Pet Monsters
Title: Pet Monsters
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,319
A.N.: For indigostohelit.tumblr.com.
This fic is part of the 2012 Teen Wolf Holiday Exchange on Tumblr. It was written to the following prompt: “Monsters cannot be announced. One cannot say: ‘Here are our monsters,’ without immediately turning the monsters into pets.” - Jacques Derrida
Summary: It’s not that Stiles doesn’t get that Derek is The ALPHA or that Isaac could rip his face off without breaking a sweat, Boyd could gut him in an instant, and Erica can knock him back fifty feet with a single punch. He gets that, he does. It’s just… They are his now. And it’s hard to get all twitchy and uncomfortable around his monsters.
"You did what?" Derek roars, his eyes flashing red.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Keep your big boy pants on," he says with an exaggerated sigh. "Nothing happened."
"Stiles."
Derek's fangs are out now, his fingers sporting those wicked claws of his, but Stiles can't be bothered to do more than sigh.
"Calm down, big guy." He reaches out to pat Derek's cheek and gets another roar for his effort. "Or not." Stiles shrugs. "I'm going to be over here, ignoring you, until you're fit to be seen by humans."
And he does just that, turning his back on Derek's rage monster form and heading into the kitchen to make himself a snack. There is a loud crash from the living room followed by a vicious snarl and Stiles lets out another of those put upon sighs.
"You break it, you bought it," he shouts, even though he knows that Derek can hear him just fine, even if he whispered.
There is another clatter, then a sound that Stiles can't quite identify. He shakes his head and finishes off building himself a sandwich. Then he adds chips and an apple, because energy is a good thing and he can tell he's going to need a lot of it. He picks up his plate, then bites down on his lower lip and glances over his shoulder towards the living room, where snarls and snaps are still coming from. Stiles sets the plate back down with a thunk, sighs again-- how is this is his life now?-- and starts working on another plate of food
Because music might have charms to sooth a savage breast, but food will do in a pinch. And Stiles is much more likely to succeed at the food thing than at composing a concerto.
The crashes and bangs have died down by the time he’s finished with Derek’s plate, so Stiles is not really surprised to see that Derek is sitting at the table with his human face back on. Which, yay, progress. Except that he's still doing that ominous sub-vocal growling thing of his, the one he swears he doesn't do, no matter how many time Stiles recorded him doing it. But, whatever, baby steps, right? No fangs is totally a win.
Stiles gives Derek a smile on the grounds that positive reinforcement has been scientifically proven to work, and then plops a plate down in front of him.
"Want to talk about it like adults?" Stiles asks, because he can't help but push Derek's buttons, even if it does negate all the ground he might have gained with his smile.
Derek glares at him, but says nothing, choosing instead to take a big bite out of the sandwich Stiles so magnanimously provided. Stiles makes a face-- would a thank you really be that hard?-- and then sits down across from him and tucks into his own sandwich, licking his fingers every now and then because deliciousness deserves to be savored.
"You are disgusting," Derek tells him, which is a bit rich, seeing as how Stiles has eyewitness experience as to how Alpha werewolves take down their prey, but whatever. Pot, kettle, not important. What's important is clearing up this little misunderstanding between them once and for all.
"How about this," Stiles offers, pushing his now empty plate aside. "I promise not to call the pack puppies for, I don't know, a week or two. Would that make you happy?"
Derek's eyes flash red again and dub-tee-eff, Stiles knows Derek's got more control than that. Even Jackson doesn't flash his bright blues anymore and he's got the worst control over "his wolf" than anyone.
"Stop being a baby about this," Stiles snaps, his patience officially gone. "It's not an insult, it's a term of endearment. One that the rest of the pack, your creepy ass Uncle included, doesn't mind at all. So why does it bother you? Use your words, Derek. Give me a reason, any reason at all, and I promise to give it the consideration it deserves."
Derek's hands clench into fists and then flatten out; he takes a deep breath in through his nose, and Stiles gets the feeling that the other man is doing some of that supernatural scent sussing of his. Stiles wants to pester him, find out what he's thinking and, more importantly, why he's thinking it, but he has enough experience with Derek's moods to know that any more words on Stiles part will just make Derek even less likely to share some of his.
The silence stretches on until Stiles is practically vibrating in his seat with all he's not saying. He shifts restlessly and valiantly does not sigh when Derek does that scenting thing again.
This is not how normal people work, he thinks, then mentally rolls his eyes at himself, because duh. Werewolf. Not normal by any standards at all. Stiles shifts again, rapping his knuckles on the hardwood top of the table. Derek's hand shoots out, immobilizing Stiles wrist.
"You trivialize it," he says so softly Stiles almost doesn't hear. Stiles opens his mouth, but Derek cuts him off with a sharp shake of the head. "You call them 'puppies.' You say I get 'all fangy.'. You refer to Peter as 'Uncle Lazarus.' Jesus, Stiles, last week you hit Scott on the nose with a rolled up magazine. While he was, as you would say, 'wolfed out.' When you do things like that, when you diminish what we are, you diminish the threat we represent."
Stiles gives a twisted laugh. "Well, yeah. That's the point." He pulls free of Derek's grip, then gestures to himself. "Frail human over here. Breakable, weak. Smart as hell and more than capable of saving your furry ass, but still. Human. Of course I trivialize the werewolf thing. It's either that or go completely gibbering with fright. And have you seen this face do gibbering? It's not a pretty sight."
Derek breathes out audibly, his eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. "You can't treat us like we are your pets," he says with that extra bite, the one he saves for Alpha commands. "It's not safe for you, can't you see that?"
It's Stiles turn to frown. "Not safe how?"
"It desensitizes you," Derek says gruffly, his face looking both pissed off and concerned. "It makes you forget who you are dealing with, what we are."
Stiles pulls a face. It's not that Stiles doesn't get that Derek is The ALPHA or that Isaac could rip his face off without breaking a sweat, Boyd could gut him in an instant, and Erica can knock him back fifty feet with a single punch. He gets that, he does. It's just... They are his now. And it's hard to get all twitchy and uncomfortable around his monsters.
Jackson, on the other hand, scares the shit out of Stiles daily.
But is Stiles worried about Jackson losing control and ripping his arm off? No. Not in the slightest. Because they’re a pack, they belong to each other, would lay down their lives for each other. So, yeah. Scary, snarly monsters who could snap him like a twig, but Stiles isn’t bothered at all. Because they are his.
Now if only he could find a way to explain that to Derek...
"I never forget who I'm dealing with," he says slowly, stretching a hand between them, touching Derek lightly on the arm. "Yes, you all are super scary supernatural creatures, but you're also mine. My pack. My Alpha. Mine. Do you understand what I'm telling you?" He lets his hand slip down, interlocking his fingers with Derek's, then gives a little squeeze. "It's kind of hard to be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf when you are in love with him," Stiles admits quietly.
Derek makes a sound, his whole face gentling, eyebrows rising up into an inverted vee. "Stiles," he says, his voice rough and broken, eyes telling Stiles all Derek can't say.
"I know," Stiles tells him, "I know."
"Just," Derek shakes his head, fingers tightening on Stiles, "I worry. I see how you are with the pack and it," he sucks in a deep breath. "Don't get complacent. Don't start to think that we are harmless. Because sooner or later something is going to happen and if you've got it in your head that we are all a bunch of pussycats, then you're just going to end up hurt."
Stiles jerks his hand back, ignoring the distressed sound Derek lets out. He bites down hard on his lip to keep from railing at Derek about how he thought they were past this, how yeah, Stiles got it. He is human and weak and the vulnerable one. He knows that. God, he knows. How many times has Stiles woken up in a hospital bed? It's kind of really obvious to Stiles exactly how breakable he is. But he thought that he and Derek were past all that Me-Alpha-You-Helpless-Victim bullshit by now and it hurts, knowing that they still aren’t.
It hurts alot.
Stiles pushes back from the table and picks up his plate. He turns and walks towards the door, but is stopped halfway there by Derek's strong hands on his shoulders.
"Whatever you're thinking right now, you're wrong. I didn't mean it like that," Derek says, his voice broken.
Stiles shrugs free, hands tightening on the plate. He walks into the kitchen, pretending like he can’t hear the way Derek calls after him. It’s somewhat harder, though, to ignore him when Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’s waist and buries his face in the crook where Stiles neck and shoulder meet.
“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice going all raw and wretched and that’s just not fair. He’s not allowed to be vulnerable when Stiles is upset. Vulnerable-Derek is totally Stiles’s weakness, damn it. Stiles closes his eyes and tries to hold tight to his anger, but it melts away as Derek snuffles into his neck, begging him, “please.”
Stiles shoulders slump and he shakes his head. “I spend my nights curled up in bed next to a man who can shift into an animal, who can grow claws and fangs. I laugh with him. I share my meals with him. He holds me when I cry, tells me he loves me, promises that we will grow together. How can I possibly hold a part of myself aside, locked away in case of emergency? It’s all or nothing, Derek. It’s always been all or nothing. And I picked ‘all’ well before I finally agreed to that first date. I’ve had this battle with myself, hashed it all out. And I decided that I would rather risk the danger than live a life without you in it. Please don’t ask me to regret that, to make me doubt my faith in you.”
“That’s not what I am asking,” Derek says his breath hot on Stiles’s neck as his arms tighten around Stiles’s waist.
Stiles steps away from Derek, easily breaking the other man’s hold on him, though Derek is ten times as strong as Stiles will ever be. He sucks in a breath, then turns towards Derek. “You are, Derek. You might not think it, but you are. And I refuse, refuse, to do that. You will never hurt me, not willingly. And neither will anyone in the pack. Not even Peter. So what if you can break my bones as easy as a knife sliding through hot butter, you aren’t going to. End of story.”
“Stiles--”
“No!” Stiles scowls, steps forward, and jabs his finger into Derek’s sternum. “You are mine. And I refuse to be frightened of you. I respect your abilities, but I will not fear them any more than I would fear my father’s ability to use his gun. Does that mean that I won’t panic if I saw some masked man coming at me with it? No way in hell. The same applies to you and your wolfy tendencies. Understand?”
Derek’s hand comes up, surrounding Stiles’s. He pulls it up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the center of Stiles’s palm. “I understand,” he says with a soft look, then his mouth tightens and he growls. “But I still don’t like you calling them puppies.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling so hard that there’s no anger to it. “Fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I won’t call them puppies. But I refuse to stop calling Jackson a weresnizard. Because, seriously. Have you seen a snizard?”
Now it’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. “I was alive in the nineties, Stiles. I remember what a snizard looks like. Probably better than you do. You weren’t even born when that show first aired.”
“Um, yes I was.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest.
Derek makes a face. “You were, what one? That doesn’t count.”
“Does too.”
“I refuse to say does not.”
Stiles grins. “Then I win.” Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles cuts him off with a kiss. Derek nips at his lips in retaliation, but Stiles doesn't mind. Stiles doesn’t mind at all. Not when Derek’s hand come up to cup his face. Not when Derek deepens the kiss. And especially not when Derek pulls back, tips Stiles’s head back, and nuzzles at the underside of Stiles’s jaw.
“Mine,” Derek says, dragging his lips down Stiles’s neck.
“Mine,” Stiles say right back, digging his fingers in the meat of Derek’s shoulders. “My Alpha. My partner. My pet monster.”
Derek growls, but doesn’t protest otherwise. Instead he chooses to tug aside the top of Stiles shirt and bite down on the juncture of Stiles’s shoulder and neck. And Stiles? Stiles sort of goes boneless.
“We should argue more,” he says a bit breathlessly.
Derek doesn’t say anything in reply. His mouth is otherwise occupied, and Stiles can’t object at all to that.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,319
A.N.: For indigostohelit.tumblr.com.
This fic is part of the 2012 Teen Wolf Holiday Exchange on Tumblr. It was written to the following prompt: “Monsters cannot be announced. One cannot say: ‘Here are our monsters,’ without immediately turning the monsters into pets.” - Jacques Derrida
Summary: It’s not that Stiles doesn’t get that Derek is The ALPHA or that Isaac could rip his face off without breaking a sweat, Boyd could gut him in an instant, and Erica can knock him back fifty feet with a single punch. He gets that, he does. It’s just… They are his now. And it’s hard to get all twitchy and uncomfortable around his monsters.
"You did what?" Derek roars, his eyes flashing red.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Keep your big boy pants on," he says with an exaggerated sigh. "Nothing happened."
"Stiles."
Derek's fangs are out now, his fingers sporting those wicked claws of his, but Stiles can't be bothered to do more than sigh.
"Calm down, big guy." He reaches out to pat Derek's cheek and gets another roar for his effort. "Or not." Stiles shrugs. "I'm going to be over here, ignoring you, until you're fit to be seen by humans."
And he does just that, turning his back on Derek's rage monster form and heading into the kitchen to make himself a snack. There is a loud crash from the living room followed by a vicious snarl and Stiles lets out another of those put upon sighs.
"You break it, you bought it," he shouts, even though he knows that Derek can hear him just fine, even if he whispered.
There is another clatter, then a sound that Stiles can't quite identify. He shakes his head and finishes off building himself a sandwich. Then he adds chips and an apple, because energy is a good thing and he can tell he's going to need a lot of it. He picks up his plate, then bites down on his lower lip and glances over his shoulder towards the living room, where snarls and snaps are still coming from. Stiles sets the plate back down with a thunk, sighs again-- how is this is his life now?-- and starts working on another plate of food
Because music might have charms to sooth a savage breast, but food will do in a pinch. And Stiles is much more likely to succeed at the food thing than at composing a concerto.
The crashes and bangs have died down by the time he’s finished with Derek’s plate, so Stiles is not really surprised to see that Derek is sitting at the table with his human face back on. Which, yay, progress. Except that he's still doing that ominous sub-vocal growling thing of his, the one he swears he doesn't do, no matter how many time Stiles recorded him doing it. But, whatever, baby steps, right? No fangs is totally a win.
Stiles gives Derek a smile on the grounds that positive reinforcement has been scientifically proven to work, and then plops a plate down in front of him.
"Want to talk about it like adults?" Stiles asks, because he can't help but push Derek's buttons, even if it does negate all the ground he might have gained with his smile.
Derek glares at him, but says nothing, choosing instead to take a big bite out of the sandwich Stiles so magnanimously provided. Stiles makes a face-- would a thank you really be that hard?-- and then sits down across from him and tucks into his own sandwich, licking his fingers every now and then because deliciousness deserves to be savored.
"You are disgusting," Derek tells him, which is a bit rich, seeing as how Stiles has eyewitness experience as to how Alpha werewolves take down their prey, but whatever. Pot, kettle, not important. What's important is clearing up this little misunderstanding between them once and for all.
"How about this," Stiles offers, pushing his now empty plate aside. "I promise not to call the pack puppies for, I don't know, a week or two. Would that make you happy?"
Derek's eyes flash red again and dub-tee-eff, Stiles knows Derek's got more control than that. Even Jackson doesn't flash his bright blues anymore and he's got the worst control over "his wolf" than anyone.
"Stop being a baby about this," Stiles snaps, his patience officially gone. "It's not an insult, it's a term of endearment. One that the rest of the pack, your creepy ass Uncle included, doesn't mind at all. So why does it bother you? Use your words, Derek. Give me a reason, any reason at all, and I promise to give it the consideration it deserves."
Derek's hands clench into fists and then flatten out; he takes a deep breath in through his nose, and Stiles gets the feeling that the other man is doing some of that supernatural scent sussing of his. Stiles wants to pester him, find out what he's thinking and, more importantly, why he's thinking it, but he has enough experience with Derek's moods to know that any more words on Stiles part will just make Derek even less likely to share some of his.
The silence stretches on until Stiles is practically vibrating in his seat with all he's not saying. He shifts restlessly and valiantly does not sigh when Derek does that scenting thing again.
This is not how normal people work, he thinks, then mentally rolls his eyes at himself, because duh. Werewolf. Not normal by any standards at all. Stiles shifts again, rapping his knuckles on the hardwood top of the table. Derek's hand shoots out, immobilizing Stiles wrist.
"You trivialize it," he says so softly Stiles almost doesn't hear. Stiles opens his mouth, but Derek cuts him off with a sharp shake of the head. "You call them 'puppies.' You say I get 'all fangy.'. You refer to Peter as 'Uncle Lazarus.' Jesus, Stiles, last week you hit Scott on the nose with a rolled up magazine. While he was, as you would say, 'wolfed out.' When you do things like that, when you diminish what we are, you diminish the threat we represent."
Stiles gives a twisted laugh. "Well, yeah. That's the point." He pulls free of Derek's grip, then gestures to himself. "Frail human over here. Breakable, weak. Smart as hell and more than capable of saving your furry ass, but still. Human. Of course I trivialize the werewolf thing. It's either that or go completely gibbering with fright. And have you seen this face do gibbering? It's not a pretty sight."
Derek breathes out audibly, his eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. "You can't treat us like we are your pets," he says with that extra bite, the one he saves for Alpha commands. "It's not safe for you, can't you see that?"
It's Stiles turn to frown. "Not safe how?"
"It desensitizes you," Derek says gruffly, his face looking both pissed off and concerned. "It makes you forget who you are dealing with, what we are."
Stiles pulls a face. It's not that Stiles doesn't get that Derek is The ALPHA or that Isaac could rip his face off without breaking a sweat, Boyd could gut him in an instant, and Erica can knock him back fifty feet with a single punch. He gets that, he does. It's just... They are his now. And it's hard to get all twitchy and uncomfortable around his monsters.
Jackson, on the other hand, scares the shit out of Stiles daily.
But is Stiles worried about Jackson losing control and ripping his arm off? No. Not in the slightest. Because they’re a pack, they belong to each other, would lay down their lives for each other. So, yeah. Scary, snarly monsters who could snap him like a twig, but Stiles isn’t bothered at all. Because they are his.
Now if only he could find a way to explain that to Derek...
"I never forget who I'm dealing with," he says slowly, stretching a hand between them, touching Derek lightly on the arm. "Yes, you all are super scary supernatural creatures, but you're also mine. My pack. My Alpha. Mine. Do you understand what I'm telling you?" He lets his hand slip down, interlocking his fingers with Derek's, then gives a little squeeze. "It's kind of hard to be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf when you are in love with him," Stiles admits quietly.
Derek makes a sound, his whole face gentling, eyebrows rising up into an inverted vee. "Stiles," he says, his voice rough and broken, eyes telling Stiles all Derek can't say.
"I know," Stiles tells him, "I know."
"Just," Derek shakes his head, fingers tightening on Stiles, "I worry. I see how you are with the pack and it," he sucks in a deep breath. "Don't get complacent. Don't start to think that we are harmless. Because sooner or later something is going to happen and if you've got it in your head that we are all a bunch of pussycats, then you're just going to end up hurt."
Stiles jerks his hand back, ignoring the distressed sound Derek lets out. He bites down hard on his lip to keep from railing at Derek about how he thought they were past this, how yeah, Stiles got it. He is human and weak and the vulnerable one. He knows that. God, he knows. How many times has Stiles woken up in a hospital bed? It's kind of really obvious to Stiles exactly how breakable he is. But he thought that he and Derek were past all that Me-Alpha-You-Helpless-Victim bullshit by now and it hurts, knowing that they still aren’t.
It hurts alot.
Stiles pushes back from the table and picks up his plate. He turns and walks towards the door, but is stopped halfway there by Derek's strong hands on his shoulders.
"Whatever you're thinking right now, you're wrong. I didn't mean it like that," Derek says, his voice broken.
Stiles shrugs free, hands tightening on the plate. He walks into the kitchen, pretending like he can’t hear the way Derek calls after him. It’s somewhat harder, though, to ignore him when Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’s waist and buries his face in the crook where Stiles neck and shoulder meet.
“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice going all raw and wretched and that’s just not fair. He’s not allowed to be vulnerable when Stiles is upset. Vulnerable-Derek is totally Stiles’s weakness, damn it. Stiles closes his eyes and tries to hold tight to his anger, but it melts away as Derek snuffles into his neck, begging him, “please.”
Stiles shoulders slump and he shakes his head. “I spend my nights curled up in bed next to a man who can shift into an animal, who can grow claws and fangs. I laugh with him. I share my meals with him. He holds me when I cry, tells me he loves me, promises that we will grow together. How can I possibly hold a part of myself aside, locked away in case of emergency? It’s all or nothing, Derek. It’s always been all or nothing. And I picked ‘all’ well before I finally agreed to that first date. I’ve had this battle with myself, hashed it all out. And I decided that I would rather risk the danger than live a life without you in it. Please don’t ask me to regret that, to make me doubt my faith in you.”
“That’s not what I am asking,” Derek says his breath hot on Stiles’s neck as his arms tighten around Stiles’s waist.
Stiles steps away from Derek, easily breaking the other man’s hold on him, though Derek is ten times as strong as Stiles will ever be. He sucks in a breath, then turns towards Derek. “You are, Derek. You might not think it, but you are. And I refuse, refuse, to do that. You will never hurt me, not willingly. And neither will anyone in the pack. Not even Peter. So what if you can break my bones as easy as a knife sliding through hot butter, you aren’t going to. End of story.”
“Stiles--”
“No!” Stiles scowls, steps forward, and jabs his finger into Derek’s sternum. “You are mine. And I refuse to be frightened of you. I respect your abilities, but I will not fear them any more than I would fear my father’s ability to use his gun. Does that mean that I won’t panic if I saw some masked man coming at me with it? No way in hell. The same applies to you and your wolfy tendencies. Understand?”
Derek’s hand comes up, surrounding Stiles’s. He pulls it up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the center of Stiles’s palm. “I understand,” he says with a soft look, then his mouth tightens and he growls. “But I still don’t like you calling them puppies.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling so hard that there’s no anger to it. “Fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I won’t call them puppies. But I refuse to stop calling Jackson a weresnizard. Because, seriously. Have you seen a snizard?”
Now it’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. “I was alive in the nineties, Stiles. I remember what a snizard looks like. Probably better than you do. You weren’t even born when that show first aired.”
“Um, yes I was.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest.
Derek makes a face. “You were, what one? That doesn’t count.”
“Does too.”
“I refuse to say does not.”
Stiles grins. “Then I win.” Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles cuts him off with a kiss. Derek nips at his lips in retaliation, but Stiles doesn't mind. Stiles doesn’t mind at all. Not when Derek’s hand come up to cup his face. Not when Derek deepens the kiss. And especially not when Derek pulls back, tips Stiles’s head back, and nuzzles at the underside of Stiles’s jaw.
“Mine,” Derek says, dragging his lips down Stiles’s neck.
“Mine,” Stiles say right back, digging his fingers in the meat of Derek’s shoulders. “My Alpha. My partner. My pet monster.”
Derek growls, but doesn’t protest otherwise. Instead he chooses to tug aside the top of Stiles shirt and bite down on the juncture of Stiles’s shoulder and neck. And Stiles? Stiles sort of goes boneless.
“We should argue more,” he says a bit breathlessly.
Derek doesn’t say anything in reply. His mouth is otherwise occupied, and Stiles can’t object at all to that.