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the butt is a gift

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Stiles wakes up to Her Royal Highness Princess Cupcake Smitten Kitten Mittens Miss Matilda the Fluffy de Wolfbane Cutiepants on his chest, purring, and an aura of resentment all around him. The aura is from Derek, of course, who is still mad that when they'd bribed the witches with chocolates and Stiles' mom's secret cookie recipe to stop the feline invasion, the witches had decided that Stiles should keep Tiny Princess and Nick Fury Toothless Wolfslayer Hellspawn IV. As a favor to him, they'd said.

"I don't have -- " began Stiles, and the owner of Aura Bless had smiled and said, "Oh, I think you'll find it will be all right. Trust to the universe."

Which had led to Stiles going home and finding his dad sacked out on the couch with Nick acting as footwarmer and Tiny Princess curled up in a warm ball on his chest, fluffy tail over her nose. There had been audible purring. Stiles threw his hands in the air and went to get cat food.

Anyway, they don't even spent that much time at Stiles' house, because apparently why spend your time ruling only two human males when you can make an entire pack of werewolves shit themselves instead? Stiles has to admit he understands their logic, and it is nice to have allies against the mass of werewolves and their constant siege on Stiles' sanity. Even Lydia can only do so much..

But here and now: Stiles is on Derek's slightly musty couch and Tiny Princess is on Stiles. Derek is standing three feet away and glaring daggers at TIny Princess. "Whu," says Stiles, blinking.

Derek throws his favorite hideous acrylic afghan at him and stomps off, pissiness in every line of his body.

"Oh, for God's sake," Stiles mumbles. TIny Princess makes an inquiring chirp. "Nothing, baby, just werewolves."

Tiny Princess yawns hugely, wafting tuna breath in his face, and turns another bit deiseil so her butt, and more specifically her plumy tail, are in Stiles' face.

Stiles scratches her chin and falls back asleep.

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When he wakes up it's because Princess's tail and butt are pressed against his mouth, and even he can't sleep through feathery cat hair matting in his mouth and brushing sneezily against his nose. Also because Nick Fury has landed with all his fifteen pounds of angry demands for pets and loves against Stiles' kidneys, and has begun to tread on him to soften him up enough to sleep on. Nick Fury has the scimitar claws of a born and bred barn cat. They're meant to defend successfully against coyotes and rabid dogs and take down rats the size of rabbits. Stiles' pale soft stomach has like, zero chance against them.

Also also, Stiles is surrounded by werewolves.

"Seriously," says Stiles, through Tiny Princess's fur, "what is with you guys?"

"Her butt is against your mouth," says Scott, looking revolted.

"The butt is a gift, Scott," says Stiles. He'd like to sit up but ow and also no leverage, and finally no werewolf will get within three feet of the cats, so basically Stiles is trapped until another human comes in or the cats get tired of him as a mattress.

He may starve to death.

"Can one of you call Allison or my dad or something?" he says.

Erica is trying to engage Nick in a staring contest, which Nick is ignoring because he'd win anyway. Isaac is busy looking betrayed, and Scott is making Potato Face 4, "but why tho". Peter is standing well out of range, because Tiny Princess hates him more than Lydia does, which is a level of loathing not previously known to exist.

"Like even Lydia?" says Stiles hopelessly.

The werewolves glare. The cats purr. Stiles wonders if he can get into his jeans pocket to get out his phone, but Lydia had hooked her minty-green nails into the back of his collar and dragged him to the GAP, because "if she was hanging out with him he was not going to be an embarrassment to their species, did he understand?" His jeans are … not so loose as he was used to. They aren't as tight as Derek's, but nobody wears jeans as tight as Derek does without being a hipster. Not that Stiles spent time trying to figure out how a pair of regular jeans could fit that well and yet be that tight on the ass and front. Nope, not Stiles. Stiles has dignity and self respect and too much sense to be nursing any sort of desire to be biting Derek's shoulder, even just a little.

Nick Fury puts one massive paw on the pocket that holds Stiles' phone, so there's that question answered. "If I starve to death, my dad's gonna be pissed off," he tells the ceiling. "Wait, what am I talking about, if I starve to death, so do the cats. Do you hear that, cats? I can't feed you unless you assholes get up."

"Really?" says Boyd wistfully.

Stiles can't even thunk his head against something in frustration. "Just -- stop staring at me. It's creepy."

"I don't like cats," says Erica, like that makes sense as any sort of statement.

Tiny Princess's ears swivel back. She lifts her head. She stares at Erica for a long, long second, and then hisses, teeth bared. Tiny Princess has approximately fifteen million tiny adorable shark teeth, and when she shows them even werewolves take a step back.

"I think the cats are possessed," says Scott, and Stiles wants to cry.

"All cats are possessed," says Peter. Nick Fury pauses from making hamburger of Stiles' navel to swivel one glowing yellow eye toward Peter, with a measuring sort of expression that suggests werewolves are delicious.

"Cats are not always possessed," says Stiles, doomed to be the voice of reason. "I think werewolves are more likely to be possessed, what with the way you're always 'my wolf this' and 'my wolf that'. You might as well say 'my tapeworm wants this' or 'my tapeworm blah blah blah'."

"How would you exorcise a cat?" wonders Isaac. "Can we get the stuff? It won't hurt Stiles, will it?"

"I SWEAR TO YOU," says Stiles, and winces when Nick Fury claws him in protest. "So help me if you pour holy water on these cats -- and I'm not even sure you can touch holy water by the way --"

"We can," says Peter, "we're Episcopalian."

"-- EVEN if you can get it to pour on them, I swear to you on my mother's Batman collection I will make everything you like the best and I will surround it in mountain ash and I will let the cats eat it. You will sit there and watch them eat all of the pulled pork and you will not be able to do a thing, and I will laugh my ass off at you all."

"There's no reason to be mean," says Scott.

"Why are you doing this anyway?" says Stiles, exasperated. "Why are all of the werewolves standing over me like creepers and glaring at the cats? The cats don't care."

Everybody but Peter looks shifty, and Peter just looks shiftier, because Peter was whelped looking shady as fuck.

"Seriously," says Stiles, "what the hell."

"They make you smell like cat," complains Erica. "It's weird. We were here first."

"What," says Stiles flatly. He can't even with werewolves sometimes.

"Cats smell like cats," says Scott, which, okay, Stiles loves him but seriously, what the hell. "It's itchy."

Stiles says, "I give up," and then he says, "where is Derek, I want him to tell you guys to leave me alone."

Everybody looks around, and then Peter says, "He's in the kitchen." Stiles knows Derek knows how to cook, competently if unimaginatively. Derek prefers to pretend that he can't boil water, so that Stiles will cook instead. Stiles has a giant ass Betty Crocker Cookbook with notes from his mom and grandma in it, and he's not afraid to use it.

"Derek!" shouts Stiles. "Derek, your pack is creeping me out, dude, come on!"

Derek appears in the doorway, looking shiftier than even Peter, and puts a bowl down on the floor. "Here, kitty kitties," he says, monotone. "Treats."

Both cats look up.

"You'd better take a giant bite of that before you give it to my cats, Derek Oliver Hale!" howls Stiles, as the cats kick off him and toward the bowl.