Teen Wolf Fanfiction: Wulf
Title: Wulf
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf is owned by Jeff Davis, and other associated parties. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: AU, slash, D/S, Stiles always worries about Derek, despite the fact that he’s a werewolf and a sourwolf to boot. Derek humors him though.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, Alternate Universe- medieval, knights, werewolves, soul mates, Stiles worries, Derek lets him, jousting.
Pairings/Characters: Derek hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek, Stiles
Word Count: ~900
Author's Note: Just a little something I thought up randomly while listening to music and riding the bus, because we know Derek would make a good knight. The bus is kind of my muse because I ride it everywhere and it is the best time to think and plan, and come up with awesome story ideas. I’d hate to be a mind reader sitting next to me on the bus, my thoughts are NSFW. XD
I'm alive. I haven't posted anything up here in ages. School has devoured my life. I haven't even seen the new season of Merlin (cries QnQ). Now that school is coming to a close, I'll have some time before spring semester.
xXx
The sound of hooves beating the ground and his own heart beat were all Derek could hear as he charged down the lane, visor down, and lance up. His vision narrowed to the center of his opponent’s shield, bobbing with each step of their horse.
The distance shortened and their lances and shields met in a crash of wood and steel. His opponent’s lance shattered on impact, but the force behind it rammed straight through his side and pain blazed brightly from his shoulder.
Derek still pushed through and used the force of his own charge to unhorse his opponent from their saddle and they landed with a thud and clang of armor. Derek thundered passed, smirking under his helmet in triumph as the crowd roared their approval.
Turning, Derek pulled off his helmet and waited to see if his opponent would get up. The man’s arm lifted and the crowd cheered again. Turning away, Derek looked up at the stands were the lord who was hosting the joust sat. “For the third year in a row, Sir Derek Hale is our winner,” he said over the cheers of the people.
The lord nodded and tossed down a purse of gold coins, the prize for winning. Derek kept himself from flinching as the movement of his arm sent a streak of pain from his shoulder to his head. It didn’t matter, it was already healing.
Nodding to the lord, Derek turned his mount to the entrance of the field. He could see Stiles fidgeting off to the side, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for Derek to dismount. Clucking, he maneuvered his mount over and dismounted slowly, keeping his injured arm close to his side.
He looked up and saw a knowing look in Stiles’ eyes and knew he was in for it from his mate. Derek looked up as Deaton; the head farrier of the lord’s own stables came forward to take his horse. “You did well,” he said with a cryptic smile.
Ignoring the man, despite him being a family friend, he turned to Stiles. The young man looked ready to drag Derek back to the tent that had been provided for them. He arched a brow at Stiles and Stiles just glared at him, motioning for Derek to start walking.
Huffing in quiet laughter, Derek did as told for once without making a fuss. The moment the tent flap closed behind them, Stiles was on him, manhandling him onto a tall stool, hands fluttering around. “You idiot, you got hurt and decided that using your hurt arm wouldn’t be bad,” Stiles hissed, voice irked, though his fingers were gentle as they tugged at buckles.
Stiles continued to mutter as he helped Derek out of his armor and Derek let him, knowing that Stiles needed this to reassure himself that Derek was fine. Derek couldn’t hold back a flinch as they pulled off the under padding which involved lifting his arms over his head.
Derek shivered as the cool shade of the tent made the sweat on his skin cool off quickly. Stiles was still muttering, running gentle fingers along Derek’s limbs and torso, and checking for any more damage. Finally, Derek had had enough.
Grabbing Stiles by the arms, Derek tugged Stiles in, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ smaller frame. Burying his face in the joint of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, Derek breathed in deep, taking in the scents that made up Stiles. “I’m fine,” Derek said softly.
“No you’re not. You’re daft in the head is what you are,” Stiles said just as softly. His hand clutched tightly at Derek’s muscled back.
“It almost completely healed. It was just a little pain,” Derek said.
“What, you think I like seeing you in pain?” Stiles asks, jerking back to glare at the werewolf.
Derek shook his head, “No, I know you don’t.”
“I don’t like being forced to sit on the sidelines while you put yourself in harm’s way. And I know there’s not much that can hurt you, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying,” Stiles says with a huff of breath, cutting Derek off before he can even form a protest.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly, pulling Stiles back close again. “I guess I not used to this. For the longest time, it was just me and now it’s us, but I still have habits. I’ll try to be more careful next time.” Stiles stiffened at the mention of next time. “I know you don’t like me doing this, but if I’m going to keep us fed and clothed and housed, I need to make money somehow. It’ll be a while before we need to get more. This will certainly last us for a while.”
Stiles sighed, “I know. I just worry.” He pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips and the werewolf responded, seeking more, pulling his mate flush against him. Stiles pulled back with a gasp, “Not here were someone could just walk in.” Derek growled, eyes flashing red. “Don’t you flash your eyes at me, sourwolf. Come on, up. Let’s go get you cleaned up and some food and then we can finish what we started.”
“Is that a promise?” Derek asked, standing up and crowding Stiles into the center pole of the tent.
“God, you’re an insatiable brute,” Stiles said, but grinned up at Derek. “Come on.” Derek pressed another kiss to Stiles’ mouth and followed him to the inn where they were staying.
End.
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf is owned by Jeff Davis, and other associated parties. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: AU, slash, D/S, Stiles always worries about Derek, despite the fact that he’s a werewolf and a sourwolf to boot. Derek humors him though.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, Alternate Universe- medieval, knights, werewolves, soul mates, Stiles worries, Derek lets him, jousting.
Pairings/Characters: Derek hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek, Stiles
Word Count: ~900
Author's Note: Just a little something I thought up randomly while listening to music and riding the bus, because we know Derek would make a good knight. The bus is kind of my muse because I ride it everywhere and it is the best time to think and plan, and come up with awesome story ideas. I’d hate to be a mind reader sitting next to me on the bus, my thoughts are NSFW. XD
I'm alive. I haven't posted anything up here in ages. School has devoured my life. I haven't even seen the new season of Merlin (cries QnQ). Now that school is coming to a close, I'll have some time before spring semester.
xXx
The sound of hooves beating the ground and his own heart beat were all Derek could hear as he charged down the lane, visor down, and lance up. His vision narrowed to the center of his opponent’s shield, bobbing with each step of their horse.
The distance shortened and their lances and shields met in a crash of wood and steel. His opponent’s lance shattered on impact, but the force behind it rammed straight through his side and pain blazed brightly from his shoulder.
Derek still pushed through and used the force of his own charge to unhorse his opponent from their saddle and they landed with a thud and clang of armor. Derek thundered passed, smirking under his helmet in triumph as the crowd roared their approval.
Turning, Derek pulled off his helmet and waited to see if his opponent would get up. The man’s arm lifted and the crowd cheered again. Turning away, Derek looked up at the stands were the lord who was hosting the joust sat. “For the third year in a row, Sir Derek Hale is our winner,” he said over the cheers of the people.
The lord nodded and tossed down a purse of gold coins, the prize for winning. Derek kept himself from flinching as the movement of his arm sent a streak of pain from his shoulder to his head. It didn’t matter, it was already healing.
Nodding to the lord, Derek turned his mount to the entrance of the field. He could see Stiles fidgeting off to the side, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for Derek to dismount. Clucking, he maneuvered his mount over and dismounted slowly, keeping his injured arm close to his side.
He looked up and saw a knowing look in Stiles’ eyes and knew he was in for it from his mate. Derek looked up as Deaton; the head farrier of the lord’s own stables came forward to take his horse. “You did well,” he said with a cryptic smile.
Ignoring the man, despite him being a family friend, he turned to Stiles. The young man looked ready to drag Derek back to the tent that had been provided for them. He arched a brow at Stiles and Stiles just glared at him, motioning for Derek to start walking.
Huffing in quiet laughter, Derek did as told for once without making a fuss. The moment the tent flap closed behind them, Stiles was on him, manhandling him onto a tall stool, hands fluttering around. “You idiot, you got hurt and decided that using your hurt arm wouldn’t be bad,” Stiles hissed, voice irked, though his fingers were gentle as they tugged at buckles.
Stiles continued to mutter as he helped Derek out of his armor and Derek let him, knowing that Stiles needed this to reassure himself that Derek was fine. Derek couldn’t hold back a flinch as they pulled off the under padding which involved lifting his arms over his head.
Derek shivered as the cool shade of the tent made the sweat on his skin cool off quickly. Stiles was still muttering, running gentle fingers along Derek’s limbs and torso, and checking for any more damage. Finally, Derek had had enough.
Grabbing Stiles by the arms, Derek tugged Stiles in, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ smaller frame. Burying his face in the joint of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, Derek breathed in deep, taking in the scents that made up Stiles. “I’m fine,” Derek said softly.
“No you’re not. You’re daft in the head is what you are,” Stiles said just as softly. His hand clutched tightly at Derek’s muscled back.
“It almost completely healed. It was just a little pain,” Derek said.
“What, you think I like seeing you in pain?” Stiles asks, jerking back to glare at the werewolf.
Derek shook his head, “No, I know you don’t.”
“I don’t like being forced to sit on the sidelines while you put yourself in harm’s way. And I know there’s not much that can hurt you, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying,” Stiles says with a huff of breath, cutting Derek off before he can even form a protest.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly, pulling Stiles back close again. “I guess I not used to this. For the longest time, it was just me and now it’s us, but I still have habits. I’ll try to be more careful next time.” Stiles stiffened at the mention of next time. “I know you don’t like me doing this, but if I’m going to keep us fed and clothed and housed, I need to make money somehow. It’ll be a while before we need to get more. This will certainly last us for a while.”
Stiles sighed, “I know. I just worry.” He pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips and the werewolf responded, seeking more, pulling his mate flush against him. Stiles pulled back with a gasp, “Not here were someone could just walk in.” Derek growled, eyes flashing red. “Don’t you flash your eyes at me, sourwolf. Come on, up. Let’s go get you cleaned up and some food and then we can finish what we started.”
“Is that a promise?” Derek asked, standing up and crowding Stiles into the center pole of the tent.
“God, you’re an insatiable brute,” Stiles said, but grinned up at Derek. “Come on.” Derek pressed another kiss to Stiles’ mouth and followed him to the inn where they were staying.
End.