Fic: As the Story Goes (Derek/Stiles, R)
Title: As the Story Goes
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Fandom: Teen Wolf (yes, really *facepalms*)
Rating: R
Word count: ~1.900
Warnings/Content: no warnings apply
Notes: This is for berlinghoff79, awful enabler that she is.
Summary: No, really. Stiles' life sucks. He's lying in a musty old bed in a musty old cottage, wearing a not-quite-so-musty-after-he's-washed-it-twice nightshirt and nothing else. There was a wig, but he conveniently lost it in the washing water because honestly, it's not like anyone's going to believe he's a little old woman anyway, what with the lack of age and breasts and general womanhood.
Not that it makes any difference to the story, except maybe for the wolf. Stiles is willing to bet that he'll taste a lot better than any old woman when he gets eaten, Brothers Grimm, he hates Scott so much.
Read it on the AO³
As the Story Goes
Here's the thing about living in a place like Fibbery Hills: it's really more about responsibility than it is about fun. Keep the fairy tales alive; keep the dreams afloat; make sure that every known cliché stays warm and squishy in humanity's hearts. And, okay, it can also be fun, like that one glorious time Stiles got to be one of the Lost Boys in Peter Pan; flying is awesome even if pixie dust has a really weird smell. Though, seriously? Pirates suck, man, they really do, and don't get him started on mermaids. Mermaids are creepy, with their sharp teeth and those little lights in their hair they use to lure in unsuspecting little fish and their dead eyes and he never wants to hear one laugh again, ever, and, okay, back to the point.
The point being, Stiles doesn't get the fun roles. He's well-aware of his own shortcomings, thank you, so yeah, he gets it. Too morally flexible for the hero. Too generous for the villain. Too smart for the minion. Too hyperactive for the peasant. Too easily distracted for support. Too something for anything interesting.
But this?
"No," he says again, crossing his arms over his chest. Firm and steadfast, that's Stiles.
"But I could be with Allison!" Scott's doing the puppy-dog… well, everything. The damp eyes, the pleading head-tilt, the slight whine in his voice. He'd be wagging his tail if he had one. "Her father's doing the Woodsman and her mother's a Wicked Witch for two more days! We'd be all alone!"
Scott's eyes get a little dreamy at the thought of him and Allison, all alone. Stiles' heart sinks. Allison's parents don't approve of him and are perfectly happy to be really, obnoxiously obvious about it. Scott hasn't had an opportunity to be alone with Allison pretty much ever.
Still.
"I'm not playing the Grandmother!" Stiles snaps. He's nineteen, for Brothers' sake, and besides, "The Grandmother gets eaten, Scott!"
"And cut out again!"
"By Chris look-at-how-creepy-I-am-with-an-ax Argent!"
"Please! I'll owe you! I'll do anything!" Scott presses his lips together and oh , now he looks like he's going to cry at the thought of being kept from his one true love.
Soft and a pushover, that's Stiles.
"You better," he says, resigned, and finds himself with an armful of happy best friend.
Stiles' life sucks.
~~~
No, really. Stiles' life sucks. He's lying in a musty old bed in a musty old cottage, wearing a not-quite-so-musty-after-he's-washed-it-twice nightshirt and nothing else. There was a wig, but he conveniently lost it in the washing water because honestly, it's not like anyone's going to believe he's a little old woman anyway, what with the lack of age and breasts and general womanhood.
Not that it makes any difference to the story, except maybe for the wolf. Stiles is willing to bet that he'll taste a lot better than any old woman when he gets eaten, Brothers Grimm, he hates Scott so much.
"This is the version with the happy ending, right?" he asks for the thirteenth time because, hello, getting eaten.
"Shut up," comes the reply from off-fable, also for the thirteenth time, and if Stiles survives this he is going to make Scott do all of his homework forever except not really because Scott isn't dumb but he sucks at homework and Stiles can do without 'Scott and Allison McCall ♥' scribbled into the margins.
And then all of that doesn't matter anymore because there's a knock at the door, oh Brothers, wolf right outside!
"… Eep?" Stiles squeaks, which, okay, not his text, but wolf!
There's a pause.
Then another knock. Off-fable, someone snickers.
"Er." Stiles clears his throat. "Who is there?"
His voice doesn't waver. It doesn't.
Another pause, followed by a sigh.
"It is your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood," and wow, no one could ever mistake that voice for a little girl. It's male and gruff and put-upon and, okay, yes, sexy. Stiles feels a shiver run down his spine. Probably flight reflex, he tells himself.
He's never been a good liar.
"I bring cake," the voice adds, impatient now. "And wine."
Stiles clears his throat again. His heart is fucking pounding in there.
"Just… pull the string, the latch will open," he manages, and adds more quietly, "and then you'll eat me and probably chew and then Chris Argent will open you, and how is this my life?"
The latch opens with a quiet snick. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the pounce.
And waits.
And waits.
Finally, he blinks one eye open. And then both.
The… the… in the door, that's not a wolf. That's a werewolf. That's Derek Hale, with his dark hair and piercing eyes and stubble and a leather jacket, like every brooding, dark cliché, and he's staring. At Stiles. With his eyebrows raised.
"Okay, what?" Stiles blurts after another long moment of silent stare-y stand-off. "Aren't you supposed to," he flails weakly with his right hand, "you know, pounce? On me?"
He feels his cheeks warm slightly at the thought of pouncing of any kind because seriously, Derek Hale is hot and Stiles is suddenly very, very aware that except for that threadbare nightshirt with an equally threadbare blanket on top, he's very, very naked right now.
He pulls the blanket a little higher. Derek's gaze follows the motion with interest. Stiles knows his throat bobs as he swallows.
"Brothers Grimm, devour him already," an off-fable voice snaps. It's the one that's been telling Stiles to shut up. He hates that voice.
Hates it even more because now he can't stop thinking of all the ways he'd like to be devoured by Derek, none of which have anything to do with someone being cut out of someone else with an ax.
Derek's eyes flash red as he sniffs the air, gaze lingering on Stiles' throat before dipping down to where the blanket has started to tent. It should be mortifying, and Stiles is probably going to die of embarrassment when all this is over, but right now? Right now, he can't stop staring at Derek's hands, wondering when the claws will come out and if they'll scratch him when Derek pulls off the stupid nightshirt because eating Stiles will be so much easier when he's naked, right? Brothers, he's going to be naked and Derek will touch him and there's going to be tongue and, okay, probably pain but tongue and it's like every dirty fantasy Stiles has ever had about that guy and oh, oh, Stiles is really, really hard now.
He refuses to look down at where the blanket probably looks like a cloth-covered maypole. It probably looks obscene.
Derek's fingers twitch.
Stiles can't help himself.
"What big hands you have," he half-squeaks. He wants out of this bed, out of this situation, out of this inadvertent stalemate.
"That's not your text!" The voice off-fable sounds annoyed now, but Stiles doesn't care because Derek is moving.
Derek is moving towards the bed, a slow swagger that has Stiles' mouth go dry. Stiles licks his lips, and Derek's eyes glow red again. He doesn't stop next to the bed, simply climbs on top of it - on top of Stiles - with his hands to either side of Stiles' shoulders and knees bracketing Stiles' body, propped up so he's barely an inch from brushing against Stiles' erection.
Stiles couldn't stop the whimper that escapes him if his life depended on it. And suddenly, Derek grins down at him, looking boyish instead of his usual surly self.
"The better to stroke you with," he says, his eyes mischievous, and Stiles is sure he gapes at Derek before the words finally sink in.
"That is so corny!" he accuses, his voice weirdly breathless, and Derek's grin grows even wider.
"Yeah," he says readily. His hips dip down and oh, oh, ohhhh, there's pressure. There's friction.
"So corny," Stiles gasps, bucking up into the contact and Brothers, does it feel good. So good. So, so, so good.
Derek hums and lets his entire body sink down on top of Stiles', warm weight everywhere, the smell of Derek's hair in Stiles' nose as Derek mouths at Stiles' throat with just a hint of teeth and Stiles lets out a breathless hah, his hips jerking up again as Derek's twist down. He can feel Derek's erection through the flimsy blanket, hot and heavy and deliciously big, solid like Derek is, and Stiles wants to touch it, wants to lick it, wants to see how much of it he can take into his mouth before it chokes him, but he can't move, trapped by the blanket and Derek's weight as they move against each other, every jerk-and-twist making Stiles shudder, making him gasp, making him breathe in Derek's scent until it's all he knows, all he wants.
"Derek," he whines, and for some strange reason that makes Derek growl and push down even harder. Stiles' entire body arches up to meet him. "Ah, Derek."
Derek bites at Stiles' throat and Stiles moans.
He can't believe this is happening. If he'd known this was an option, he would have been volunteering to play Grandma every fucking time they did Red Riding Hood because Derek Hale. Because of course he's noticed Derek before, he's not blind, hello, but Stiles is Stiles and their social circles are so far apart you'd need a magic mirror to spot the one from the other.
Except,
"Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds wrecked and desperate and about one step from coming and he knows who Stiles is and he wants him, and it's that even more than the heat and the pressure and the friction that has Stiles push up for one final time as he comes, toes curling as he spurts between them, ruining the stupid nightshirt forever.
"Yes," he manages, "Derek, yes."
Derek bites down hard at the junction between Stiles' shoulder and throat, blunt teeth bruising Stiles' skin as Derek jerks against him, growling, his entire body tensing up for a long, long moment before it goes boneless on top of Stiles, pressing him into the mattress until he's not sure he'll be able to breathe for long.
That's okay, though. Stiles can think of worse ways to go.
Derek licks haphazardly at the throbbing circle where his teeth clamped down. Stiles wants to laugh. Even more, he wants to run his hands down Derek's back, but he's still trapped by the blanket and Derek's body so he settles for a contented sigh.
"Were we doing the adult version today?" someone off-fable whispers, sounding confused.
"Somebody tell Isaac to go home. Red Riding Hood's off," the shut-up voice replies, disgruntled. "Tell him to keep the fucking cake."
Derek groans and all but curls into Stiles' body as Stiles starts laughing. Again, he should be mortified and he probably will be at some point, but right now all he feels is sated and relaxed and weirdly happy.
"Hey, sexwolf," he says, snorting as Derek snaps at his throat in warning. Yeah, been there, done that, got the orgasm to go with it. "You wanna do this in private next time?"
He tries to pretend he's not holding his breath a little while he waits for Derek's answer, but Derek can probably smell his nervousness anyway.
"Yeah," Derek mumbles, his voice muffled by Stiles' throat and Stiles laughs again because, yeah. This is good.
His life is good.
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Fandom: Teen Wolf (yes, really *facepalms*)
Rating: R
Word count: ~1.900
Warnings/Content: no warnings apply
Notes: This is for berlinghoff79, awful enabler that she is.
Summary: No, really. Stiles' life sucks. He's lying in a musty old bed in a musty old cottage, wearing a not-quite-so-musty-after-he's-washed-it-twice nightshirt and nothing else. There was a wig, but he conveniently lost it in the washing water because honestly, it's not like anyone's going to believe he's a little old woman anyway, what with the lack of age and breasts and general womanhood.
Not that it makes any difference to the story, except maybe for the wolf. Stiles is willing to bet that he'll taste a lot better than any old woman when he gets eaten, Brothers Grimm, he hates Scott so much.
Read it on the AO³
As the Story Goes
Here's the thing about living in a place like Fibbery Hills: it's really more about responsibility than it is about fun. Keep the fairy tales alive; keep the dreams afloat; make sure that every known cliché stays warm and squishy in humanity's hearts. And, okay, it can also be fun, like that one glorious time Stiles got to be one of the Lost Boys in Peter Pan; flying is awesome even if pixie dust has a really weird smell. Though, seriously? Pirates suck, man, they really do, and don't get him started on mermaids. Mermaids are creepy, with their sharp teeth and those little lights in their hair they use to lure in unsuspecting little fish and their dead eyes and he never wants to hear one laugh again, ever, and, okay, back to the point.
The point being, Stiles doesn't get the fun roles. He's well-aware of his own shortcomings, thank you, so yeah, he gets it. Too morally flexible for the hero. Too generous for the villain. Too smart for the minion. Too hyperactive for the peasant. Too easily distracted for support. Too something for anything interesting.
But this?
"No," he says again, crossing his arms over his chest. Firm and steadfast, that's Stiles.
"But I could be with Allison!" Scott's doing the puppy-dog… well, everything. The damp eyes, the pleading head-tilt, the slight whine in his voice. He'd be wagging his tail if he had one. "Her father's doing the Woodsman and her mother's a Wicked Witch for two more days! We'd be all alone!"
Scott's eyes get a little dreamy at the thought of him and Allison, all alone. Stiles' heart sinks. Allison's parents don't approve of him and are perfectly happy to be really, obnoxiously obvious about it. Scott hasn't had an opportunity to be alone with Allison pretty much ever.
Still.
"I'm not playing the Grandmother!" Stiles snaps. He's nineteen, for Brothers' sake, and besides, "The Grandmother gets eaten, Scott!"
"And cut out again!"
"By Chris look-at-how-creepy-I-am-with-an-ax Argent!"
"Please! I'll owe you! I'll do anything!" Scott presses his lips together and oh , now he looks like he's going to cry at the thought of being kept from his one true love.
Soft and a pushover, that's Stiles.
"You better," he says, resigned, and finds himself with an armful of happy best friend.
Stiles' life sucks.
~~~
No, really. Stiles' life sucks. He's lying in a musty old bed in a musty old cottage, wearing a not-quite-so-musty-after-he's-washed-it-twice nightshirt and nothing else. There was a wig, but he conveniently lost it in the washing water because honestly, it's not like anyone's going to believe he's a little old woman anyway, what with the lack of age and breasts and general womanhood.
Not that it makes any difference to the story, except maybe for the wolf. Stiles is willing to bet that he'll taste a lot better than any old woman when he gets eaten, Brothers Grimm, he hates Scott so much.
"This is the version with the happy ending, right?" he asks for the thirteenth time because, hello, getting eaten.
"Shut up," comes the reply from off-fable, also for the thirteenth time, and if Stiles survives this he is going to make Scott do all of his homework forever except not really because Scott isn't dumb but he sucks at homework and Stiles can do without 'Scott and Allison McCall ♥' scribbled into the margins.
And then all of that doesn't matter anymore because there's a knock at the door, oh Brothers, wolf right outside!
"… Eep?" Stiles squeaks, which, okay, not his text, but wolf!
There's a pause.
Then another knock. Off-fable, someone snickers.
"Er." Stiles clears his throat. "Who is there?"
His voice doesn't waver. It doesn't.
Another pause, followed by a sigh.
"It is your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood," and wow, no one could ever mistake that voice for a little girl. It's male and gruff and put-upon and, okay, yes, sexy. Stiles feels a shiver run down his spine. Probably flight reflex, he tells himself.
He's never been a good liar.
"I bring cake," the voice adds, impatient now. "And wine."
Stiles clears his throat again. His heart is fucking pounding in there.
"Just… pull the string, the latch will open," he manages, and adds more quietly, "and then you'll eat me and probably chew and then Chris Argent will open you, and how is this my life?"
The latch opens with a quiet snick. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the pounce.
And waits.
And waits.
Finally, he blinks one eye open. And then both.
The… the… in the door, that's not a wolf. That's a werewolf. That's Derek Hale, with his dark hair and piercing eyes and stubble and a leather jacket, like every brooding, dark cliché, and he's staring. At Stiles. With his eyebrows raised.
"Okay, what?" Stiles blurts after another long moment of silent stare-y stand-off. "Aren't you supposed to," he flails weakly with his right hand, "you know, pounce? On me?"
He feels his cheeks warm slightly at the thought of pouncing of any kind because seriously, Derek Hale is hot and Stiles is suddenly very, very aware that except for that threadbare nightshirt with an equally threadbare blanket on top, he's very, very naked right now.
He pulls the blanket a little higher. Derek's gaze follows the motion with interest. Stiles knows his throat bobs as he swallows.
"Brothers Grimm, devour him already," an off-fable voice snaps. It's the one that's been telling Stiles to shut up. He hates that voice.
Hates it even more because now he can't stop thinking of all the ways he'd like to be devoured by Derek, none of which have anything to do with someone being cut out of someone else with an ax.
Derek's eyes flash red as he sniffs the air, gaze lingering on Stiles' throat before dipping down to where the blanket has started to tent. It should be mortifying, and Stiles is probably going to die of embarrassment when all this is over, but right now? Right now, he can't stop staring at Derek's hands, wondering when the claws will come out and if they'll scratch him when Derek pulls off the stupid nightshirt because eating Stiles will be so much easier when he's naked, right? Brothers, he's going to be naked and Derek will touch him and there's going to be tongue and, okay, probably pain but tongue and it's like every dirty fantasy Stiles has ever had about that guy and oh, oh, Stiles is really, really hard now.
He refuses to look down at where the blanket probably looks like a cloth-covered maypole. It probably looks obscene.
Derek's fingers twitch.
Stiles can't help himself.
"What big hands you have," he half-squeaks. He wants out of this bed, out of this situation, out of this inadvertent stalemate.
"That's not your text!" The voice off-fable sounds annoyed now, but Stiles doesn't care because Derek is moving.
Derek is moving towards the bed, a slow swagger that has Stiles' mouth go dry. Stiles licks his lips, and Derek's eyes glow red again. He doesn't stop next to the bed, simply climbs on top of it - on top of Stiles - with his hands to either side of Stiles' shoulders and knees bracketing Stiles' body, propped up so he's barely an inch from brushing against Stiles' erection.
Stiles couldn't stop the whimper that escapes him if his life depended on it. And suddenly, Derek grins down at him, looking boyish instead of his usual surly self.
"The better to stroke you with," he says, his eyes mischievous, and Stiles is sure he gapes at Derek before the words finally sink in.
"That is so corny!" he accuses, his voice weirdly breathless, and Derek's grin grows even wider.
"Yeah," he says readily. His hips dip down and oh, oh, ohhhh, there's pressure. There's friction.
"So corny," Stiles gasps, bucking up into the contact and Brothers, does it feel good. So good. So, so, so good.
Derek hums and lets his entire body sink down on top of Stiles', warm weight everywhere, the smell of Derek's hair in Stiles' nose as Derek mouths at Stiles' throat with just a hint of teeth and Stiles lets out a breathless hah, his hips jerking up again as Derek's twist down. He can feel Derek's erection through the flimsy blanket, hot and heavy and deliciously big, solid like Derek is, and Stiles wants to touch it, wants to lick it, wants to see how much of it he can take into his mouth before it chokes him, but he can't move, trapped by the blanket and Derek's weight as they move against each other, every jerk-and-twist making Stiles shudder, making him gasp, making him breathe in Derek's scent until it's all he knows, all he wants.
"Derek," he whines, and for some strange reason that makes Derek growl and push down even harder. Stiles' entire body arches up to meet him. "Ah, Derek."
Derek bites at Stiles' throat and Stiles moans.
He can't believe this is happening. If he'd known this was an option, he would have been volunteering to play Grandma every fucking time they did Red Riding Hood because Derek Hale. Because of course he's noticed Derek before, he's not blind, hello, but Stiles is Stiles and their social circles are so far apart you'd need a magic mirror to spot the one from the other.
Except,
"Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds wrecked and desperate and about one step from coming and he knows who Stiles is and he wants him, and it's that even more than the heat and the pressure and the friction that has Stiles push up for one final time as he comes, toes curling as he spurts between them, ruining the stupid nightshirt forever.
"Yes," he manages, "Derek, yes."
Derek bites down hard at the junction between Stiles' shoulder and throat, blunt teeth bruising Stiles' skin as Derek jerks against him, growling, his entire body tensing up for a long, long moment before it goes boneless on top of Stiles, pressing him into the mattress until he's not sure he'll be able to breathe for long.
That's okay, though. Stiles can think of worse ways to go.
Derek licks haphazardly at the throbbing circle where his teeth clamped down. Stiles wants to laugh. Even more, he wants to run his hands down Derek's back, but he's still trapped by the blanket and Derek's body so he settles for a contented sigh.
"Were we doing the adult version today?" someone off-fable whispers, sounding confused.
"Somebody tell Isaac to go home. Red Riding Hood's off," the shut-up voice replies, disgruntled. "Tell him to keep the fucking cake."
Derek groans and all but curls into Stiles' body as Stiles starts laughing. Again, he should be mortified and he probably will be at some point, but right now all he feels is sated and relaxed and weirdly happy.
"Hey, sexwolf," he says, snorting as Derek snaps at his throat in warning. Yeah, been there, done that, got the orgasm to go with it. "You wanna do this in private next time?"
He tries to pretend he's not holding his breath a little while he waits for Derek's answer, but Derek can probably smell his nervousness anyway.
"Yeah," Derek mumbles, his voice muffled by Stiles' throat and Stiles laughs again because, yeah. This is good.
His life is good.