"What are you looking at?" Stiles scoffs, feeling himself blush under the werewolf’s intense stare. He knows he can’t hide the way it makes his heart skip a beat.
Derek only tilts his head to the side, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Okay, so I was watching the second Hobbit movie the other day, and I really liked the scene with Tauriel and Kili in Laketown, so I did a thing. And then I accidentally 3500 words of a thing. I know some people have strong feelings about this movie, so I apologize in advance if I killed it AND two ships at once here. Also, this is my first work in a while, so I’m a little rusty. Nevertheless, I hope y’all enjoy (or at least don’t hate it too much). I tried to keep it as close to Tolkien-ian style as possible, so that’s the reason for the dialogue being the way it is.
Stiles sheathed his blades, and moved to where Derek had collapsed against his dark companion, the one they’d called Boyd. Together, they hefted the alpha onto the rough-hewn table in the center of what used to be the lakeman’s kitchen.
“Did he even try to avoid them?” He asked to no one in particular, noticing several arrow wounds in the werewolf’s flank, along with a myriad of other cuts, scrapes, and bruises across his chest. All were soaking his soiled clothes with blood, where they hadn’t been rent away entirely.
Isaac, the curly-haired Were lurking behind Boyd, spoke up. “Yes, but the orcs were too many and we too few.” Stiles rolled his eyes.
“I could have told you that from the beginning,” he snipped back. The wolf was nothing if not extremely keen on the glaringly obvious. There was a slight growl from the young wolf. “For what you’re doing, you haven’t the numbers, nor the wherewithal to succeed.” The next growl came from Boyd. He would tolerate no ill remarks on their quest. But Stiles paid no heed. “We wouldn’t have asked,” he responded darkly.
Teen Wolf AU: In a world in which werewolves are an enslaved race, Stiles buys Derek from a hunter slash slave trader family.
If Teen Wolf did a crossover show, which show would you want it to be? **
look at this adorable little fanboy
"Oh, no," Stiles says, bent double and nearly breathless with laughter. "No, no, no."
"You asked for this," Derek reminds him, awkwardly shuffling to the beat of ‘1999’ with his elbows pulled in tight at the waist. He throws in a dorky spin, pointing finger-guns at Stiles on the downbeat, and Stiles can’t breathe.
"I thought you had secret dancing skills," Stiles admits, watching fondly as Derek does a series of dumb disco-adjacent gestures. "I didn’t bring you to this wedding with me so you could shame me and all of your ancestors on the dance floor."
"Watch this," Derek says, and is about to ineptly moonwalk right over the hem of Allison’s wedding dress until Stiles yanks him back into place by his suspenders.
"Oh my god. You’re a tragedy, Hale. All that body and no clue what to do with it.”
“Hey," Derek protests, eyebrows furrowing.
"I can’t believe your hips would just lie to me like that.”
"By the way, I was already invited to this wedding, asshole,” Derek reminds him. “I’m an usher.”
"And you didn’t fall down!" Stiles pats his cheek condescendingly. "Which I now realize is a beautiful miracle."
"All right, that’s it," Derek says ominously, and stops mid-shuffle to make a beeline for the DJ booth.
Stiles knows he’s in some kind of danger when Prince cuts off abruptly, replaced by a smoky, pulsing tango.
"Did you threaten the DJ," he asks weakly, backing away a little as Derek stalks toward him, "because he’s actually Allison’s cousin and there could be repercussions to—"
"Stop talking," Derek says, and draws Stiles flush against him in one fluid, violent movement.
"Buh," Stiles says, and then feels every inch of his skin start to tingle when Derek starts leading him. With his hips.
"I only like some kinds of dancing,” Derek says, disgustingly smug. “No. Don’t. Chin up, look at me. That’s it. Dip,” he warns, casually draping Stiles over his arm.
I deserve this, Stiles thinks, staring mournfully backwards at the floor while the heat of Derek’s palm burns through his cummerbund.
Derek pulls him back up, slots their cheeks together, and takes a gliding step, encouraging Stiles’ along with a confident press of his thigh. “I requested a rumba after this,” he says in Stiles’ ear.
“Fine,” Stiles groans, heart racing. “But after, we’re doing the motherfucking Macarena.”
I made myself sad imagining Stiles becoming a werewolf, and when he sees his eyes flash blue for the first time, he locks himself in the bathroom and curls up on the floor.
They’re just so blue. Painfully blue. Blindingly blue if you want to be ironic.
Scott and the girls all try to coax him out. The Sheriff and Isaac elect to leave him be.
And Derek waits.
He waits until the four teens have given up. Waits until they’ve fallen asleep in pallets on the living room floor. Lydia and Allison are still facing one another as though they’d drifted off mid conversation. Isaac is sprawled out haphazardly between his girlfriend and his alpha, body splayed like a starfish. Scott’s on the floor by the couch, one hand relaxed and half curled in front of him. Kira, who won the coin toss for sofa, has an arm hanging off the edge, knuckles brushing against Scott’s just so.
It’s quiet. Still.
Derek sneaks into to the kitchen, and he has to check a couple drawers to find the one with all the kitchen utensils. Derek’s the only one besides Isaac who grew up with siblings. He’s the only one who remembers three year old Cora becoming fond of locking people out of rooms when the Hale house smelled of warmth and supper instead of fire and ash. He’s the only one that remembers unfair advantages in hide-and-seek and "Laura it’s not fair if you lock me out!" and the answering laughter echoing down real, whole hallways.
He finds himself back at the bathroom doorway with an ice pick in hand. He can hear Stiles breathing inside, slow and steady like maybe he’s fallen asleep. Derek jiggles the pick a bit until the lock clicks open.
Stiles is sitting on floor, back against the tub and knees drawn up so he can rest his head atop them. Derek thinks he was probably asleep before, but he isn’t now. His wide, brown gaze stares unwavering into Derek’s. Bambi eyes peaking out of wolf skin.
The older man slides to sit next to him. Stiles doesn’t turn his head but keeps his gaze on him out of the corner of his eye like an animal that’s only very hesitantly letting you near.
Derek pushes at his own cuticles, picks at his nails. But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything. Just waits, like he’s been waiting all day. His back protests the angle, but the solidarity is comfortable, even if the position isn’t.
Stiles opens his mouth a few times, like he wants to say something. He can’t at first, just shuts his jaw as his heart rate picks up at a steady pace.
Finally, he clicks his tongue against his teeth and says, “They’re blue,” with a little crack around the end.
Derek eyes his profile warily. None of the pack knew why Stiles had chose to sequester himself in this room, but he’d had his suspicions. The teen doesn’t meet his gaze now. Just gives a little look up at the mirror then goes back to plucking at the denim of his jeans.
"Can I see?"
Stiles head snaps toward him, and Derek raises his eyebrows in silent response. He tries not to let his eyes flick down to the boy’s mouth out of habit. Fails.
He’s surprised when Stiles complies effortlessly. He always knew Stiles would make a good werewolf. He’s almost too good, picking up control like it’s a skill he’s had hiding beneath his bed.
Derek thinks of himself. Thinks of Paige. Thinks of being alone and heartbroken with blue burning behind his eyelids. Think of his mother crouched down in front him with her hard jawline and soft smile.
With his heart lodged behind his adam’s apple, he reaches out and rests his hand on the side of Stiles’ neck, his thumb brushing the turn of his jaw beneath the ear. Stiles’ eyes (still brilliant, glowing blue) scan his face. Right eye, left eye, mouth, and back.
"Still beautiful," Derek says finally, "just like the rest of you."
Stiles seducing Derek by finishing his popsicle and then sucking the stickiness off his fingers, cleaning them one by one, slowly, thoroughly, seemingly absent-mindedly dipping his tongue into the spaces between his fingers and sliding his thumb into his mouth until Derek can’t take it anymore and grabs Stiles by the back of his neck, hauls him away from the couch, and Stiles is half-protesting because Grey’s Anatomy is on but then he’s flat on his back on Derek’s mattress and Derek is humming aggressively impatient noises into Stiles’ throat and pawing at his jeans and, okay, sure, this is good too;
Derek handcuffing Stiles’ hands behind his back and rimming him forever until finally, finally sinking inside, holding Stiles in position with trembling arms;
Stiles talking too much, and instead of gagging him (they already did that last week, it was great, Derek made Stiles come three times in under an hour, Stiles slept for ten hours straight afterward) Derek carries him to the bed, spends twenty minutes kissing him thoughtfully, almost sweetly;
Stiles doesn’t move into his cool new loft apartment expecting there to be a hot guy in the building next to his who sunbathes on his balcony. Naked. But there totally is. He’s tall, dark, handsome and very….proportionate, and obviously works out, and okay. If Stiles looked like this guy, he’d probably sunbathe naked, too.
He gets settled in, and maybe a reading chair ends up conveniently by the window because the light is really good right there. That’s it. That’s all. And he just happens to be using the chair and the light there every time the guy comes out to naked sunbathe. God, a body like that should be illegal. He feels like such a pervert but he has no idea how not to look. If something this great is going to be dangled right in front of him repeatedly, he’s going to enjoy it while he can, okay? Besides. The guy has to logically know that other people can see him. Unless he’s one of those hotties with a body but no brain cells.
It turns out, he’s not. Stiles is heading out into the parking lot, fumbling with his keys, when he looks up and sees the guy is parked right next to him, also getting into his car.
jock!Stiles adjusting nerd!Derek’s glasses while looking him in the eye and smiling, listening to him talk about literature
"It’s actually funny, because people usually say Achilles was a hero, but I personally didn’t like him," Derek was saying, and Stiles tilted his head fondly, watching him. "I mean, in The Iliad, he was kind of really arrogant?"
Stiles nodded, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth at Derek’s earnest, open expression. Stiles had never seen him this animated before, his hands flying out in front of his face and his glasses slipping down his no-
"Keep going," he murmured, reaching out to gently push Derek’s glasses back up, relishing the flush spreading across Derek’s insane cheekbones, belatedly realizing Derek had stopped talking. “Wait, no go on, you were saying something about Agamemnon being a dick by stealing Achilles’ princess or something?” he asked, readjusting the strap of his backpack on his shoulder after dropping his hands.
Derek was quiet for a few moments, his clear green eyes wide and staring at Stiles’ face in wonder.
Stiles felt his own face heat up and he ducked his head for a moment, willing himself not to blush. “What?”
"Nothing," Derek murmured, his hand reaching out as if to touch Stiles before dropping it back to his side. "Just," he paused. "Maybe don’t call the King of Mycenae a dick, next time.”
Derek looked away for a moment, before letting out a little cough. “Uh-“
"Yeah," Stiles interrupted before Derek could take it back, and he watched as Derek’s eyes snapped back to his and his whole face lit up. He nodded once, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Next time."
Derek’s answering grin was blinding.