So far, college has taught Stiles three things:
1) Eight am classes are cruel and unusual and should be avoided at all costs, even if it means having to enroll in something truly hideous instead, like Econ 101.
2) Dorm security is just as tight as Stiles’ orientation leader had promised it would be, and the dude guarding Scott’s dorm in particular does not respond well to bribes.
3) Mrs. McCall clearly had no clue what she was talking about when she’d insisted that Scott and Stiles needed to branch out and room with strangers, so it’s all her fault that Scott ended up with a total dick of a roommate and Stiles got stuck all the way across campus with some guy who has a girlfriend two towns over and is thus never around.
Which means it is also her fault that Stiles has resorted to climbing his way up the back of Scott’s dorm building in order to knock on his window.
He’s on his third round of taps when the window suddenly flies open and there’s Scott, wielding a baseball bat. Stiles yelps, lets go of the window sill, and plummets.
Granted, it’s only ten feet, give or take, but still. Ow.
“Stiles!” Scott hisses, leaning out of the window to frown down at him. “What are you doing?”
“You weren’t answering your phone!” Stiles says, wincing as he sets up. God damn it, ow, ow, that is going to leave a bruise. “It’s 11:30, why the hell are you in your pajamas? And why do you have a bat?”
“I was tired,” Scott says defensively, totally ignoring the question of the baseball bat. “And... Jackson wanted an early lights out.”
Stiles snorts. “You mean he was worried about getting his beauty sleep,” he mutters. Scott has no response for that, either, which means Stiles is totally right.
“Okay, come on,” he says, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “Get dressed, meet me out front in five minutes.”
“For what?” Scott asks, trying and mostly failing to keep his voice to a whisper.
“Frat party,” Stiles grins. “Totally informal rush thing, I hear - it’s in the middle of the woods. How cool is that?”
“It’s a Tuesday night,” Scott protests. “I have class!”
Stiles shuts him down with a look. “We’re going,” he says, then offers Scott a jaunty wave before taking off for the front of the dorm.
“Are you kidding me?” he asks. “Tell me I’m seeing things, Scott, tell me I’m hallucinating here.”
“He woke up when I tripped over my shoes,” Scott says sheepishly. “And then he wanted to come.”
“How did you even hear about this?” Jackson asks, shooting Stiles a look filled with that special brand of disdain only he seems able to manage. “You sure some upperclassman isn’t sending you on a snipe hunt?”
“Hilarious,” Stiles snaps. “A guy on my floor has an older brother in one of the frats, and he passed the invite along to the rest of us. It’s legit, okay? A chance for everyone to scope each other out.”
“We’ll see about that,” Jackson mutters, then pulls out his phone and starts texting, a clear demonstration of his intent to ignore Stiles and Scott the rest of the way to the party, which is just fine by Stiles.
Scott still looks vaguely sheepish and apologetic, but Stiles just bumps his shoulder with his own.
“This’ll be fun, yeah?” he says cheerfully. “Get excited, Scott, this is step one in our pursuit of the true college experience!”
“I have a nine am lecture tomorrow,” Scott says mournfully.
Stiles slings an arm around his shoulder and marches him determinedly in the direction of the woods that surround campus. “Guys in fraternities?” he says. “Get invited to the parties that the sorority girls throw.”
“Well,” Scott says, obviously perking up. “I don’t think my professor really takes attendance, anyway.”
“That’s my boy,” Stiles says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Now let’s go get irresponsibly drunk on a school night!”
“Talked to anyone good yet?” Stiles asks as Scott meanders back over to him, a silly grin plastered on his face. Scott’s already four solo cups in, and Stiles would be worried about him making a terrible impression, except that Scott tends to get exponentially more adorable with each drink he has. The dude is fucking charming, so Stiles has been letting him roam free, in the hopes that some frat brother will decide he wants to take him home to keep. Like a puppy.
“Most of ‘em sound kinda lame,” Scott sighs, flopping down next to Stiles, his beer sloshing dangerously close to the edge of his cup. “The two main ones though - those sound better. I was talkin’ to Boyd - he’s the President of Omega Delta Pi? He’s nice. And I met Isaac, too, who’s the VP - he says they’re supposed to call themselves the Omegas, like, the lone wolves, I think? But he personally prefers Order of Megatron. Get it? ‘Cause Order starts with ‘O,’ and then Megatron - ”
“Megatron is evil,” Stiles says, sounding horrified. “Oh my God, are you trying to get us to rush a fraternity of future supervillains-in-training?”
Scott chuckles, the sound slow and slurry with alcohol. “Dude, no,” he says. “Isaac’s totally cool, you should meet him! An’ Boyd, too. Anyway, they’re better than Derek. Derek’s a dick.”
“Who’s Derek?” Stiles asks, looking around curiously. Scott leans way into his personal space, like he’s trying to get a feel for Stiles’ exact line of vision before he lifts his arm and points an obvious finger toward the guy who appears to be overseeing the kegs. Stiles squints, trying to get a better look at him, which is easier said than done considering he’s standing at the very edge of the admittedly not-very-good lighting the frat brothers have managed to hook up in the middle of the freakin’ woods.
He’s tall, though by the looks of it, he only has an inch or two on Stiles. It’s just that he’s broad and built enough to make himself appear larger. He’s frowning, too, which probably doesn’t help, and his arms - God, Stiles can see the muscle definition from here, even through the henley he’s wearing - are crossed imposingly in front of his chest, mimicking the pose of a bouncer. He’s stupidly good-looking, even with the frown, and Stiles is pretty sure the only word for his stubble is ‘unfair.’ Or maybe it’s ‘perfect.’ It’s a toss up.
“He’s President of the Alphas,” Scott supplies helpfully. “S’what Jackson said. I think that’s the frat he’s going for.”
“Okay, well, then we are definitely doing the opposite of that,” Stiles says immediately. “It’s bad enough I have to deal with Jackson every time I come over to your room, no way in hell am I getting stuck with him for the next four years. The Omegas it is.”
“Order of Megatron!” Scott crows, falling into Stiles’ side with a silly grin. Stiles returns it with one of his own and makes a mental note to introduce himself to Boyd before they head out.
Somehow, he ends up talking to Derek instead. Well, it’s not like it’s a mystery how that goes down; Stiles wants another drink, and Derek is still brooding over by the kegs.
“So, are you standing guard?” Stiles asks as he approaches the keg.
Derek shoots him a look that seems to imply that Stiles is barely worthy of his notice, which, rude.
“Or - hey, are you trying to be one of those British guards?” Stiles asks, suddenly struck by the thought. Not that he’s ever seen a picture of a British guard who looks quite so dashing and stubble-y, but hey, you never know.
“No,” Derek says, the word clipped.
“Are you sure?” Stiles presses. “Because you’re actually doing a stellar impression of one. Like, I haven’t seen you crack a smile all night.”
“You’ve been watching me all night?” Derek asks, and this time he lifts a single eyebrow, and wow, his eyebrows are kind of magnificent. Stiles resists the urge to reach out and touch one, if only because he thinks Derek might actually bite his fingers off if he gets too close.
“Not in a creepy stalker way!” Stiles says. “But my Dad’s a sheriff, I’ve been taught to be aware of threatening-looking people who hide out in shadows.”
“I’m not hiding out anywhere,” Derek says with an eye roll. “I’m making sure no stupid freshmen get plastered and wander off to do dangerous things that would get us all into trouble.”
“But does that require the shadows?” Stiles asks, scrunching up his face, because Derek is not the only one who can make skeptical expressions, hah. “Really?”
“Do you want a drink or not?” Derek snaps.
Stiles just grins this time and holds out his cup, which Derek fills with a huffy sigh.
“Cheerio,” Stiles chirps in a terrible British accent, lifting his cup in a salute. “Thanks, mate!”
He’s pretty sure the look Derek gives him could actually bore through solid metal, and he kind of hates the way it makes him feel flush and hot, the way his stomach gives a horrible, interested lurch.
He makes his way back to Scott, glancing quickly over his shoulder once, only to find that Derek isn’t even looking at him anymore.
Well, fine. It’s not like he and Scott want to be Alphas anyway. But somebody who is not Stiles should really tell Derek that he needs to work on his recruitment skills.
“Yessss,” Scott says gleefully, signing his name with a flourish. “This is awesome!”
“Totally,” Stiles agrees, scribbling down his own signature and kind of beaming up at Isaac. Whatever, he’s happy, he is allowed.
“Congratulations to the both of you,” Isaac says as he collects their bids. He’s still grinning, warm and genuine. “We’ll be in touch soon. Glad to have you guys pledging.”
Stiles settles back into his chair once Isaac leaves, humming happily to himself. They’re not in quite yet, but this is step one, and Stiles is determined to make it through whatever else is coming their way.
“Oh, we already knew that,” Stiles replies. “Seriously, they gave Scott’s roommate a bid, and he is king of the dicks. Well, no, Derek’s the king of the dicks, I’m pretty sure. Jackson can be the queen. Of the dicks.”
“He’s not that bad,” Scott says.
“He is exactly that bad, and as soon as I dig up some good dirt on him, I am blackmailing him until he agrees to switch roommates with me,” Stiles says.
“Anyway,” Isaac breaks in, “Alphas. Dicks. There’s a longstanding rivalry between the Alphas and the Omegas. It is this rivalry which dictates our initiation rituals.”
The pause he takes lasts way too long for Stiles’ attention span, so he prompts Isaac with a, “...rituals?”
“Essentially, you’re tasked with pranking the hell out of them,” Isaac says cheerfully.
Stiles and Scott exchange a look.
“...That’s it?” Scott asks. “Just... pranks?”
“That’s it,” Isaac agrees.
“No stupid, dangerous drinking games?” Stiles asks, like he just needs to clarify. “No torturous demonstrations of physical fitness? No totally disgusting, demeaning, humiliating demands made by the brothers?”
“Nope,” Isaac says. “The university cracked down on hazing, like, fifteen years ago. And everyone’s pretty much stuck to it, so. Make their lives as miserable as possible, so long as there’s nothing dangerous or dehumanizing involved.”
“That we can do,” Stiles says, a slow grin spreading across his face.
More specifically, they start with Derek’s car.
It seems like a good idea to aim high, to start off with a bang, and Derek drives the flashiest Camaro Stiles has ever seen. Which, as far as Stiles is concerned, makes it the perfect target.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Scott asks.
“I’m sure this is a great idea,” Stiles assures him.
Five rolls of saran wrap later, Derek’s car is tightly wrapped up in dozens of layers. Nothing permanently damaging, but it’s going to take some serious patience to rip away all of the plastic without scratching the paint job.
Scott snaps a few pictures on his camera phone, while Stiles places a miniature Megatron on the windshield, which he thinks makes for a nice personal touch.
“Did what?” Scott asks, and man, Stiles will forever be appreciative of his best friend’s ability to play dumb.
“Wrapped Derek’s car in saran wrap!” Jackson explodes. “He had me and three other pledges out there for two hours unwrapping it!”
“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, even though he is dying of laughter on the inside.
“There was a megatron on the windshield!” Jackson says. His eyes are going a little bit bulging, even, and Stiles wonders if he’s about to pop, which would most definitely be an added bonus to their prank.
“Probably some kids, then,” Scott says with a shrug.
“That’s a good one though,” Stiles adds. “Saran wrap. I’ll have to remember that.”
Jackson growls, practically gnashes his teeth before he stomps right back out, the door slamming behind him, which leaves Stiles and Scott free to fall all over each other, shaking with silent laughter.
College is fucking awesome.
It’s been five days since they plastic-wrapped Derek’s car, and Stiles is starting to think retaliation just isn’t coming.
“It’s suspicious though,” he muses to Scott. “The Saran Wrap - there was nothing really epic about it. Like - that’s pretty clearly an opening salvo in a prank war. They should be getting us back with something by now.”
“Dude, you’re going to jinx us!” Scott explains.
Stiles scoffs, but that’s when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he slides it open to a text from Isaac.
might wanna check ur car bro :(
“Oh no,” Stiles says, his heart leaping into his throat. “Ohhhhh no, shit, if they did anything to my Jeep, I swear to God - ”
He doesn’t finish the thought before he’s taking off for the campus parking lot, where his Jeep’s been sitting for the past three days. Most people don’t use their cars during the week that much, since campus isn’t really that big, and Stiles stupidly hasn’t thought to check on it. He has visions of dented hoods, smashed in windows, of slashed tires and keyed paint jobs, and it spurs him on even faster, running flat out until he’s gasping for air.
Scott’s right on his heels, and the two of them skid to a stop once they reach Stiles’ parking spot. His Jeep looks... fine. It looks perfectly normal, and Stiles frowns, then digs his phone out again.
“Check my car,” he mutters, stepping forward to he can tug the door open. “What the hell was he - oh my God - ”
He nearly retches as he’s hit by the most overwhelmingly godawful stench he has ever had the misfortune to sniff. Scott actually does gag, stumbling away with a choked cry of, “Holy shit, what’d they do?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles gasps; the stench is so awful his eyes are almost watering, and he might actually be sick.
His phone buzzes vibrates again, and he opens the new message from Isaac immediately.
fish under the drivers seat it reads. they got almost all of us
“That is low,” Stiles says, eyes flashing as he shows the text to Scott. “Oh, this is war - THIS IS WAR,” he shouts, uncaring of the stares he gets for it.
Scott’s too busy gagging to join in the war cry, but Stiles is pissed enough for both of them, so that’s okay.
They send Matt on ahead to make sure everyone in the frat is at sleep, or at the very least, tucked away in their rooms, and as soon as Matt gives them the okay, they get to work.
The downstairs of the Alpha house (Stiles refuses to call it the Den) is like a freaking rabbit warren - a maze of hallways and doors. It’s a rabbit warren for the rich, however, because every inch of it is comprised of hardwood floors.
Nice hardwood floors. Slick and shiny hardwood floors that get even slicker when you’ve rubbed them down with butter.
They start at the edges and work their way in, making sure to leave an escape path to the window, which they can fill in as they go. While they work, Stiles goes around and slathers the vaseline onto every door and cabinet handle he can find; he makes sure to hit the faucets, too.
Their initial plan is to stick to the ground floor, but it’s going quicker than Stiles thought, like maybe they’re going to be out of here in under half an hour, as opposed to the original hour they had allotted.
A half an hour is a blip, their odds of getting caught are way down if they’re going to be in and out that quickly, which makes Stiles think that maybe they can take this a little further. He motions to Scott to keep everyone quiet, then carefully picks his way up the stairs - which have thoughtfully not been buttered, as they are not in the business of attempted maiming.
He’s faced with more hallways, lined with doorways, and he quickly gets to work, buttering a splotch of floor in front of each, then adding the vaseline as a finishing touch. He works quickly and silently, resisting the urge to hum along to the rhythm of his work.
He has two more doors to hit when the handle he’s currently vaselining yanks him forward as the door its attached to is opened wide. Stiles flails for a moment, fighting for his balance, and when he finally looks up, it’s into the eyes of a sleep-mussed, deeply grumpy Derek Hale.
Stiles gapes for a beat, then calls out, “WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. SAVE YOURSELVES.”
“What the hell?” Derek growls, and he grabs Stiles’ shirt, yanks him up off the floor. “It’s three thirty in the morning, what are you - “
He never gets to finish that question though, because he takes a step forward, right into his buttery welcome mat, and completely wipes out. He goes down like a ton of bricks, dragging Stiles with him, and Stiles ends up sprawled on his chest, which sort of feels like a goddamn brick well, Jesus, and Stiles shifts away hurriedly, just in case his body decides to have an inappropriate reaction while he’s on top of the hottest, grumpiest guy on campus.
“Surprise!” Stiles says cheerfully, while Derek is still blinking dazedly, the wind clearly knocked out of him. Stiles takes advantage of his momentary confusion to scramble off him and take off for the stairs.
“Go, go, go!” he yelps when he sees a few guys lurking near the window, clearly waiting to see whether Stiles is coming or not.
They get out with just seconds to spare; Stiles can already hear thuds and shouts coming from upstairs, ranging from surprised to pissed.
They race across campus, aiming for the safety of the Omega house, but there’s no one behind them; the Alphas are probably sprawled in various states of dishevelment all over the hallways, and they’re in for another nasty surprise once they make it downstairs.
Scott reaches the Omega house first, and he pulls the door open, ushers everyone in.
“Dude, what happened?” he asks, grabbing Stiles by the arm. “Did you get caught?”
“Derek must have, like, ninja hearing,” Stiles says. “I guess I woke him up or something, I don’t know, but I was greasing up his doorknob when the door flies open and there he is, glaring at me.”
Scott’s face goes all funny for a second, like he’s holding in a hysterical burst of laughter, and Stiles frowns. “What,” he demands. “What’s so funny?”
“You were greasing his knob?” Scott chokes out. “Really?”
For that, Stiles is forced to grab him in a headlock and give him a noogie, but they’re both laughing as they stumble inside.
“Man,” Stiles hears Danny sigh. “It just sucks that we can’t watch them fall all over themselves. Isn’t that kind of the whole point of a prank?”
“Oh, I’ve got that covered,” Matt grins, and he pulls out his laptop, explains how he left a small camera on the mantel, located conveniently across from the staircase. A camera that has been transmitting video to his laptop, which they can now rewind and play again at their convenience.
It is, hands down, the best video Stiles has ever seen.
“Hey, we'll fix it, we'll dye it back - and anyway, it could be worse!” Stiles soothes.
“How could this be worse,” Scott moans, staring at his bright pink hair. Stiles still isn’t sure how the Alphas even did it, except that he knows Scott is the world’s deepest sleeper, and Jackson is a rotten snake of a roommate.
“Well, it could be me, too?” Stiles supplies, and Scott tackles him, yelling all sorts of abuse.
You’d think certain fraternities would have learned their lesson by now about the importance of keeping windows shut and locked.
You would, however, be wrong, and the shouting, gagging, and “Oh Gods” are music to Stiles’ ears.
It’s just Scott and Stiles holding down the fort; the full-fledged brothers are all tailgating, and the rest of the pledge class all seems to be pre-med and are thus at an exam review session their TA is leading, even though it’s a Saturday morning. It had been agreed upon at the last pledge meeting that leaving the Omega house unattended was just asking for trouble. They’ve successfully attacked the Alpha house twice now, after all, and Stiles can practically smell Jackson’s rampaging desire for revenge every time he comes within ten feet of the guy.
So Scott and Stiles are on Alpha duty. It’s not terrible; they’ve got a wealth of snacks at their fingertips, and they’ve been playing Call of Duty for something like three hours now. There’s homework to be done, sure, but that’s what Sunday is for, as far as Stiles is concerned.
Stiles has just blown Scott up (yet again, because Call of Duty is not Scott’s game) when a knock at the door interrupts them. Scott exchanges a glance with Stiles, before getting up to look out through the peephole. Stiles gets to his feet, too, just in case, but Scott doesn’t bother to confer before he’s grinning hugely and flinging the door open.
“Hello!” he says enthusiastically, his beaming, puppy dog smile blinding on his face. Stiles peeks over his shoulder and sees two girls - a tall, leggy brunette, standing with a gorgeous strawberry-blonde with sparkling brown eyes and a wickedly superior expression on her face.
Stiles thinks he might be a little bit smitten.
“Hi, we’re so sorry to bother you,” the brunette says. “I’m Allison, and this is Lydia. Is there any chance we could come in and raid your refrigerator? We’re supposed to be putting on this dinner tonight, and we’re out of some major staples.”
“We hear you might have some butter to spare,” Lydia chimes in, and Stiles and Scott share the smuggest of smug looks, because yeah, their butter-tastic prank is gaining some serious recognition. It totally helps that they posted Matt’s video on youtube, where it racked up four thousand hits in, like, three days.
“Totally, yeah, come on in,” Scott says, his gaze still locked on Allison. If Stiles might be a little bit smitten with Lydia, well, Scott looks like somebody dropped an entire pile of bricks on his head.
“Dude, close your mouth, you’re drooling,” Stiles mutters as the girls step in past them. Scott shuts his mouth so hard it clicks, then swipes his sleeve across his chin.
“Oh my - figuratively, Scott,” Stiles says, clapping him on the back. “Figuratively.”
Scott shoots him a look before following the girls into the kitchen.
“Soooo,” Stiles says, leaning one hand casually against the banister. The Omega house might not be quite so fancy as the Alpha house, but it’s got this wicked wrought-iron staircase that curls its way through the center of the house, ending near the kitchen. It’s pretty impressive, and Stiles actually kind of feels like a real frat brother while he’s propped up against it. “What’re you guys throwing a dinner for?”
“A sorority thing,” Lydia says, inspecting her nails as Allison digs through the fridge. “We’ve got to make some, like, five-course meal for the sisters.”
“Oh, you’re pledging a sorority?” Scott asks, his ears practically perking up. Allison smiles at him though, looking charmed, which earns her a bonus point. Stiles hates it when people don’t recognize the fact that Scott is basically pure sunshine wrapped up in a puppy exterior. “I haven’t seen you guys before - which one?”
“Delta Alpha Kappa,” Allison replies, and in the moment it takes for that name to sink in - the name of the Alphas’ freaking sister sorority - Lydia already has Stiles’ wrist handcuffed to the staircase, while Allison’s pulled some sort of freaking ninja move and done the same to Scott, only he’s cuffed to the radiator on the opposite wall.
“Hey!” Stiles splutters, yanking at his cuffs, completely ineffectually. “Hey! Are you - what - you liars!”
“Well, we didn’t lie about the dinner,” Lydia grins, twirling a key between her red-lacquered nails.
“We did lie about being out of the staples though,” Allison adds thoughtfully.
Scott isn’t even trying to escape, he’s just staring at Allison slackjawed. He doesn’t even look mad - just awed. Impressed. Stiles is seriously thinking about investing in a new best friend, sunshine and puppies be damned.
“Okay, so what is the point of this, exactly?” Stiles asks, rattling his handcuff.
“A favor,” Allison says.
“For Derek,” adds Lydia.
“Thank you, ladies,” a voice from around the corner says, and Stiles groans as Derek steps into view.
“You are an actual caricature of a real human being, do you know that?” Stiles asks. “Seriously, dude, you’re like the big bad British wolf or something, always lurking in corners and glowering - “
Derek chooses that moment to send Stiles a grin full of glittering, white teeth, and Stiles swallows back a noise. Not always, glowering then, but that smile isn’t any less intimidating.
“My, what big canines you have,” he mutters, because he can’t help himself, and no one has ever claimed that his sense of self-preservation is as honed as it should be.
“Allison, Lydia,” Derek says, his gaze still sharply fixed on Stiles, “if you would be so kind as to show the pledges in?”
Lydia hands Derek the key, then flounces off to do just that; Allison offers Scott a waggle of her fingers, and Scott grins the dopiest smile Stiles has ever seen in return.
“Quit fraternizing with the enemy,” Stiles hisses. “She handcuffed you to a radiator!”
“I’m surprisingly okay with that,” Scott sighs happily.
Derek examines the key for a moment, then moves forward and, much to Stiles’ astonishment, abruptly unlocks the handcuff that’s wrapped around the banister.
“Is this a joke?” Stiles asks.
“Nope,” Derek says, then promptly clicks the handcuff back into place, albeit this time much higher up - enough that Stiles has to stand on his toes so as not to yank his arm out of place.
“Oh, dude,” he protests. “This is just mean. This constitutes bodily harm, I’m pretty sure - I could dislocate my shoulder here! Easily!”
“Don’t worry,” Derek says, with a grin that is downright wolfish, and Stiles hates everything. “You won’t be like that for long.”
He disappears again, and Stiles and Scott have to spend the next two hours watching all of the Alpha pledges carefully covering the kitchen floor with plastic cups that are filled to their brims with water. The cups are perfectly in line; it’s a huge mess just waiting to happen. The placing of the cups is generously interspersed with much mocking, and the next time Jackson gets too close, Stiles is going to bite him, dislocated shoulder or not.
“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Derek sighs, coming to stand next to him. He’s holding a roll of duct tape, which Stiles is eyeing very warily.
“How do you know my name?” Stiles demands, and Derek rolls his eyes like he’s being stupid.
“You don’t think I’d take the time to find out exactly who’s been masterminding all these ridiculous pranks?”
“Masterminding!” Stiles exclaims. “That is false - completely off base - I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about - “
“Oh, I know an instigator when I see one,” Derek says.
He starts to unroll the duct tape. It’s shockingly threatening.
“Okay, seriously, man, what is that for?” Stiles asks.
Derek’s eyes gleam. “Why don’t I just show you?” he says.
His life is terrible, everything is terrible, and now he is stuck here, gazing out across an expanse of filled-to-the-brim plastic cups.
“I hate everything,” he mutters.
“God, Allison’s beautiful,” Scott sighs.
“I hate you, too.”
“Do you think she likes me?”
“I think maybe she likes me - she waved to me, when she left!”
“I think I’m going to try to get her number.”
“You disgust me.”
“What the hell - “ Stiles hears Boyd exclaim, and he winces. Ugh, this is so not going to be good. He desperately hopes the Alphas don’t have a technological genius on their side who captured Scott and Stiles’ miserable humiliation on video.
“Hey, guys?” Stiles calls out, straining against the banister. He supposes it was nice of Derek to not hang him upside down or something, but he’s getting a definite crick in his neck. “Little help here?”
And an hour later, of course, there’s a youtube video making the rounds.
That’s pretty much when Stiles decide it’s his mission to take Derek Hale down.