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"Carry me, sourwolf!"
Derek grunted with the sudden weight on his back. An arm looped around his neck and, almost involuntarily, Derek caught the legs flailing at his waist. "Stiles," he growled, because even if he hadn't recognized the voice or the scent, Stiles was the only person he knew who would leap onto the back of a werewolf without warning. "Get. Down."
Stiles wiggled his other arm under Derek's. "But I'm tired. And it's cold. And my backpack's heavy."
As if to punctuate his statement, Stiles practically humped Derek's lower back in an apparent effort to adjust himself. Derek damn near bit through his lip. The universe was punishing him. It was the only explanation.
I should let go. It'll serve him right.
Instead, Derek tightened his grip on Stiles's legs. "You're insane."
"Aw, but you love me anyway."
"No, I don't."
"Liar."
Dammit, he could hear the fond smile Stiles's voice. Derek growled again, out of some faint hope that might do anything. As if it ever had before.
"C'mon." Stiles bounced. "Let's go get some ice cream."
"It's February. There are six inches of snow on the ground."
"Quiet, my trusty steed, and take me to the nearest ice cream parlor!"
Derek dumped him into the nearest snowbank.