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Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf (Hint: Nobody)

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“He won’t tell me why I can’t come on the run,” Scott complains for the umpteenth time. He flops onto Stiles’ bed, face down and grumbling.

“No dog-drool on the pillows, dude,” Stiles reminds him distractedly, typing out the finishing sentences on his history report. He decides to add another complimentary passage on “the history of erectile dysfunction in Beacon Hills” for full disclosure.

“It’s so much better running with other wolves,” Scott starts, muffled. “Like, me and Derek are actually friends now, we’re pack, so it feels right, you know?”

Stiles doesn’t, but he’s gotten used to not being included in the wolf stuff, it’s sort of like with the sex stuff, except he’d very much like to have sex. “Big guy can be stubborn,” he offers belatedly, still typing. “He’ll probably tell you why eventually, you know Derek. Don’t worry about it.”

Once satisfied with his work, Stiles swivels back around to find Scott still spread out starfish style on his bed, only with added frowning in Stiles’ direction. The frowning lasts for a few seconds until Scott lifts his head and says, “You guys are getting along better now.”

Stiles’ eyes widen incredulously. “Are we?”

“Way way better than before.” Scott nods his head awkwardly against the pillow, then rolls onto his side and his eyebrows raise suddenly, his eyes wide. These are dangerous Scott signals for getting an idea. Scott has terrible ideas. Mostly.

When Stiles gets it, he stands up and shakes his head until he’s dizzy. “Nope, no way,” Stiles tells Scott fast. “No way, dude.”

Stiles,” Scott whines. And goddamn it, Stiles knows he’s gonna do it, there’s no point pretending.

He sighs. “You owe me so much it’s not even funny at this point.”

Scott grins.




He drives down to do Scott’s bidding, because Stiles is Stiles and he can’t not do Scott’s bidding. Derek always comes out to the reserve early - he likes to get a few practice runs in while in human form before nightfall.

Stiles is just getting out of his jeep when he sees it; a tiny blur of fluff running through the trees. He’s thinking it might be a squirrel or a bunny or something. It’s too fast for him to make it out, then in a flash the little thing gets snared by a hidden net in the ground, probably placed there by the Argents.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, and rushes to the little fluffball. It squirms and yelps and growls, definitely not happy about being strung up mid-air. The net its caught in hangs from a large tree branch, but the rope’s not too thick, Stiles figures his handy-dandy pocket knife should do the trick.

“Hang on little guy, I’m gonna get you out of there.” The little thing goes quiet and stops squirming, it’s basically just fur with beady black eyes, watching him fish out his knife.

Stiles starts hacking into the rope, balancing up on his toes to reach it. The rope, no matter how he tries to carve into it, doesn’t give “God, what do they make this stuff out of, unicorn hair?” He twists his wrists, reaching up a little more to get a better angle with the blade, but nothing works. “Fuck you,” Stiles swears at the rope.

The fluffball whimpers and struggles in the netting, Stiles chest aches a bit for the thing. “It’ll be okay, little guy,” Stiles coos, managing to pet it with a finger through the netting, the fluffball tenses and starts to growl. “Yeeaah, I better call Scott.”

Just as Stiles goes to pull out his phone, the fluffball’s growls get louder.

It trembles in the netting, growling louder as its body begins to mutate. Stiles takes a step back and falls to the ground. “What?”

Its body grows at first, expanding until it fills out the netting, then its fur stretches and thins into skin and Stiles can actually see the muscles and bones underneath shift as it gets larger. “Jesus, this is some messed up… what the hell.”

It seems like forever but probably only takes seconds for the netting to be filled with a curled up, human, male body. A so very naked male somebody.

A naked male somebody with a familiar tattoo.

“Oh my God,” Stiles exclaims from the ground, eye wide, “Derek!?”

Derek’s back rolls like he’s breathing heavily, probably from being squashed inside the net that was only seconds ago accommodating a tiny puffball thing.

“Do not,” Derek says between pants of breath, “call Scott.” He swipes purposefully with his claws until the netting splits and he tumbles out, landing on his fucking feet of course.

“You’re the,” Stiles gestures frantically to where everything happened, everything, “with the fluffyness and the tinyness and the, the, what?”

He can’t even laugh about it right now. It’s too much. It’s like his brain has been broken - he is ruined for comedy forever. This is too perfect. Nevermind that Derek is totally naked, nevermind that. He’ll save that part for some alone time later. Right now there is nothing that can top this, this is the single greatest moment of Stiles’ life.

“Shut up,” Derek says flatly, the tips of his ears are pink and Stiles realises he said all that out loud.

For a while they just stare at each other, both speechless, although Derek does it with a far more menacing quality.

Finally, Stiles breaks, he’s going to ask and then he will die. But it’ll be so, so worth it.. “Can you show me?” Derek stares at him like he just whipped out his dick, it’s not actually off-putting.

More speechlessness.

Of course, Stiles completely expects to be brushed off or threatened or even for Derek to be desperate enough to start bargaining the terms for his silence.

What he doesn’t expect is for Derek to clench his jaw, twist his neck, and shift back into a puffball.

“OH MY GOD.” Stiles tries to keep himself under control, but seriously, seriously. Derek has black beady eyes, a tiny nose , a mix of light and dark brown fluffy fur, and oh, he’s probably the size of his own fucking fist right now. And he’s staring up at Stiles like he’s about to make a run for it.

“I’m so fucking sorry if this, like, emasculates you or some shit dude,” Stiles says meaningfully, taking a careful step forward. For a second Derek tenses, then he, fucking Derek, tilts up that little head with the eyes and everything. Stiles gets close enough, moving quickly before Derek can bolt, and lifts him up into the air like Simba.

Derek, puffball Derek, kicks him in the face and they don’t do that again. But it was worth it.




It’s a particular lunar cycle that does it, apparently.

Stiles has Derek - fluffy little adorable fucking Derek - curled up in his lap, straining to get away, it’s not working. Stiles can’t stop grinning. He’s so soft.

This day did not go as planned at all. It went way better.

“Who’s the cutest,” he finds himself cooing. Fluffy little Derek looks up at him with the worst face, it’s disgusting how cute that face is, so Stiles boops him on the nose as punishment. Derek growls. “You’re the fucking cutest, oh my god.”

After a while Derek’s kicks get more frequent and the growling comes with sharper nips than necessary, bad Derek. So Stiles relents and lets him go. “Ok, fine, I had my fun, I get it.” It doesn’t occur to him until he’s let go, that Derek might kill him now.

...Or Derek might just run around and jump into the tall grass with his tongue hanging out.

It gives Stiles a chance to send Scott a message, realising this is why Derek won’t do pack runs. “no can do on the derek front,” he types out, deciding not to tell Scott the whole story yet, “sorry man he’s a stubborn motherpuppy

A few seconds later he gets back, “:( :( :( ????

Stiles shifts from foot to foot, watching Derek run around trees, and settles on a simple, “i’ll tell you bout it later

Derek bounds up to him, running as fast as his little legs can carry him, and Stiles is just about to scoop him up when he shifts back. In Stiles’ arms. It feels as weird as it looks.

“Dude!” Stiles says, grimacing but not taking his arms off Derek. He now has his arms around an all-man, all-naked Derek Hale. Is he supposed to let go? Is there werewolf etiquette for these types of situations? “Um.”

Derek stares at him blankly. Stiles can’t read Derek when his eyebrows aren’t doing anything.

“Should we, um,” Stiles makes to move away but Derek holds onto him stiffly, like he has some kind of determination to learn how to hug or something.

“Stiles.” Derek leans forward until his lips brush against Stiles’ ear. “If you tell anyone,” he whispers hotly.

“Yeah, teeth, throat-ripping - got it.” For some reason Stiles’ voice has gone all croakey. It might have something to do with being pressed against the warm, naked body of a really hot dude. “Are clothes not an option when you go full-werepuppy, or are you just not a fan?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, but his cheeks are red and he isn’t pulling away.

Stiles grins, and foresees way more cuddling in the near future.