halesass:

if you don’t think Donna Paulsen is Lydia’s aunt I don’t know you

this has been my headcanon since season 1 xD

niablackcat:

monkeyscandance:

The last episode of Teen Wolf gave me a lot of pack feelings. Add lovely fanfic to this and you get a big puppy pile of affection!

EDIT: some color changes.

It’s Isaac that gives them the idea.

Mainly because Derek is tired of having people sneaking into his bed at night, piling over him as if he is one huge pillow, and elbowing him in the worst places in the vane tentative to fit into two meters square. Because no matter how large the unfortunate piece of furniture might be, there is no safe way to make three teenagers and a twenty-four years old man fit together on the same bed.

Thing is that at the start Derek had been almost okay with it. Erica was tiny and she fit perfectly between him and Boyd, her blonde hair a sharp contrast against the other young werewolf’s skin, and Isaac had developed the strange habit to sleep on top of them anyway, sprawled up as if he owned the place, as if he owned them. 

But then Stiles had jumped right in the middle of the equation, touching Derek in the most inappropriate times, just brief, soft brushes of fingers against bare skin that had somehow become more. Derek wouldn’t even know how to explain it, he still has the strong suspect that the kid had been purposely sneaking around him for months, waiting for the perfect chance to strike, but every time he tries to approach the topic with Stiles the kid’s lips curl in a sibylline smile that has Derek frowning because, hello, Derek is supposed to be the Alpha here, the one that everything knows but shares nothing, because ‘secretive’ is often synonym of ‘powerful’ in packs. Or at least that’s what he’s been taught.

But Stiles- Oh, Stiles is the opposite definition of secretive, he talks and talks and talks, sharing pieces of himself with anyone willing to pay attention. And sometimes Derek catches himself watching the kid, observing each one of his moves as he happily bounces from a room to another, walking around Derek’s old house as if he’s always lived there.

The first time Derek found him and Erica in the kitchen, cooking together, he almost couldn’t believe to his own eyes. “You have to stir it like this, slowly and continuously,” Stiles had said, bent over a pot of what smelled like a mix of hot milk, sugar and eggs- Pastry cream. Erica had been standing beside him, cheeks red and eyes shining with interest, and for the first time in months Derek had seen her for what she really was, a young girl that was just starting a new phase of her life.

There had been no trace of sickness on her face, no more dark shadows around her eyes, and when Derek finally had stepped inside the room her smile had immediately lit up, greeting him with a bright, happy line of white teeth.

“Derek!” she’d called, not moving from Stiles’ side but automatically turning so she would be facing Derek. “We are baking.” A small cloud of flour falling from her hair as she’d turned her head, glancing again at the pot full of sweet, mouth-watering cream. “Well, Stiles is doing most of the work but still- It’s a cake,” she’d concluded, pure awe painted all over her words.

“Technically, at the time being, it’s just pastry cream and sponge cake,” Stiles had immediately corrected her, too concentrated on the pot over the stove to pay full attention to the situation. “We still have to make the icing, and I’ll need you to rinse the strawberries if we want to-” Derek had tuned him out at that point, letting the quiet back and forth of phrases between him and Erica become a white noise purring at the back of his head as he’d focused his senses on their heartbeats, his blood slowly starting to rush in time with theirs.

Pack doesn’t mean just a physical assemble, Derek, you have to feel them inside you. That’s how the words that Derek’s father had pronounced many years before had become a solid truth in Derek’s head, the certainty that he was – is – finally following the right path settling in his chest along with the sweet scent of strawberries and the lively sound of laughs. And then a dollop of cream had collided with his nose and, before Derek had been able to do anything more useful than gape, Stiles’ tongue had been there, hot and wet and obscenely loud, as he’d licked away most of it. “Sour cream,” he’d giggled, waving a wooden spoon in the air.

Derek had blinked.

“Just a friendly reminder, but jizz isn’t between the ingredients,” Erica had grinned from behind Stiles, right before tapping the kid’s shoulder with something resembling a spatula.

Derek had kept watching as Stiles had suddenly stilled, red creeping from the collar of his shirt like the most delicious of the ink. “Of course it isn’t,” He’d cheered, turning away from Derek with a smooth move. “And that’s because my grandmother wasn’t a prostitute.”

At that, the two of them had exchanged a complicit, feral grin that had had Derek’s heart swell with pride and warmth. He’d rested his elbows on the smooth surface of the table, basking in the contentment of finally having familiar voices resonating around him – again –, enjoying the way their smells melted together.

Because that’s what pack is about, smells and electricity, emotions that each one of them can feel under their skin, even when they are far away one from the other, when the night is too dark and void of any shadow and not even their enhanced senses can help them.

Derek knows this, has known it since before the first time he met Stiles and Scott. And he is re learning it day after day, with every small brush of Stiles’ fingers against his skin and every kiss happily smacked on his lips.

“We belong now,” Stiles often whispers to him, no matter if they are still lying on rumpled sheets, naked bodies sweat-slick and a sated look in their eyes, or if they are curled on the couch, watching a movie with the rest of the pack piled all over the carpet and the old armchair. “We belong,” he says, murmurs it again and again, lips brushing against the shell of Derek’s ears, words sinking into his heart and taking roots there, enveloping it in hope and tomorrow and family.

And that’s how, slowly, Derek’s bed becomes more and more crowded.

To be honest, it starts with Scott falling asleep with his head over Stiles’ lap during a study night – or the poor excuse of it, since they’d spent it mostly talking about movies and “I refuse to let Allison lure you into watching Twilight, Scott! You must be saved from this madness!”. Right. -, and then Jackson suddenly appears there too, so strongly glued to Danny’s and Lydia’s ass that Derek doesn’t have any other chance but to sigh and curl at the foot of his own bed, arms around Stiles’ hips and a vengeful frown directed to the impudent herd of teenagers that have taken possession of his mattress.

Too many. It isn’t too a hard concept to understand, just simple Physics and a touch of common sense that should’ve poked at the empty insides of these idiots heads way before Derek’s bed would have creaked sinisterly right before crumbling down, the wood crying in relief because- Heavy.

After that, it’s Isaac that gives them the idea.

Of course, his suggestion has nothing to do with the fact that Derek would have wolfed out right there and then and slaughtered each one of them in many painful, creative ways if Stiles wouldn’t have been around, ready to slap his partner on the nape, because- “Blood. Curtains. No way I’m washing the first away from the second. Not again.”

Surely you can trust Derek to fear Stiles’ bitching more than anything else in the world. And that’s why Isaac’s idea of, well, transform the old basement’s floor into a huge, comfy bed, complete with pillows and duvets and every other sort of comforts, is welcomed with a lot of enthusiasm from everyone and a dark nod from Derek. Well, it takes Stiles elbowing in his side to get it, but still.

Shortly, that is the story of how Derek’s ancient, once sumptuous house gets turned into a nursery for pretentious, annoying teenagers or of how a pack became family. Doesn’t matter, does it?