[Teen Wolf Fic]: Flushed - PG-13 - 2/20
A/N: I'm pleasantly surprised by everyone who's intimate with KKM and supportive of this fic. Thank you! I hope you continue enjoying it. I had a lot of fun with this particular chapter. :D
Title: Flushed
Disclaimer: I,
ladyknightanka, own neither Teen Wolf nor Kyo Kara Maoh. Pop-culture references are also not mine. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission.
Warnings: PG-13 for mild language, crude jokes, brief mind-screwing caused by magic, and use of some German only in this chapter. I got all my translations from Google, so I don't know how correct they are, but I didn't include English counterparts of the few German phrases in this for stylistic reasons. Stiles doesn't know what they mean and never really finds out, so I think it's an interesting effect.
Other Notes: 2082 this chapter; ~4/40k in all. Derek/Stiles, Jackson/Isaac, Boyd/Erica, Scott/Allison, past Derek/Kate, one-sided Stiles/Lydia, Lydia/Peter, etc. More Jackson in this chapter.
Summary: Sometimes, being a good friend and having sound moral values can suck. In Stiles's case, it sucks him right down the toilet, into a magical alternate universe where he's demon king, has magical powers, and is engaged to a surly prince. ...His dad really should have borrowed parenting tips from the Whittemores.
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Chapter Two: Not in Kansas Anymore
-
Stiles wakes up to moisture on his cheek. He thinks for an instant that he must have dreamed about it again - the night of his mother's death - but then he remembers Scott, Jackson, and the swirly of doom. Good, not sleep-crying, then.
He props himself onto his hands and knees, frowning at how they also soak wet, his already baggy jeans hanging heavier than usual. Perhaps the locker room floor is soggy, he theorizes, because of the showers and...other things that he refuses to think about.
“W-wer ist das? Was machst du da?” a female voice says from behind him, in a language he doesn't know - German, maybe? Certainly not any elementary Spanish he can recognize.
Stiles's eyes shock open and bulge. Grass. There's grass all around him, beneath his hands and body. Delicate purple flowers dance in his peripheral vision. Above, the sky swims baby blue and cloudless, the sun a gold coin embedded in the clear canvas it provides. Birdsong fills the air, along with more of that unknown language.
Stiles stands on wobbly feet, pivots around, and says, “Well...hello,” to a wide-eyed woman dressed like Laura from Little House on the Prairie, complete with a billowing skirt of rough red cloth and a white linen bonnet.
“W-was?” The woman edges closer to him, a full basket of what looks like apples, except bright purple, held as an improvised shield between her and Stiles. There are a line of trees behind her that bloom the same fruit. An orchard, Stiles supposes. They lead straight behind her and end a few trees behind him. The woman's indigo blue, almost black eyes search his face.
Stiles tries to look as harmless as possible, and even dredges up a small smile for her benefit, but whatever she finds only convinces her to rescind with a scream. Her basket topples to the grass, as she points a shaky finger at him and babbles a string of frightened, foreign words.
Stiles feels a pit of anxiety form in his belly, reminiscent of those awful minutes leading up to the panic attacks that used to plague him. He inhales through his nose and blows out of his mouth, unwilling to let another overtake him after so long.
Meanwhile, more people clamber toward them from the hill on horizon, following the formation of trees. Stiles suspects they hail from the same place the first woman does, because they're also dressed in - okay, he admits it, pretty awesome - tunics and bonnets. Is that called retro? They all converse with one another in low, angry grumbles.
“L-look, I need to get back home,” he tells them, thumb inclined over his shoulder, in the direction of yet more grassland. “Is this a Renaissance fair of some sort? Am I being Punk'd?” He wouldn't put it past Ashton...or Jackson.
In response, a small girl breaks away from the crowd, picks up one of the freaky purple apples, and throws it at Stiles. It plunks against his chest, then rolls away. He hisses, rubbing at the spot with narrowed eyes, and catches only a word of what she screamed at him: “Teufel.” Whatever that means.
A harried woman who can only be the girl's mother exclaims, “Mein Gott,” gathers the child up against her chest, and breaks out into a run, back the way she came. A few people follow her, but most simply stare at Stiles with pensive expressions.
“Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you guys. I just wanna talk to my dad. Can't I borrow your phone or, um, a carrier pigeon? Telegraph? Bonfire for smoke signals? Not very picky here,” Stiles calls after those retreating.
They, unsurprisingly, do not reply. The ones still around him create a circle of bodies to lock him in, neither close enough for him to touch them, nor loose enough to break through by charging. Stiles huffs at his weird, unfortunate luck and plops down on the ground, opting out of their crazy rendition of Red Rover.
He still has his backpack, at least. Along with the textbooks inside, there's his latest bottle of Adderall, his iPod, and a few granola bars, due to the healthy eating schtick he insists his father do. In spite of that, one of the fallen apples adjacent his ankle catches his eye, and whatever he may have told Jackson, Stiles actually does feel a nip of curiosity now and then.
He darts forward to grab it, sniffing at it cautiously. It doesn't smell any different than the apples back home, so he caveats a tiny nibble of its shiny purple skin. Some of the juice slips past his lips. His eyes grow round; the purple apple, for all its odd discoloration, tastes somehow crisper and sweeter than any other fruit he's ever had.
Stiles sits and gorges himself on as many apples as he can find. Wherever he is, there's no wifi, rendering his iPod useless, so he drums his fingers against his thighs for a good half hour, till he hears the thus silent Renaissance folk begin to chatter anew. Dull clops of metal on grass follow.
“Also, er ist angekommen?” a disembodied male voice says.
Stiles glances up to find a black horse towering above the line of people, noble, its sleek mane plaited with blue-gray gossamer flowers. That's not what makes Stiles choke on his last bite of the apple, though. It's the horse's very familiar rider: “J-Jackson?”
He should feel relieved. Jackson's presence must mean that all this really is a stupid, peculiarly creative prank, but Jackson looks dead serious, and he's dressed to play the part. A frilly tunic balloons around his arms, yet fits trim at the waist, sewed with dark blue and shimmering green material that sets off his similarly tinted eyes. A hat the same color, pointed and feathery enough that it should be silly but isn't, sits atop his head. There's also a wickedly pointed blade, a rapier, sheathed on his belt, that traces the line of his black leggings down till they tuck into his leather boots, with leather gloves to match. If this is a prank, Jackson's pretty convincing.
“Verstehst du?” Jackson inquires, and that's a whole other issue. Stiles knows Jackson took - is taking - French II in high school, and is only passable besides. His surprisingly fluid German is, well, surprising.
Stiles stands up quickly. “I-I don't know what you're saying. Or what's going on. Or why you look like freaking Romeo right now, oh my God.”
Jackson frowns and considers him for a protracted moment, before hopping off his steed. The peasants seem to trust him, because they move aside to allow him by, until he's toe to toe with Stiles, who doubts he's above paying them all off for their deference. It sucks that the rich and asshole-ish can do whatever they want that way, wherever they go.
“Das wird weh tun,” Jackson says with a smile, just before his hand falls on Stiles's forehead, and pain - mind-numbing, soul-crushing pain - seeps through his light touch, impelling Stiles down to his knees. He feels as if someone took a screwdriver, shoved it into both of his eye-sockets, and screwed his brains to jello.
Screams meet his ears. First, he thinks they're the surrounding people's, and perhaps some are, but it hits Stiles like a punch to the gut when he realizes the most keening, shrieking, pathetic scream is his own. He claws at Jackson's fingers with all his might, but can't get them to unclasp. When Jackson finally does free him, it's of his own volition, and Stiles hugs his head with both arms, vision spotty from the agony and wet with tears.
“Fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath. Jackson picks up on it and smirks.
“Got a mouth on you, huh?” he says, which entices Stiles to meet his gaze, though it hurts like hell to so much as move. Jackson sees the mess that his face has devolved into and his smirk smooths out into a frown. “Shit, kid. Didn't mean to hurt you.”
“You can...speak English now?” Stiles asks, staring at the hand Jackson offers him as if his fingertips are about to grow Hydra heads. Never mind the 'kid' thing. Jackson's, what, a few months older than him, if that?
Jackson disregards Stiles's scorn, arm still extended, and says, “No, actually. It's you speaking our language now.”
His claim rings true when a haggard old man separates from the crowd to speak. “You will keep the demon boy now, Milord? May we take our leaves?”
“Demon boy!” Stiles repeats, indignant.
Jackson ignores his affront to nod. “Yes, I'll take good care of him. Thanks for your help.”
The old man bows low at the waist, then barks orders of withdrawal at his peers, who hurry away without a backwards glance. Stiles looks between them and Jackson, mouthing 'milord' to himself. That will just get to Jackson's already huge head, if it's a commonality.
“What the hell's going on, Jackson?” he says aloud, waving his arms to and fro. “Y-you, where are we, Germany? Where'd you get that outfit? How long have you been planning this, 'cause dude, you have issues.”
Jackson presses his lips flat together, evidently annoyed with being bossed around, but answers, “It seems you know me, then? You know my name, in any case,” which isn't an answer at all. Bastard.
“Yes, I know your freaking name!” Stiles lowers his arms to his sides and tries valiantly not to throw a tantrum, since that's more Jackson's niche than his. “You're Jackson Whittemore. We've been in the same classes since pre-school. We both like Lydia Martin. You prefer fancy shampoo made of umbilical cords to keep your perfect hair perfect, instead of good old-fashioned Head and Shoulders. Oh, and you're the lacrosse team captain. I know you, okay?”
Jackson frowns at him, bemused more than vexed, then turns away toward his horse. Just like that, he starts to pet its snout, as if Stiles isn't even there anymore. Stiles sort of, really wants to sock him a good one, but that won't do any good, considering the dangerous sword of dangerousness still clipped to Jackson's waist.
Before his silence can get too stifling, Jackson breaks it. “To answer your question, we're in Beacon Hills. Apparently, your world parallels it.”
Stiles stares - first at Jackson, then at the spanning fields of grass, flowers and trees around them. A big, black bird with huge eyes and an orange beak swoops down, missing his head by a hairsbreadth. “Bad omen,” it utters. Stiles ignores it for the sake of his sanity.
“This-” he says, arms open in a pantomime hug, “-is not Beacon Hills. I know Beacon Hills. My father's the sheriff of Beacon Hills. Take a second to remember that, Jackson. You can go to jail for kidnapping in general, much less kidnapping the sheriff's son. Remember, you're way too pretty for jail.”
That earns a laugh from Jackson, curt and decidedly not nice. “You just proved my point. This is a parallel world, kid.”
“Stiles, not kid,” Stiles interjects, gnashing his teeth together. Great. Just great. He's stuck in a mirror 'verse worthy of Star Trek. Of course he is.
“Well, Stiles,” Jackson says, patronizing as ever, nose crinkled as if the name hasn't quite met his standards, “this is all very interesting. Really. And I'd love to discuss it with you, at length-” Here, his eyes gleam creepily, “-but it'll have to be elsewhere. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
Stiles wants to ask where, inside a flower, but Jackson's fingers close around his bicep and begin to tug. It's a little too redolent of the scenario that brought him to Beacon Hills 2.0 in the first place. He tries to shirk off Jackson's grip.
“Why would I go anywhere with you? You're the reason I'm in this mess,” he starts to complain, but Jackson's palm claps hard against his mouth.
“Shh,” Jackson hisses, head cocked to listen. His horse does the same, static as its master, and that's why the cacophony caused by inbound hooves is so jarring.
Someone else is coming.
-
Previous ♥ TBC! ♥ Next
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A/N: Ooh, who could the someone be? :O I'll be honest, I love slow-building plots, so it might not be who you want it to be. Don't worry, though, it won't be too long till it is! Hope you all had as much fun reading this as I did, writing. Let me know what you thought! :D
Title: Flushed
Disclaimer: I,
ladyknightanka, own neither Teen Wolf nor Kyo Kara Maoh. Pop-culture references are also not mine. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission.
Warnings: PG-13 for mild language, crude jokes, brief mind-screwing caused by magic, and use of some German only in this chapter. I got all my translations from Google, so I don't know how correct they are, but I didn't include English counterparts of the few German phrases in this for stylistic reasons. Stiles doesn't know what they mean and never really finds out, so I think it's an interesting effect.
Other Notes: 2082 this chapter; ~4/40k in all. Derek/Stiles, Jackson/Isaac, Boyd/Erica, Scott/Allison, past Derek/Kate, one-sided Stiles/Lydia, Lydia/Peter, etc. More Jackson in this chapter.
Summary: Sometimes, being a good friend and having sound moral values can suck. In Stiles's case, it sucks him right down the toilet, into a magical alternate universe where he's demon king, has magical powers, and is engaged to a surly prince. ...His dad really should have borrowed parenting tips from the Whittemores.
-
Chapter Two: Not in Kansas Anymore
-
Stiles wakes up to moisture on his cheek. He thinks for an instant that he must have dreamed about it again - the night of his mother's death - but then he remembers Scott, Jackson, and the swirly of doom. Good, not sleep-crying, then.
He props himself onto his hands and knees, frowning at how they also soak wet, his already baggy jeans hanging heavier than usual. Perhaps the locker room floor is soggy, he theorizes, because of the showers and...other things that he refuses to think about.
“W-wer ist das? Was machst du da?” a female voice says from behind him, in a language he doesn't know - German, maybe? Certainly not any elementary Spanish he can recognize.
Stiles's eyes shock open and bulge. Grass. There's grass all around him, beneath his hands and body. Delicate purple flowers dance in his peripheral vision. Above, the sky swims baby blue and cloudless, the sun a gold coin embedded in the clear canvas it provides. Birdsong fills the air, along with more of that unknown language.
Stiles stands on wobbly feet, pivots around, and says, “Well...hello,” to a wide-eyed woman dressed like Laura from Little House on the Prairie, complete with a billowing skirt of rough red cloth and a white linen bonnet.
“W-was?” The woman edges closer to him, a full basket of what looks like apples, except bright purple, held as an improvised shield between her and Stiles. There are a line of trees behind her that bloom the same fruit. An orchard, Stiles supposes. They lead straight behind her and end a few trees behind him. The woman's indigo blue, almost black eyes search his face.
Stiles tries to look as harmless as possible, and even dredges up a small smile for her benefit, but whatever she finds only convinces her to rescind with a scream. Her basket topples to the grass, as she points a shaky finger at him and babbles a string of frightened, foreign words.
Stiles feels a pit of anxiety form in his belly, reminiscent of those awful minutes leading up to the panic attacks that used to plague him. He inhales through his nose and blows out of his mouth, unwilling to let another overtake him after so long.
Meanwhile, more people clamber toward them from the hill on horizon, following the formation of trees. Stiles suspects they hail from the same place the first woman does, because they're also dressed in - okay, he admits it, pretty awesome - tunics and bonnets. Is that called retro? They all converse with one another in low, angry grumbles.
“L-look, I need to get back home,” he tells them, thumb inclined over his shoulder, in the direction of yet more grassland. “Is this a Renaissance fair of some sort? Am I being Punk'd?” He wouldn't put it past Ashton...or Jackson.
In response, a small girl breaks away from the crowd, picks up one of the freaky purple apples, and throws it at Stiles. It plunks against his chest, then rolls away. He hisses, rubbing at the spot with narrowed eyes, and catches only a word of what she screamed at him: “Teufel.” Whatever that means.
A harried woman who can only be the girl's mother exclaims, “Mein Gott,” gathers the child up against her chest, and breaks out into a run, back the way she came. A few people follow her, but most simply stare at Stiles with pensive expressions.
“Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you guys. I just wanna talk to my dad. Can't I borrow your phone or, um, a carrier pigeon? Telegraph? Bonfire for smoke signals? Not very picky here,” Stiles calls after those retreating.
They, unsurprisingly, do not reply. The ones still around him create a circle of bodies to lock him in, neither close enough for him to touch them, nor loose enough to break through by charging. Stiles huffs at his weird, unfortunate luck and plops down on the ground, opting out of their crazy rendition of Red Rover.
He still has his backpack, at least. Along with the textbooks inside, there's his latest bottle of Adderall, his iPod, and a few granola bars, due to the healthy eating schtick he insists his father do. In spite of that, one of the fallen apples adjacent his ankle catches his eye, and whatever he may have told Jackson, Stiles actually does feel a nip of curiosity now and then.
He darts forward to grab it, sniffing at it cautiously. It doesn't smell any different than the apples back home, so he caveats a tiny nibble of its shiny purple skin. Some of the juice slips past his lips. His eyes grow round; the purple apple, for all its odd discoloration, tastes somehow crisper and sweeter than any other fruit he's ever had.
Stiles sits and gorges himself on as many apples as he can find. Wherever he is, there's no wifi, rendering his iPod useless, so he drums his fingers against his thighs for a good half hour, till he hears the thus silent Renaissance folk begin to chatter anew. Dull clops of metal on grass follow.
“Also, er ist angekommen?” a disembodied male voice says.
Stiles glances up to find a black horse towering above the line of people, noble, its sleek mane plaited with blue-gray gossamer flowers. That's not what makes Stiles choke on his last bite of the apple, though. It's the horse's very familiar rider: “J-Jackson?”
He should feel relieved. Jackson's presence must mean that all this really is a stupid, peculiarly creative prank, but Jackson looks dead serious, and he's dressed to play the part. A frilly tunic balloons around his arms, yet fits trim at the waist, sewed with dark blue and shimmering green material that sets off his similarly tinted eyes. A hat the same color, pointed and feathery enough that it should be silly but isn't, sits atop his head. There's also a wickedly pointed blade, a rapier, sheathed on his belt, that traces the line of his black leggings down till they tuck into his leather boots, with leather gloves to match. If this is a prank, Jackson's pretty convincing.
“Verstehst du?” Jackson inquires, and that's a whole other issue. Stiles knows Jackson took - is taking - French II in high school, and is only passable besides. His surprisingly fluid German is, well, surprising.
Stiles stands up quickly. “I-I don't know what you're saying. Or what's going on. Or why you look like freaking Romeo right now, oh my God.”
Jackson frowns and considers him for a protracted moment, before hopping off his steed. The peasants seem to trust him, because they move aside to allow him by, until he's toe to toe with Stiles, who doubts he's above paying them all off for their deference. It sucks that the rich and asshole-ish can do whatever they want that way, wherever they go.
“Das wird weh tun,” Jackson says with a smile, just before his hand falls on Stiles's forehead, and pain - mind-numbing, soul-crushing pain - seeps through his light touch, impelling Stiles down to his knees. He feels as if someone took a screwdriver, shoved it into both of his eye-sockets, and screwed his brains to jello.
Screams meet his ears. First, he thinks they're the surrounding people's, and perhaps some are, but it hits Stiles like a punch to the gut when he realizes the most keening, shrieking, pathetic scream is his own. He claws at Jackson's fingers with all his might, but can't get them to unclasp. When Jackson finally does free him, it's of his own volition, and Stiles hugs his head with both arms, vision spotty from the agony and wet with tears.
“Fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath. Jackson picks up on it and smirks.
“Got a mouth on you, huh?” he says, which entices Stiles to meet his gaze, though it hurts like hell to so much as move. Jackson sees the mess that his face has devolved into and his smirk smooths out into a frown. “Shit, kid. Didn't mean to hurt you.”
“You can...speak English now?” Stiles asks, staring at the hand Jackson offers him as if his fingertips are about to grow Hydra heads. Never mind the 'kid' thing. Jackson's, what, a few months older than him, if that?
Jackson disregards Stiles's scorn, arm still extended, and says, “No, actually. It's you speaking our language now.”
His claim rings true when a haggard old man separates from the crowd to speak. “You will keep the demon boy now, Milord? May we take our leaves?”
“Demon boy!” Stiles repeats, indignant.
Jackson ignores his affront to nod. “Yes, I'll take good care of him. Thanks for your help.”
The old man bows low at the waist, then barks orders of withdrawal at his peers, who hurry away without a backwards glance. Stiles looks between them and Jackson, mouthing 'milord' to himself. That will just get to Jackson's already huge head, if it's a commonality.
“What the hell's going on, Jackson?” he says aloud, waving his arms to and fro. “Y-you, where are we, Germany? Where'd you get that outfit? How long have you been planning this, 'cause dude, you have issues.”
Jackson presses his lips flat together, evidently annoyed with being bossed around, but answers, “It seems you know me, then? You know my name, in any case,” which isn't an answer at all. Bastard.
“Yes, I know your freaking name!” Stiles lowers his arms to his sides and tries valiantly not to throw a tantrum, since that's more Jackson's niche than his. “You're Jackson Whittemore. We've been in the same classes since pre-school. We both like Lydia Martin. You prefer fancy shampoo made of umbilical cords to keep your perfect hair perfect, instead of good old-fashioned Head and Shoulders. Oh, and you're the lacrosse team captain. I know you, okay?”
Jackson frowns at him, bemused more than vexed, then turns away toward his horse. Just like that, he starts to pet its snout, as if Stiles isn't even there anymore. Stiles sort of, really wants to sock him a good one, but that won't do any good, considering the dangerous sword of dangerousness still clipped to Jackson's waist.
Before his silence can get too stifling, Jackson breaks it. “To answer your question, we're in Beacon Hills. Apparently, your world parallels it.”
Stiles stares - first at Jackson, then at the spanning fields of grass, flowers and trees around them. A big, black bird with huge eyes and an orange beak swoops down, missing his head by a hairsbreadth. “Bad omen,” it utters. Stiles ignores it for the sake of his sanity.
“This-” he says, arms open in a pantomime hug, “-is not Beacon Hills. I know Beacon Hills. My father's the sheriff of Beacon Hills. Take a second to remember that, Jackson. You can go to jail for kidnapping in general, much less kidnapping the sheriff's son. Remember, you're way too pretty for jail.”
That earns a laugh from Jackson, curt and decidedly not nice. “You just proved my point. This is a parallel world, kid.”
“Stiles, not kid,” Stiles interjects, gnashing his teeth together. Great. Just great. He's stuck in a mirror 'verse worthy of Star Trek. Of course he is.
“Well, Stiles,” Jackson says, patronizing as ever, nose crinkled as if the name hasn't quite met his standards, “this is all very interesting. Really. And I'd love to discuss it with you, at length-” Here, his eyes gleam creepily, “-but it'll have to be elsewhere. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
Stiles wants to ask where, inside a flower, but Jackson's fingers close around his bicep and begin to tug. It's a little too redolent of the scenario that brought him to Beacon Hills 2.0 in the first place. He tries to shirk off Jackson's grip.
“Why would I go anywhere with you? You're the reason I'm in this mess,” he starts to complain, but Jackson's palm claps hard against his mouth.
“Shh,” Jackson hisses, head cocked to listen. His horse does the same, static as its master, and that's why the cacophony caused by inbound hooves is so jarring.
Someone else is coming.
-
Previous ♥ TBC! ♥ Next
-
A/N: Ooh, who could the someone be? :O I'll be honest, I love slow-building plots, so it might not be who you want it to be. Don't worry, though, it won't be too long till it is! Hope you all had as much fun reading this as I did, writing. Let me know what you thought! :D