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“Timmy,” Stiles says, “because I’m not the one who’s going to be in the well.”

“Jasper,” his dad says. “He looks like a Jasper.”

“Tiny?” Stiles suggests. “Just while he’s a puppy.”

His dad looks at the bundle of black and gold fur and bright eyes peering at him from the crook of Stiles’ arm.

“You can’t give a dog a dog-name,” he says. “It’s undignified. He needs a people-name.”

“Not while he’s a puppy, he doesn’t,” Stiles argues.

“He isn’t even small anymore,” his dad fires back.

“He’s tiny compared to himself,” Stiles says, and his dad snorts, but doesn’t disagree.

*

“Oh, my god,” Lydia says, when Stiles steps into the classroom on Monday morning. She’s broken off her conversation with Mindy Jenkins mid-word, Stiles is pretty sure, and cranked around in her chair to stare at him. “You got a dog.”

“Oh, did you?” Mindy asks. “Are there pictures on facebook?”

Lydia ignores her. Stiles doesn’t usually sit next to Lydia, but he takes the open seat next to her because she’s staring at him like a crazy person and it’s freaking him out and he’s kind of afraid if he doesn’t stay close she’ll leapfrog all the students between them so she can pounce on him and shake him down for deets, and Stiles just does not want to deal with that first thing Monday morning.

“I got a dog,” he says. “I thought it would be better than a cat. You know.” He gives Lydia a meaningful look. “I thought my friends might like it better, you know what I mean.”

“Do your stupid friends not like cats?” Mindy asks.

“Hey!” Lydia barks, and then freezes, completely unable to admit to possibly being Stiles’ friend.

“What?” Mindy asks obliviously. “I like cats. They’re gods, you know. In Egypt. And they would be here too, if people around here had any sense of self-preservation.”

Stiles and Lydia take a second to stare at her bland, smiling face, and then get back to their weirdly intense business. “Why did you get a dog?” Lydia asks. “Why would you do that?”

Stiles thinks about how Lydia avoided acknowledging him as a friend, how Jackson has always hated him, thinks about how Scott hasn’t had time for him since Derek became alpha and Allison’s family grudgingly accepted his presence in her life. And he thinks about how Allison and Danny have never seemed to care about him one way or the other, and that stings, though it hardly matters.

“I felt like it,” he says.

“I have to go,” Lydia says, eyes wild. “I have to tell everyone.”

She bolts for the door, abandoning her friend, Stiles, her books and her handbag.

“Is she okay?” Mindy asks, vaguely concerned.

“She doesn’t like puppies,” Stiles says. “She doesn’t like anything she can’t browbeat.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mindy says, and nods, convinced.

*

Lydia is waiting for him when the class gets out. Scott and Jackson are with her.

“Why do you all have crazy-eyes?” Stiles asks, baffled.

“You got a dog,” Jackson says, hushed, though the insanity in his eyes is screaming out loud.

“I did,” Stiles says, frowning. “His name’s Tiny. He’s not really tiny, but he’s still a puppy, so—“

“You smell like dog,” Scott says urgently.

“...I—“ Stiles says. “—have a dog?”

“We need to take this into the bathroom,” Lydia says harshly, and she’s the one with perfect control, always is, but it’s fraying around the edges enough that her voice actually cracks.

“Why?” Stiles asks, looking at the stream of students parting around their huddle and flowing onwards, no help to him at all.

“Now,” Lydia says, and the next thing he knows he’s in the boy’s bathroom and Jackson is trying to wedge the door shut.

“What’s—“ Stiles starts, but then Lydia is rubbing herself all over him, like some kind of—animal, huh, okay.

“What—“ Stiles squeaks, but Scott is encircling him from behind, chest pressed to Stiles’ back, arms brushing anywhere they can reach, and, “Boobs,” Stiles says, because Lydia’s are right there, in his face as she writhes all over his body, and she’s too distracted to care.

“Derek can’t know,” Scott says, voice high and frantic.

“He’s going to know,” Lydia says, and she sounds like she’s seriously flipping out. “How could he not know!”

And Stiles wonders about that, he does, but then Jackson succeeds in getting the door locked somehow and joins the group, and Stiles prefers not to remember anything that happened after that.

*

That was a little weird, but Stiles wasn’t actually expecting it to happen again the next day.

“Are we doing this on the regular?” he asks faintly, shoved into an abandoned classroom and gangcuddled against his will. Well, not exactly against his will, if you exclude Jackson, but definitely unexpectedly.

“Should we take our clothes off?” Jackson asks.

No,” Stiles says.

“No,” Lydia says. “Derek would smell it on him.”

“Derek smells everything,” Scott despairs.

Stiles is right there with him.

*

The next day they all stand in a circle around him and glare, after they all take turns spooning and petting him or whatever. There may have been a little licking of his neck and face involved, but Stiles has no memory of that whatsoever, he swears to God.

“You guys are worse than Tiny,” he says, when the glares persist.

“You are so lucky Derek is out of town,” Lydia mutters. “He would kill that dog. I kind of want to kill the dog and I don’t even like you that much.”

“No, he—“

“Oh!” she says, brightening. “We should kill the dog!”

“Yes,” Jackson says. “I don’t want to touch Stilinski any more, even if I get to keep my clothes on.”

No,” Stiles says, appalled.

“Hmm,” Scott says. “I mean—“

“What is wrong with you?” Stiles asks. “Okay, I don’t know what your problem is, but you are coming over tonight and meeting Tiny.” He can almost see their hackles go up. “And nobody will do anything to him,” Stiles says, aware that his voice is rocketing up the crazyscale but unable to do anything to stop it. “Nobody is even going to look at him wrong or I’m telling Derek.”

“No,” Scott shrills. “Don’t do that.”

“I should just tell Derek right now,” Stiles says, pulling his phone out. “I should tell him how insane you all are and get him to come back early, and let me tell you, it is a sad day when Derek Hale is the voice of reason, it is a—“

Lydia snatches the phone from his hand and throws it into the nearest toilet like she’s going for the winning point at Homecoming.

And okay, that was only a Galaxy, but, “You’re buying me a 4S,” Stiles says, and Lydia shrugs.

“Worth it,” she says.

*

They come over that night, eyes watchful and noses wrinkled as they draw closer to Tiny.

“I hate him,” Lydia says, because he’s cuter than she is.

“Me too!” Scott says, which, what?

Excited, Tiny bounds towards them but stops short well out of reach. He’s clever.

“Who’s a clever boy?” Stiles says fatuously, dropping to his knees so he can reward Tiny with many, many pets.

“Anyway, we’re better than he is,” Lydia says, like that means something. “We’ll win!”

“Who’s the cleverest boy?”

Scott narrows his eyes at Tiny, crouched between the pack and Stiles. “Usurper,” he mutters.

Tiny growls at the assembled threat.

“Look, he learned how to growl!” Stiles says. “He hardly even sounds like a teddybear anymore!”

“I have no idea why I care about any of this,” Lydia says, “but I’m going to cut somebody.”

“But not Tiny! Because Tiny is too cute! Don’t you just adore him? You can’t help it!”

“I expected him to be smaller,” Jackson says, sounding a little daunted but reaching out to touch.

Tiny suffers through it, but then Jackson says, “Hey, Stilinski, you don’t look anything like your dog. This little guy is way too good for you, even if he is—“ and reaches out to tap Stiles on the arm, and Tiny almost snaps his fingers off.

“Fuck!” Jackson yanks his hand back, curled into a fist.

“Wow,” Stiles says. “You dominated, Tiny.” He smacks Tiny’s nose, though he doesn’t really want to. “That’s bad, though. Bad! Ah! No biting.”

“He can smell us on Stiles,” Lydia says. “He doesn’t like it either.”

“Wait,” Scott says slowly. “Does he think you’re the alpha? Stiles, he thinks you’re the alpha!”

“The breeder told me about this,” Stiles says proudly. “They’re a loyal, intelligent breed who protect their pack, but they need a master.”

He cuts himself off before he starts babytalking to Tiny about how much Stiles loves being his master and how Tiny is such a good pack to Stiles.

He feels like they hear it anyway, and his face is flushed when he stands.

“Maybe you should go,” he says. “I don’t think Tiny Dominator likes you very much.”

Tiny Dominator growls.

“I resent this and I will not let it stand,” Lydia says. To Tiny Dominator.

They leave.

*

The pack doesn’t show up to grope him en masse the next day, and Stiles doesn’t miss it, but he expects it all through school. When he sees Lydia in class she just throws him a narrow-eyed, evaluating look, and then the pack spends lunch standing in a corner of the cafeteria blatantly staring over at him while discussing him amongst themselves.

“Why are our friends staring at us like freaks?” Allison asks, when Scott keeps returning her enthusiastic waves but not making a move to join the table. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I think they’ve just been spending too much time with Derek.”

Stiles isn’t hurt or anything, it’s just another change. There’ve been a lot of changes lately, and he’s getting a little tired of it.

When he gets home from school Tiny is stuck at the top of the stairs whining pitifully, so he spends some time trying to improvise a babygate to keep him down when he has to be alone in the house. Tiny tries to help by licking Stiles to distraction every time he gets within reach, but Stiles perseveres until a knock interrupts him.

“Hey Scott,” Stiles says, swinging open the front door.

“Hello,” Derek says, peering past Stiles.

“What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be out of town for another—“

“Your father is at work and I knew you were alone,” Derek interrupts. Rude, and also kind of creepy. “I just came by to—“

“When you say ‘came by’ you mean you hopped on over from Arizona.”

After a minute, Derek says, “Yes,” like it’s a stupid question. He’s still trying to see into the house past Stiles, but Stiles always closes Tiny in the kitchen when he’s opening the front door, because Tiny is young and liable to get lost if let outside, and Stiles hasn’t had time to get him chipped yet.

Derek leans in close in his attempt to see over Stiles’ shoulder, closer than he usually gets unless he’s shoving Stiles against a car or a tree or his own bedroom wall preparatory to growling something threatening right in Stiles’ ear, which never really has the intended effect, what with how Derek’s voice sounds when he does it, plus, that hasn’t even happened in like, a month. Stiles is deprived.

Derek is making up for the oversight now, though, hand fisting in Stiles’ shirt, face ducked into his body, nose touching his skin, and then his mouth is against Stiles’ ear, saying, “You smell.”

“I—“ Stiles says. “—What?”

“You smell,” Derek repeats, and his voice is as low and rough and hot as always, and he isn’t even threatening Stiles this time, but it’s weird enough that Stiles hardly even cares.

“I smell?”

“You smell of—“

Derek breaks off, an aggressive rumble building in his chest, and he’s reaching for Stiles when Stiles shoves him away, sends him stumbling down a step.

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘puppy’ we’re going to have a problem,” Stiles says.

“It wasn’t going to be,” Derek says, making it sound like an insult.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. “You came home early because Lydia called you to complain about my new puppy in a fit of pique.”

Yes,” Derek says, glaring at Stiles, looking totally and crazily betrayed.

“And you listened,” Stiles says. “You came.”

“Yes,” Derek says. “Obviously.”

“You know what?” Stiles says. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Move,” Derek says, “I’m coming in to—“ and Stiles shuts the door in Derek’s face.

Tiny had been quiet while Stiles spoke to Derek, but once the door closes he starts yapping frantically. Stiles knows the sound signifies approval, but then most of Tiny’s sounds do.

When he opens the kitchen door, Tiny leaps towards him like it’s eleven thirty on Valentine’s Day and Stiles is the last packet of Kisses left in the 7-11. “Yes,” Stiles says, rolling Tiny onto his back with a hand on his chest, smiling helplessly into Tiny’s ecstatic face. “You missed me! You did, didn’t you? You wouldn’t ever go away for a week and a half before randomly showing up on my doorstep to tell me I stink. No! Because you are so much better than Derek Hale. Stupid Derek. Stupid Derek would never miss me at all.”

Tiny yips, and if Stiles wishes Tiny didn’t always agree with him, well, it isn’t as if Tiny actually understands.

After all, Tiny is just a puppy.

He’s too young to get these things yet.

*

Stiles is getting out of his car in the parking lot outside the Sheriff’s Office when he sees Derek glaring at him from between two patrol-cars. Stiles ignores him and goes inside with his dad’s pill.

The rest of the pack avoided him today, probably at Derek’s instruction, because when Stiles ran Scott down in the home ec room (and Scott tried to take home ec as a freshman and caused the only evacuation of the school Stiles had to that date been party to, so Stiles knew he had no legitimate reason to be there, and Mrs. Brannigan still has that picture of Scott with a red x drawn through his face pinned to the corkboard, so he must have been avoiding her as well as Stiles) and said, “Dude, why are you all being such douchebags? You do realise you’re being a giant dick right now?” Scott had winced guiltily and said, “Derek’s dealing with this. Everything will be fine,” and when Stiles had started to ask, “Dealing with what?” Scott had ducked behind June Smith and bolted out the door, and Stiles couldn’t even give chase because that ugly cake was for her final exam. She told him all about it.

But if Derek is keeping his puppies on a leash, Stiles doesn’t understand why he’s lurking outside himself. That’s showing a serious lack of judgement, and Derek is usually—okay, sometimes—smarter than that.

Stiles drops the pill on his dad’s desk, waves at him through the glass of the meeting room, and goes out to confront Derek.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Stiles asks. “What’s wrong with everyone?”

“You smell—“ Derek says, and then he has Stiles pinned against the car, nose buried in his neck so he can breathe Stiles in, hands all over him.

“Fuck!” Stiles says, heartrate spiking, body quivering, whole being jumping to attention, and then the car alarm starts blaring.

“Wrong,” Derek says, and vanishes.

“No,” Stiles says, as deputies spill towards him. “Your face is wrong.”

*

Derek is lurking in odd places over the next couple of days, like behind a drier in the Laundromat when their machine at home breaks down and Stiles has to take a load in, or at the end of the cereal aisle in the grocery store, or in the library stacks somewhere between language and science.

“This is too close to the front,” Stiles says, as Derek’s body presses him against the stacks. “If one more person tells my dad they saw you groping me in a public place he actually might have to ask me about it, and that would just be awkward for both of us.”

“I wouldn’t have to do it in public if you would let me inside your house,” Derek says, and Stiles ignores the slow burn that ignites.

Stiles has never been capable of keeping Derek out of his house and he hasn’t suddenly decided to try; he just told his dad Tiny was sick and needed to go into the office with him. His dad is weak, and also the boss, so it’s been working out so far.

“I don’t trust you around my dog,” Stiles says as Derek’s hands shove under his shirt, then scramble his tee up until they’re on skin.

“You shouldn’t,” Derek says, face twisting.

“Uh,” Stiles says. “What is everybody’s problem with my puppy? I don’t—“

Derek’s mouth is on his throat, saliva all over the place his pulse is thudding. Stiles’ head falls back against a book that’s sticking out of the shelf—huh, Flemish dialects, he’d thought Flemish was a dialect—and when he manages to shove it back into place Derek is pulling at Stiles’ buttons and Stiles has to slap his hand away. “No taking anything off in public,” Stiles says, “this is not the Laundromat, there’s no excuse.” He lets his head fall back again anyway, the way it wants to, lets Derek’s teeth scrape against his jugular and feels all the muscles in his neck and shoulders go liquid.

“Miss Penrose is the librarian,” he moans. “And she’s going to tell my dad this time, that thing in the supermarket was a fluke—“

Derek pulls Stiles in closer, and Stiles knows he’s hard against Derek but he can’t make himself care; it’s Derek’s fault anyway.

Derek holds him there and tugs at Stiles’ tee until he can bend his head and rub his hair against Stiles’ chest.

“Uh—“ Stiles says. “That’s—“

Derek straightens. There’s a satisfied rumble coming from his chest. Stiles can’t really hear it, but he can feel it every time it happens, because Derek is always right up against him and trying to get closer.

“We’re in the library, dude,” Stiles says. “I have homework to do. I have to get home—how did you even know I was here?”

“I tracked you,” Derek says. “I can smell—I can smell you.” He dips his nose behind Stiles’ ear, and Stiles tries to stop his head from lolling to the side without much success.

“I have to get home,” he says, as Derek draws Stiles’ earlobe into his mouth. “I have to feed—ow!”

Derek’s teeth release Stiles’ earlobe and Derek retreats just enough to scowl.

“I don’t want you to have a dog,” Derek says. “I don’t want you to go home to—“

“It’s a puppy!” Stiles says, the word meaningless in his mouth by now, frustrated beyond belief. “I thought you guys would like a puppy! I thought it would be like, like a baby wolf to you! What is your problem with Tiny Dominator?”

Derek’s brow is starting to look Neanderthal, but he doesn’t answer.

“You’re going to have to get over it, because he’s my puppy, okay?”

“No,” Derek says, and when Stiles opens his mouth to argue, “You’re his.”

“But I’m—“

“We need to have this out.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “We really do. Then—hi, Miss Penrose!—you can stop scandalising the locals, okay?”

Although he feels a frisson of fear once he says that, because he doesn’t know what Derek is doing here, hands all over him, mouth everywhere but on his mouth, and he doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t know if there’s going to be anything other than surprise attacks of presence and touch as Stiles is going about his day, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

He wets his lips, says nervously, “And we can—“

“No,” Derek says. “Not you and me. Me and Tiny Dominator.”

“Are you—“ Stiles starts, breaks off to laugh hollowly. “You’re joking, right?”

Derek doesn’t look like he’s joking.

“You want to have it out with my puppy.”

“I really don’t feel there’s any point to continuing this conversation unless Tiny Dominator is present for it,” Derek says, and steps away.

“I just want you to know,” Stiles says to Derek’s retreating back, worried about the welfare of his beloved pet, “You really don’t want to do anything to him, because I like him more than I like you,” and then has to pretend he doesn’t see how hurt Derek looks.

*

Stiles is apprehensive about introducing Derek and Tiny to each other. Derek should succumb to Tiny’s manifest charms and get over his weird issues, but what if they don’t get along? What if they hate each other? Derek has a look on his face like he’s already decided.

This is going to be a disaster.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this right now,” Stiles says, slowing as he approaches the kitchen door, listening to Tiny lose his mind as they get closer. He doesn’t like keeping Tiny locked in there, but he hasn’t been able to rig anything that’ll keep him downstairs, and it’s better he be confined to one room than stranded on the landing upstairs without food or water. Stiles is probably going to have to install an actual babygate. “Maybe we should wait—“

“We’re doing this,” Derek says, and throws open the door.

Tiny’s fusillade of barks dissolves into high, staccato, joyous yelps when he sees humans.

“Hi crazy puppy,” Stiles says, helpless and fond, but Derek starts growling and Tiny’s noises sound puzzled now.

“What—“ Stiles starts, turning to Derek, who is turning into a werewolf in Stiles’ kitchen.

“—the hell!” Stiles finishes, leaping backwards in a move more acrobatic than he would’ve believed possible. He bounces off the wall and sends a picture of himself at his middle-school graduation crashing to the floor. “What the hell are you doing?”

Derek is growling steadily, staring down at Tiny, who is wagging his tail slowly, trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Stop,” Stiles says, though Derek has, face distorted but still recognisable, body still human. “Stop that right now, turn back!”

The growls increase in volume, and Tiny whines softly, distressed.

“You’re scaring—“ Stiles starts, but stops himself before he says my puppy, not sure how Derek will react to that. “This is really immature,” he says instead. “And I don’t like it at all.”

Derek’s face shifts towards Stiles, though his eyes don’t leave Tiny, belly pressed to the floor, little body wriggling anxiously.

“And you can’t talk to Tiny like this, he’s—what’s Tiny Dominator going to do? He’s a puppy! He doesn’t understand whatever the hell you’re trying to communicate, so you can stop hunching like you’re about to pounce on him because I will smack you, okay? I have a newspaper and I am not afraid to use it!”

Derek makes an exasperated noise, more human than wolf, and when he snaps his head to the side to meet Stiles’ eyes, Stiles has the incomparable experience of watching Derek’s bones shift, flesh move like it’s animated as it smooths down to human.

By which he means: gross; though that isn’t something he’s going to say to Derek right now, worked up like he is.

“Gross!” he says. Whatever, it’ll distract him. “That is so disgusting!”

“He didn’t respond,” Derek says, casting an annoyed look down at Tiny. “Why didn’t he respond properly?”

“Um, because he isn’t a baby werewolf, he’s just a baby dog?” Stiles suggests.

“That counts!” Derek says. “He can smell me, he knows I’m a challenge.”

“He doesn’t know werewolves exist, dude. He sees you as human.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Derek says. “He knows we’re in competition. Why else would he have tried to bite Jackson when he tried to touch you? You even called him Dominator, you saw what was going on, he’s trying to exert his rights—“

“Jackson wasn’t touching me, he was hitting me,” Stiles says. “Tiny was trying to protect me, because I’m his master, I’m his alpha. He isn’t the one who has rights here, Derek.”

Stiles’ breath catches when Derek looks at him, eyes dark, face shadowed and human, achingly human.

“I know,” Derek says. “I was trying to show him, but he wouldn’t acknowledge my claim.”

“Uh,” Stiles says, heart hammering. “That wasn’t—what I meant, that wasn’t—“

Derek is getting closer, ignoring Tiny yipping excitedly at his feet, not understanding why he doesn’t have Derek’s attention. He thinks he’s so big, as big as Derek, and Stiles’ dad keeps telling him not to carry Tiny around so much because he’s developing inaccurate perceptions about his own size, but he will be big one day, and Stiles wants him to know it.

“I just meant I’m the one who has authority over Tiny,” Stiles says as Derek pushes into his space, pushes against him, holds him there for it. “He doesn’t have any, he’s my puppy but he thinks we’re a pack, he thinks he’s my beta and I’m the leader—“

Derek ducks his head, brushes his face against Stiles’, mouths over the curve of his jaw.

“I’m the leader,” Stiles says, every bit of him Derek is touching shockingly awake and hungry. “I’m just saying that I’m the leader, I’m the one who—“

Derek’s hair sweeps against Stiles’ cheek, prickling Stiles and making him start as he raises his head to smile down into Stiles’ face. Stiles’ breath is shaking its way out of his mouth, but he’s too overwhelmed to do anything about it, to even consider anything but what’s in front of him, Derek’s curling lips, Derek’s warm eyes.

“You’re not the leader of this pack,” Derek says, “you know I am,” and then they’re kissing.

“I’m not—“ Stiles says when he can, but then Derek is licking into his mouth again, and there are more important things to do than speak.

When Derek’s mouth moves to Stiles’ throat, the place he always laps at like a dog, Stiles tries to speak again, but only manages to get out, “Ah!” when Derek’s teeth scrape slowly down his neck. It takes him a minute to realise he’s clawing at Derek’s shoulders, pressing his hips into Derek’s, and by then Derek is sucking at his neck and all Stiles can do is moan.

“I’m totally the alpha,” he says, once he figures out that he can speak if he moans the words.

“You don’t have authority over me,” Derek mutters into the soft skin underneath his chin.

“In my pack,” Stiles moans. “I’m not in your pack.”

Derek bites down on the flesh between his lips, and Stiles gasps, but then Derek releases him so he can hold Stiles’ head between his hands and tilt it back to glare at him. “You’re in my pack,” he says, and then his mouth is on Stiles’ neck again, and, “Fuck—“ Stiles is saying, because Derek is giving him a hickey, fuck, and Stiles’ hands are under Derek’s shirt, nails biting into his skin in a way that must be painful, and that thought just makes him dig in harder, so it’s possibly a little bit hypocritical when he says, “What the fuck, dude? How is my dad supposed to ignore that?”

“He isn’t,” Derek says.

“You have problems,” Stiles says, “You have so many serious, concerning problems,” but he’s the one offering his throat up for more, so he can’t really talk.

“I’ve never had to miss you,” Derek mumbles awkwardly.

“What?”

“I’ve never had to miss you, you’ve always been here, you’ve always been—“

And Derek’s hands are under Stiles’ shirt, pulling it over his head, doing the same with his own, and it isn’t the first time Derek has rubbed his bare chest against Stiles’, but it’s the first time Stiles has known what it meant, known where it was going to lead.

“Okay,” Stiles says, as Derek’s hands stroke over the skin on his back, on his hips, pull him in, and Stiles is shivering but he’s warm, it’s so warm. “But—“

“What?”

“I’m not in—“ Stiles starts, because he needs to understand what Derek thinks is happening here, but Derek’s eyes flash a warning, so maybe it’s a good thing Tiny starts whining for attention. “I can’t do this in front of my puppy,” Stiles says instead.

“Yes you can,” Derek says swiftly, and then Stiles’ jeans are open and his cock is in Derek’s hand.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “That’s unexpected—“

“It really isn’t,” Derek says, dragging one hand down Stiles’ dick as he shucks his own jeans with the other.

“It is,” Stiles says, indignant.

“Only to you,” Derek says. “Are you still surprised after I—“

He groans as he takes both their dicks in his big, warm hand, doesn’t finish the sentence, and Stiles can’t tell if the touch is distracting him or if he just doesn’t want Stiles to know what all the craziness was about.

“You’re going to tell me,” Stiles says, voice shaky, not able to catch his breath. He feels his back arch towards Derek, sending the top of his head down into Derek’s chest, not a bad place to be, and Derek is still jerking him off, doing them both.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, the bitten-off word sounding more like a plea than anything else.

“Yeah—“ Derek says, hand tightening, and Tiny starts yelping, high and unhappy.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, “No, I can’t—“ so Derek lifts him bodily to the other side of the kitchen door and shuts it against Tiny’s attempt to follow.

He doesn’t put Stiles down, just holds him against the closed door, grinds against him, and Stiles comes with his teeth sinking deeply into the muscle of Derek’s shoulder.

“Messy,” he says after a while, breathless, hanging onto Derek, who is still shoving up against him.

“Yeah,” Derek says, head thrown back, eyes fluttering wildly under their lids, “It’s—yeah.”

And when he comes all over Stiles’ stomach and chest and cock he just rubs it all in.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “More crap to clean up. At least Tiny doesn’t know any better.”

“Right,” Derek says, attention suddenly focussed behind the door where Tiny is still whining softly, able to smell them right beside him.

“No!” Stiles says when Derek tries to open the door, and drags him upstairs instead.

He’s been watching a lot of animal shows, so he isn’t sure where he picked this up, but he knows sometimes you need to keep pets separated for their own good.

*

Later on, just before his dad is due to get home, Stiles kicks Derek out of bed and goes down to retrieve their shirts while he cleans up.

Tiny goes insane when Stiles opens the kitchen door, like one of those people who get their feelings all over everybody else at the airport, except that Stiles saw him less than two hours ago.

“Yes,” Stiles tells him, dropping to his knees and trying to hold Tiny’s nose away from Derek all over him, “I’m happy to see you too. I missed you! I did!”

Derek calls him after a minute, and Stiles lopes back upstairs to throw his shirt at him and take his turn in the bathroom. When he gets out, towelling himself off, Derek and Tiny are staring at each other intensely.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Could you teach him to get down the stairs? That would be really helpful to me.”

“Stairs are incapable of defeating a member of my pack,” Derek says, not breaking eye-contact. “Tiny Dominator can get down them.”

“No,” Stiles says. “He really can’t. Or else his sense of humour is byzantine, man—“

“Of course it is,” Derek says.

“—and it really isn’t. Also, two hours ago didn’t you think he was a rival alpha or some crap?”

“No,” Derek says, and Stiles raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Fine. But now you’ve acknowledged you’re part of my pack and he’s recognised my claim, so he’s no longer challenging.”

“I don’t even know where to begin to—“ Stiles starts, but Derek isn’t finished.

“And he’s your puppy, of course he’s part of my pack. We’re just establishing statuses.”

“Statuses?”

Tiny drops his head to the ground and whines up at Derek, eyes wide and beseeching.

“Stop that,” Stiles says. “Stop—“

Tiny rolls onto his back and bicycles his paws in the air, displaying his belly in Derek’s particular direction.

“Oh, dude,” Stiles groans. “Did you teach my puppy you’re the alpha? Why would you do that?”

“Because he needs to recognise reality.”

“But he was supposed to be my beta!”

“He still is,” Derek says off-handedly. “So are the rest of them.”

Stiles opens his mouth, shuts it. “I want an explanation,” he says, but Derek is bending to ruffle Tiny’s fur, and then Stiles’ dad’s key is in the door and Derek is out the window.

Stiles picks Tiny up and waves his paw at the figure vanishing down the street, and all the while he’s thinking, fizzily, okay, one more, one more change.

Then he pretends he never did that.

“Deliberately obtuse asshole,” Stiles says, and smiles as Tiny yelps his agreement, because no matter the pecking order, Tiny will always love Stiles the most.

*

A couple of weeks after that, Stiles is asleep in Derek’s bed when he’s woken by Scott’s voice outside.

“Keep him away from me!” he says desperately. “Lydia, don’t let him, don’t let him, why is he looking at me like that!”

“I warned you this would happen,” Lydia’s voice says triumphantly, although she’d done no such thing. She’d thought they’d win, hah. “You need to learn to fight your corner, because say what you like about being Stiles’ best friend, Tiny Dominator is—“

“Coming with me,” Derek interrupts. “Find something to do and stop bothering us.”

They scuffle away, and a minute later Derek’s weight dips the mattress beside Stiles. “Hey,” Stiles says, face still hidden in the pillow.

“Mm,” Derek greets, settling his chin on Stiles’ shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

“Did you put him to bed?”

“Tiny’s big enough not to need to be put to bed,” Derek says.

“Okay,” Stiles says, because Derek is always right about things like that, even stupid stuff like the stairs. He knows more about the development of puppies than Stiles had ever managed to internalise by listening to Cesar and chums on a never-ending loop. And now he has Derek he doesn’t need to do that anymore. Score!

“Wait,” Stiles says, belatedly suspicious. “He isn’t allowed to sleep on the bed.”

“Of course not,” Derek says innocently.

“I don’t want him picking up bad habits,” Stiles says, struggling to stay awake. “I have to maintain a proper bedtime and routine—“

“You know,” Derek says, “if you wanted a cub you could have just told me. You didn’t have to get a puppy as a substitute. That never works.”

“Okay, shut up,” Stiles says blurrily. “I didn’t hear that, I’m asleep.”

And then, Derek close and comfortable behind him, Tiny a warm weight settling onto his feet, he is.