self-preservation, this has been established several times over the past couple years.

Scott says, “Pair up. We'll meet back here in an hour. Howl if you find anything.”

The obvious choice for Stiles to pair up with would be Malia, except Lydia's there without Parrish, and no one wants to leave Lydia and Derek alone, that's sort of an unspoken agreement with all parties.

Stiles sighs and pats Derek on the shoulder and says, “Come on, big guy. Let's get this over with.”

*

Stiles hears the growls, the roars, the—yelping?— before he even breaks into the clearing, bat held high, skidding to a stop in front of Derek and—a puppy.

A really big puppy; honestly, the only reason Stiles is so sure it's a puppy is the way its paws don't quite match up with its body and the three pairs of liquid don't hurt me eyes staring up at him from its crouch on the grass.

“Awww,” Stiles says, lowering his weapon. How cute is that? Creepy, you know, because of the three heads, but seriously, awwwwww.

Derek, still wolfed out, growls, and the puppy whines and shrinks into itself and if it weren't for the blood all over its muzzle and the giant stockpile of dead animals it's guarding, Stiles would be inclined to try and pet it.

And then Scott comes roaring into the clearing, all red eyes and posturing, and the puppy scrambles to hide behind Derek, of all people, and Scott's wolf face looks really fucking endearing when he's confused.

Lightning cracks into the ground when Kira appears, and it would've been a really impressive showing if she didn't run right into a poleaxed Scott and trip over her own feet.

Everyone is quiet for three whole seconds. The monster of a dog whines and—bumps one of its faces into the back of Derek's legs, Jesus.

Kira says, “A puppy!” and claps her hands.

*

The puppy – “It's like a Cerberus!” Mason says excitedly while playing tug-o-war with two out of the three heads – has apparently killed three mountain lions, four deer, an unknown quantity of bunnies, one raccoon, two pheasants, and what looks like Mrs. Whiley's geriatric cat. It's hard to tell for sure. Peanut, as Mason has been calling it, doesn't leave much more identifying parts than the fur.

“He can't stay in my loft,” Derek says, and everyone ignores him, because Peanut is wagging his tail and slobbering all over the furniture and generally being huge and adorable.

Stiles says, “You'll have to get a really big dog bed.” The food bill alone is going to be astronomical.

“He's the size of a small horse!” Derek says. “He has three heads.” He's starting to sound desperate, especially since Peanut has placed one head on his knee, blinking up at him like Scott does after the last chocolate chip cookie is gone.

“Mr. Maloney had an alligator in his basement for ten years,” Stiles says, “no one even knew it was there until he died.” A three-headed dog might be harder to hide, sure, but the majority of the population in Beacon Hills still has no idea about the supernatural, despite the fact that, like, three hundred fifty people have been mysteriously murdered-slash-disappeared over the past three years. They're not exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer.

“Stiles,” Derek says through his teeth, “have you thought about when this thing grows up?”

Stiles eyes up Peanut, thinks about the fact that his paws are the size of dinner plates; that he has razor sharp teeth and an appetite for bloody raw meat that might, maybe, escalate past the point they can reasonably handle. “Huh.”

Mason says to him, “But we can keep him, right?” and when did Stiles become the Pack Dad, this should not be his decision.

“We can't,” Derek says, and just to be contrary Stiles says, “We can.”

He totally doesn't mean it. There's no way they can keep a baby hell hound, even if they are a radically diverse wolf pack. From the way Lydia and Malia are glaring at him, he's probably going to regret saying anything later on.

The pissy way Derek gets to his feet and flounces from the room is totally worth it, though.

*

What Stiles didn't anticipate, what none of them probably anticipated, is that Derek gets attached.

Like, goes running with him at three in the morning and buys whole dead cows for him attached. He's even been too busy to interrupt Stiles's past two dates, Stiles got to make out for a half hour the other night before everything felt just too weird and wrong. He'd found Derek watching old Adam Sandler movies with Peanut cuddled up on his lap, back end puddled on the floor.

Which makes it all the more heartbreaking when Stiles has to sit down with him and explain how Deaton figured out a way to send him back.

“Back where?” Derek says, head cocked, and Stiles wants to grab his hands across the table and rub his thumbs soothingly over his wrists; it's a weird vibe, Stiles gets that, so he definitely does not follow through.

“To hell,” Stiles says. “You know. Where he's from?”

Derek's mouth quivers and Stiles cannot be held responsible for what he does if Derek starts crying. There will probably be ill-advised hugging involved.

Luckily for him Derek just punches the wall and storms out.

*

During his third uninterrupted date with Josh, Stiles just isn't feeling it. There's, like, an anticipation that isn't there anymore, like the thrill of being caught—and he's so fucked, crap.

What's the point of dating if Derek isn't going to be there to tell him how he's doing it wrong?

And this time he knows it's not even because of Peanut, because Peanut is gone, and Stiles had stayed well away from that sob-fest; Derek wasn't even the only one, he's pretty sure Mason has cried himself to sleep every night since.

So Derek is sad and not thinking about all the ways Josh is going to destroy the pack by dating Stiles and all Stiles can think about is Derek sitting in his lonely loft without a boon companion and this is why Stiles ends up at Derek's door with a labradoodle at 10 AM the next morning.

“Stiles, what are you doing?” Derek says. He's got sleep creases on his face and there's a lot of bare skin, Stiles should be used to that by now but it always seems to make him warm all over regardless.

“Surprise?” he says, holding up the puppy in front of his face.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “What.”

Stiles shoves the puppy at Derek and Derek automatically grabs him and glares at Stiles over the fluffy, curly head.

“What,” Derek says again, more forcefully, and Stiles shrugs.

“I know you miss Peanut,” Stiles says. “I thought, maybe—” Derek doesn't have to keep him, obviously, but he even sort of looks like Peanut. If you squint.

“You—” Derek closes his eyes, like he's in deep mental pain, and then the puppy starts licking all over his face and who can resist that?

“Awww, he likes you,” Stiles says, reaching out to rub his ears.

Derek sighs and says, “What's his name?” and Stiles can't believe Derek is placing that responsibility in his hands, this is miraculous – he's been secretly calling him James Van Der Beek all morning, but there's a ninety-eight percent chance that'll get an automatic veto, so Stiles says, “Jimmy?”

Derek flops the puppy over his shoulder and turns away from the door, leaving it open in silent invitation. He says, “All right, fine,” and Stiles does a fist-pump that turns into an awkward hand through his hair when Derek gives him an eyebrow over his shoulder, whatever, he got to name the puppy!

And now they're – he watches as Derek carefully sets Jimmy down on the tile floor of the kitchen and then starts rifling through the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs – having breakfast?

Okay, sure, Stiles could eat.

*

For some reason, Stiles figured Derek would be the ultimate dog trainer. Like he would just growl at Jimmy and the puppy would fall in line. This is apparently a gross misconception, considering the fact that Jimmy eats half of Derek's couch the first week, chews all the bottom kitchen cabinets, topples the trash and vomits paper towels all over the living room and sleeps smack dab in the middle of Derek's bed, curled up in a ball of covers and muddy sheets. He's not really great at remembering to ask to go outside to piss and shit, either, it smells like a pet store at the loft, Stiles isn't sure how Derek and his super sniffer can stand it.

“Dude,” Stiles says, looking at the giant pile of chewed shoes Jimmy has left by the front door.

Derek says, defensively, “He's learning,” and calls Jimmy over from where he's cowering behind the kitchen island, because he knows he's done something wrong, he's a smart dog, Derek just has no idea what to do with him.

“He's learning that you're a chump,” Stiles says, kicking a pair of sneakers aside. “How are you so bad at this?”

Derek glares at him from where he's giving Jimmy belly rubs and cooing about what a good boy he is, which is patently false. Truly, it's great to see Derek so happy over dog ownership, but something has to be done, Jimmy's going to completely destroy the entire apartment within a month.

“Okay, that's it, I'm taking over,” Stiles says.

“What do you know about training a dog?” Derek says, but he sounds more curious than put-out.

Stiles says, “Absolutely nothing,” but he's confident he can figure it out.

*

Jimmy is a lost cause.

Stiles is slumped next to Derek on the couch and Jimmy is eating one of the legs of the coffee table and Stiles is just counting it as a win that he kind of, sort of, got Jimmy to start pooping outside.

“It's just a phase,” Stiles says. Puppies chew shit, right? Jimmy will totally grow out of eating all the furniture and TV remotes, Stiles is sure.

“Right,” Derek says. He's sitting extra close to Stiles because half the couch is still a mess of ripped foam and fabric and gnawed wooden frame. He says, “Thanks for trying,” and Stiles is—weirded out, honestly, because he can't think of anything that Derek has thanked him for, ever, including all the times he's saved him from certain death.

“Uh. You're welcome?” Stiles says, and then Derek kisses him.

It's not a bad kiss in any way. In fact, it's a fantastic kiss, Derek wraps his arms around Stiles's waist and pulls him onto his lap, and Stiles brings his hands up and cradles Derek's cheeks, stubble surprisingly soft under his palms. He groans into Derek's mouth, settles deeper so their hips slot up—and then he pushes his face away.

He says, “What?” fingers still curved under Derek's ears.

Derek looks dazed and dark-eyed, and forty-seven percent of Stiles wants to dive right back in there, but the majority of his brain is going what the actual fuck?

“Stiles,” Derek says, voice raspy, and Stiles says, “What's going on here?” because he honestly has no clue.

Derek's face starts to shut down and Stiles tugs on his ears and says, “Oh no. No, no, no, you don't get to do that, you need to tell me what's happening,” and there's a brief flare of annoyance in Derek's eyes before he starts trying to push Stiles back onto the couch beside him.

“What do you think is happening?” Derek says, smart-mouthed, and Stiles tugs on his ears harder and shoves his elbows out so Derek can stop his half-hearted pushing, because Stiles is going to maintain eye contact here and figure out just why the fuck Derek Hale would kiss him.

It just doesn't—

Wait.

“How many times have you cock-blocked Liam in the past month?” Stiles says.

Derek makes a face. “Why would I—” He cuts himself off, presses his lips together and Stiles is so onto him now, holy shit.

Stiles says, “Mason?”

Derek looks at the ceiling.

“Malia?” Stiles says, and Derek spares him an incredulous glance, because, yeah, that shouldn't even be a question, Malia would turn into a coyote and eat Derek's balls.

The tops of Derek's cheeks and ears are turning pink and his palms are resting loosely on Stiles's thighs and Stiles is still sitting on his lap, and apparently Stiles has been missing all the signs Derek has been really terrible at giving for months.

“Huh,” he says.

Derek takes a deep breath and says, “You don't have to—”

“Oh my god, seriously,” Stiles says, and kisses him.

*

Jimmy sleeps in the middle of the bed and hogs all the covers and straightens his legs out and pushes Stiles off the side sometime in the wee small hours.

He sits on the floor, naked and stunned, and watches Derek roll over and spoon the furry monster in his sleep. Jimmy slits his eyes open and stares at Stiles and he's all but convinced he's accidentally gotten another demon spawn for Derek until Jimmy yawns and twists up into a sitting position, giving Stiles, like, five extra inches to wriggle back onto the mattress.

Derek sleepily reaches for his arm and tugs him closer, so Jimmy is sandwiched tightly between them.

The dog huffs and shakes the bed when he lurches up and off, and Derek smiles over at Stiles and buries his face in his throat. “Learning,” he says, voice muffled.

“Do you need any help?” Derek pops out a claw and takes a step toward her and Stiles says, “Don't you dare,” and for once Derek actually listens to her.

He sighs and squats down a few feet away. He looks—there's something about his eyes that Stiles can't quite parse. She'd worry about that more if her hands weren't numb and her head didn't hurt so much. If she could just get her one thumb out—

“Here,” Derek says, and this time Stiles doesn't protest when he offers a claw.

She says, “This is so embarrassing.”

Derek frowns at her, but doesn't say anything. He rips the ropes off and helps Stiles to her feet and when Stiles wobbles he just—scoops her up.

Stiles wants to bury her face in his throat and she also wants to kick him in the nuts. She settles on scowling at the side of his face because her feet really hurt, running through the woods barefoot had been one of the least smartest thing she's ever done, but it's not like she had a choice in the matter. She's lucky she's wearing pants; sometimes her room gets hot at night.

As Derek shoulders his way through the door, a small, tiny part of her is satisfied with the pile of bodies outside the room – she's pretty sure none of them are dead, but that's only because deep down inside Derek is a good guy, both these things should not be as hot as they actually are, right? Ugh, she's so screwed.

“This is the worst,” she says.

Derek gives her a look. He's judging her, she knows he is, but he also doesn't put her down when they reach the open air and find baby Liam and Kira keeping watch.

She says, “Where's Scott?” because Scotty is her bro. Her alpha. Her alpha bro. The one true bro to rule all bros – it's possible she's lost a little more blood than she'd thought.

“Here,” Scott says and melts out of the shadows, all red-eyed and covered in a truly spectacular amount of blood. Scott doesn't kill anyone lightly, he's worse than Derek; she's pretty sure something bad must have happened.

“Crap,” she says, panicked. “Oh, fuck, is it my dad? Melissa? What's going on?” She wriggles in Derek's arms, trying to get him to put her down, but he just tightens his hold around her thighs and hitches her closer to his chest – she grabs onto his shirt and twists the material in her fists.

Scott's face does this weird crumple-thing and then he's falling onto her, and both her and Derek are enveloped in this huge, confusing hug and Derek grunts but doesn't move away.

“Uh.” She pushes at Scott's chest with an elbow, but he just clings to them harder. “Dude, are you crying?”

“No,” Scott says, and then totally wipes his snotty nose all over her sleeve.

Derek says, “You're a moron,” and Stiles would be more offended if she had any idea what was going on.

Scott lets her go and says, “You've been missing for three days,” and Stiles says, “I have not,” because she hadn't lost that much time, right?

Scott looks like he's going to hug her again but Stiles lets go of Derek long enough to shove a hand at him and Derek growls and says, “We don't have time for this,” and Stiles tries to think about what all has gone on since she'd bravely investigated that weird sound in her yard in the middle of the night, baseball bat in hand, apparently three days ago. Huh.

She can feel Derek flex his arm muscles around her and that does not feel awesome at all, no siree. She says, “I can walk,” even though she clearly can't, and Derek's eyebrows say as much. Whatever.

Three days.

Her dad is going to be so mad.

Scott jogs ahead and opens Derek's mom car for them, and Derek carefully places her in the back seat and then moves in next to her, tossing his keys at Liam's head.

“I'm fine,” Stiles says, but everyone ignores her and piles in around her and she's finally warm, huh, Kira snuggled up on her other side, and she hadn't even realized she'd been cold in the first place. And then the next thing she knows Derek's clutching her in his arms again and they're at the hospital.

*

“I'm fine,” Stiles says to her dad.

Her dad sweeps hair off her forehead and has watery eyes and there's a rhythmic beeping that is freaking Stiles out, even though she knows it's her own heart monitor.

“Thank god,” her dad says, and it's terrible, Stiles hates making him feel this way.

Derek is looming behind the sheriff, arms crossed and mouth unimpressed, and Scott is holding her hand on the other side of the bed, and he better not start crying again because Stiles seriously can't handle this anymore.

She has a sprained ankle and a concussion, cuts along her wrists and feet. She's dehydrated and starving and exhausted, but she's totally fine otherwise. They're only keeping her overnight to keep an eye on her head, there's going to be no more weeping over her prone body if she can help it.

She kicks everyone out after the fifth time Scott honest-to-god whimpers, and everyone goes except Derek, of course, because he's Derek and he does whatever the hell he likes, including picking her up from school and carrying her book bag and attempting to glare Lydia out of rooms – like that would work – and standing in front of her at Hunter-Pack meetings and giving her the last can of Dr. Pepper before Liam can get it and—

“Are you shitting me?” she says, staring up at him, because of course he's looming like a creeper and not using the guest seat her dad had left pulled up to her bedside.

Derek frowns. “What?”

Stiles's head hurts. She doesn't need this, oh my god. She tilts her head back and mouths unbelievable up at the ceiling and then looks at Derek again. “Come down here,” she says.

Derek frowns some more.

“Come on.” She pats the edge of the bed and Derek cautiously comes toward her, like she's being the unreasonable one here, like she's the wolf with all the supernatural powers and she'll try to cut off his balls or something if he comes too close. To be fair, she's threatened him with that before, but it'd been after lacrosse, she'd been fed up with Jackson and her shin had hurt from where she'd tripped over her own stick and she hadn't needed him carrying her equipment, what had he even been doing there at practice, Jesus Christ.

But when he gingerly sits on the mattress next to her, she reaches out for his face, hands cupped over his fuzzy cheeks, fingers under his ears.

“I'm not a moron,” she says, and then she kisses him.

And it's awesome.

Derek's mouth tastes like coffee and dead things, like he'd been up for days looking for her and he had and that's simultaneously the worst and coolest thing ever, Stiles really needs to stop getting kidnapped.

Derek's hands curl over her upper arms and he gently presses her back against the bed and then he stops kissing her, which is seriously a shame, wow, but he looks stunned and hopeful and Derek is such an asshole, why didn't he just tell her?

“I'm going to go to sleep,” she says, letting go of his face, and she watches Derek swallow hard and nod.

He looks resigned and stupid and like he isn't her very own superhero – which she doesn't need, by the way, it's just kind of nice to know he's there, just in case.

She pats his leg. It's not even close to a grope, his eyes don't have to do that maidenly shocked thing, geez, how is Derek a grown man?

“And then,” she says, because apparently Derek needs everything spelled out for him, never mind the fact that it took a while for Stiles to catch on - there had been burning hostility between them since they'd first met, Derek has a very limited range of facial expressions - “we're going to do that again.”

Because his soulmark?

Is not easily covered up by a dainty little band like the ones Lydia wears – color matching her outfit of the day of course. Even the obnoxious thick thing Jackson wraps around his wrist wouldn't cover up Stiles' mark. It's not really that unusual – some people have super long names or a huge signature. And then there's cases such as Scott's – his soulmate's name is written in Japanese letters – from top to bottom, not left to right, so conventional American soulmark bracelets don't cover up his either. But the Asian countries have started picking up on covering their soulmarks over the last few years and Scott's options are increasing rapidly. The Japanese in particular have been developing these plasters that you can put on your soulmark that come in a wide variety of colors and designs – Stiles special ordered a Captain America one for Scott for his birthday that he's been wearing ever since.

But Stiles would have to put plasters on pretty much his entire arm, or wear like five bracelets, and there'd still be parts of his soulmark on display.

Because yes, his soulmate is a dog.

A huge dog, that left a huge paw mark on his arm that almost wraps around his wrist entirely and goes along half the length of his forearm. The middle claws even extend to the bottom of his hand.

Safe to say that Stiles only ever wears long sleeve shirts. And three soulmark bracelets to be on the safe side.

So yes, Stiles is committed to the life of a dog gentleman – and no, that does not mean bestiality, soulmarks don't have to be sexual or even romantic. There's plenty of ace or aro people with soulmates; a lot of twins actually end up with matching soulmarks.

But unless Stiles' soulmate is a furry, then his soulmate is a huge dog, probably part wolf. (And yes, the dog is preferable to the furry, if Stiles is honest, no offense meant.)

He feels a brief flare of hope when Scott gets himself bitten and turns into a werewolf. He even makes him press his shifted hand into some ink and then onto a piece of paper. But the only thing he gets to show for that is a smudged hand print with a serious case of overgrown fingernails and a week of Scott not speaking with him.

(Scott got into it too much and tried to lick the ink of his paw, err hand, and got a blue tongue for his efforts. Stiles laughed. No one was happy the following week.)

And so his hope that his soulmate might be a werewolf died a quick and inky death.

(That hope had nothing to do with a particular grumpy werewolf who had somehow managed to keep his soulmark hidden even though he spent most of the time half naked. Nope, not at all.)

Scott's soulmark finally makes sense when Kira becomes a part of their lives. Stiles can't even be mad when Scott switches his Captain America cover plaster for one with a fox on it; they're just so cute.

But Stiles' soulmark is still pointing towards some canine loving, until, until, Derek Hale goes and gets himself evolved.

Which incidentally is why Stiles is standing in front of Derek's loft right now, pounding on his door.

“Derek Hale, I know you are in there, I saw your mum car! Open up or I'm going to tell everyone about your little furry problem and no, I'm not talking about a badly behaved rabbit!”

His next knock isn't met with any resistance, making him stumble forward and almost crash into Derek who is looking decidedly unimpressed.

“Stop screaming, no one's going to hear you here anyways. And I don't need a badly behaved rabbit, I have you, haven't I?”

Stiles mock glares and shoulders past Derek. He decidedly does not tingle or anything ridiculous like that at the idea of Derek having him.

“Now what do you want, Stiles?”

Derek is leaning back against the door, arms crossed against his chest, and no, dammit, Stiles still doesn't tingle.

He forces himself to concentrate on what he came here for.

“I want you to shift!”

He reflexively points finger guns at Derek who just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Let out your wolf? Evolve? Get your freak on? Get in touch with your wild side?”

Stiles would have probably kept going for ages, but Derek interrupts him there.

“I know what you mean, Stiles. But why?”

“Because I don't want to become a dog lover!”

Derek's other eyebrow joins the first at Stiles' outburst. But, god, he thought he didn't have a soulmate for most of his life and this is pretty much his last chance and his brain is going a mile a minute and his heart is beating at least twice as fast.

“You … don't want to become a dog lover?” Derek repeats, the unspoken 'have you completely lost your mind' loud and clear.

“Just, just shift, okay? Please?” Stiles, well, whines. He hasn't got the brainpower to explain his childhood trauma of googling 'Is my soulmate a dog?'. Tears were shed that day.

Thankfully Derek seems to get that because he doesn't say anything else, just rolls his eyes and steps away from the door.

And then he sheds not only his shirt – Stiles has become used to that as much as you can become used to Derek Hale's abs – but also his tighter than tight pants, leaving him in nothing but a pair of – actually, scratch that, leaving him in nothing at all!

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and he can feel his cheeks grow hot. He can't see it, but he can feel Derek judging him. There is a moment of silence and then a cold and wet nose touches his hand, his left hand, the one with the soulmark wrapped around the wrist above. Stiles isn't proud to say that he squeaks. Loudly.

His eyes snap open again and he finds himself caught by a pair of electric blue eyes staring up at him.

“Hey buddy,” his voice is barely above a whisper when he sinks down on his knees in front of Derek who just looks at him calmly.

“Sorry, I know I'm moving fast, but I just can't not know,” Stiles continues, taking off his outer shirt and shoving up the left arm of the one he's still wearing. He can tell Derek is becoming antsy when he starts unwrapping his soulmark bracelets one by one.

But before Derek can move away, Stiles lifts his left arm, palm turned towards Derek, soulmark huge and black on display for anyone outside his family for the first time in his life, and grabs Derek's paw with his right hand, pressing it to his soulmark.

It fits.

Perfectly so, down to the claws resting gently on his palm.

Stiles chokes back a sob and presses his eyes shut again to keep back the tears that suddenly sprang to his eyes, so he doesn't see, only feels the paw turn back into a hand that wraps around his wrist gently, tugging his arm down again until it's lying on his lap, hand still holding his wrist, almost holding his hand.

Stiles tries to focus on anything but the fact that this hand is Derek's hand and that it is in Stiles' lap, but the only other thought his brain manages to keep hold of for more than the blink of an eye is that Derek was naked before he transformed into a wolf and unless he has some selkie pelt shedding going on, he's still naked now. And has his hand in Stiles' lap.

“Stiles. Open your eyes.”

Derek's voice is very calm and seemingly friendly, but Stiles still shakes his head widely.

“You're naked!”

There's a sigh and some rustling, followed by Derek saying:

“I'm covered now.”

When Stiles carefully peeks through one eye he sees that Derek has wrapped Stiles' abandoned shirt around his waist in a very thin, very short make-shift toga.

“I wouldn't call that covered,” Stiles grumbles, but he does open his eyes fully.

Derek looks at him earnestly, eyes back to their definition defying hazel green gray. When he doesn't say anything for a few heartbeats, Stiles can't help asking the question that has been on his mind since that paw touched his soulmark.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

If his voice comes out more plaintive than he'd have liked it to, then Derek at least doesn't react to it. He just turns up the earnestness a notch and tightens the hold his hand has on Stiles' wrist ever so slightly.

“I didn't know, Stiles, I promise.”

Something of Stiles' disbelief must have shown in his face, because Derek first looks unsure for a moment and then determined.

And then he lifts his left arm so that Stiles can see his wrist, and more importantly, see his soulmark.

“I don't even know how to pronounce that!” Derek adds and the tiny little pout that he forms afterwards is the last straw for Stiles. He cracks up, nervous energy transferring itself to laughter, rather than the tears threatening just moments before, because here he is, no longer soulmateless after all, sitting on the floor opposite a mostly naked Derek Hale who is pouting because he can't pronounce Stiles' name that is written on his wrist.

He sobers up again quickly and copies Derek, taking a gentle hold of his left wrist and tugging it down to rest next to their other joined hands in Stiles' lap. He can't help but stroke his thumb over the soft skin on the inside where his name stands.

“I'll teach you,” he says, a grin slowly breaking out across his face because things are finally computing.

Stiles Stilinski has a soulmate!

And he isn't covered in fur! Well, most of the time.

“Promise?”

And he's talking to him, whoops.

“Promise.” Stiles nods and then all thoughts flee from his mind because Derek's lips are touching his and Stiles Stilinski has a soulmate that wants to kiss him!