Prompt Post 01
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Scott looks incredibly concerned and dubious, but he obviously doesn’t understand how awesome Stiles is, especially since the werewolf is tracking Stiles warily but intently. Stiles slots the bowl into the cage, maybe a foot from the werewolf’s collapsed body, and then pulls a water bottle from his pocket. He has to give it to Scott to open, and they have a small but silent fight over Scott twisting off the cap, in which Scott judges him with his eyes and Stiles alternates between glaring and making puppy-dog eyes.
Finally, Scott twists the cap off and Stiles can pour some water into the bowl. It’s only a little, mostly because Stiles doesn’t know how dehydrated the guy is and he’s afraid if he gulps down the water then there will be werewolf puke all over. The werewolf manages to pull himself over to the bowl, but Stiles ends up tilting it so he can drink. He licks the bowl clean, and then pins Stiles with a stare.
Stiles really, really wants to run away or start babbling, because only mobsters and assassins and CIA operatives should have stares that intense, and why was this a good idea? But he stays strong long enough to be reasonably sure that this won't turn into an episode of Puking Werewolf, and pours some more water. They repeat the cycle, as Scott hangs back about five feet and quietly freaks out, until the entire bottle is gone.
Stiles doesn’t even see it until it’s too late; the werewolf shoots out a hand as Stiles is withdrawing his, clamping tight onto his wrist. Stiles is panicking in a very, very obvious way, and Scott is asking him what’s wrong because from his angle he can’t see what happened, and oh god the werewolf really is going to rip off his arm.
Stiles is about almost to fainting point when the werewolf moves his face right over Stiles’ fisted hand and starts sniffing. But all he does is sniff, nose pressed against Stiles’ skin, and it occurs to Stiles that even with those crazy looking claws and fangs, the werewolf isn’t actually hurting him. He relaxes his arm slowly, and when his hand uncurls the werewolf rumbles happily and sniffs between his fingers.
He licks, a brief swipe of tongue on Stiles’ palm, and then a truck screeching to a halt scares the hell out of all of them.
The werewolf lets go of Stiles with a snarl, and Stiles and Scott make a break for it. Stiles stops twenty feet into the yard, hidden from sight by a tree, and watches the house. The werewolf is still snarling, but no one comes to check on him.
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“Yeah, I’m sure he licked someone to death,” Stiles says. Yay, chicken tender day.
“We found him when he was so dehydrated he could barely move,” Scott says, “I’m sure at full health that would have gone a lot differently.”
“Okay,” Stiles allows, because yeah, probably, but, “did you see his eyes, though? He wasn’t crazy or murderous or out for blood.”
“Just drop it, Stiles. We saw a werewolf yesterday. I still think that I’ve gone insane.”
Stiles drops it in favor of letting Scott wax about Allison, but he can’t stop thinking about that happy rumble or how the werewolf’s shoulders relaxed when Stiles relaxed.
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Stiles holds out two days before he goes back, but this time he’s alone. He brings a two bottles of water and an entire bag of beef jerky, because he couldn’t find anything else in the house to feed a werewolf. (Well, besides raw chicken, but Stiles is not carrying raw chicken through five miles of woods after driving to a little-used access road.)
He makes sure to spy on the front of the house first, and when there’s no truck or sign of someone inside he goes to the back yard.
This time the werewolf is eerily silent, watching Stiles with a stare that makes him feel like very, very small prey. But the werewolf relaxes the closer he gets, even leaning against the cage and sticking his nose out towards Stiles, and Stiles grins unwittingly. The bowl is still empty so this time, after Stiles has successfully twisted off the cap and done a little victory dance, he just pours the entire bottle into the bowl. The werewolf gulps down most of the bowl and then turns towards Stiles expectantly.
“Yeah, okay, you can probably smell the jerky, huh?” Stile says, pulling out the bag and sticking the strip between the bars. He’s barely got an inch through before the werewolf snatches it up with his teeth, and Stiles is still processing when a tongue laves the salt off his fingers.
But Stiles has always been highly adaptable, so he continues to feed the werewolf strip by strip, once again afraid that this will turn into Puking Werewolf: Electric Boogaloo. After about ten strips the werewolf suddenly surges towards him and growls so viciously that Stiles doesn’t just fall on his ass, he rockets onto it.
The werewolf is glaring at him, a look filled with a thousand fiery deaths, and Stiles thinks, small prey, small prey, feeding him meat was not a good idea. But besides the glare the werewolf doesn’t look particularly hateful.
Stiles narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to intimidate me, aren’t you? You ass, I’m not afraid of you!”
The werewolf glares harder, and then he changes his posture so that he seems to fill the entire cage, seems to be larger than life. Stiles wish he could be that badass. The werewolf looks like he could smack someone down like the hand of god. How did he ever think that the overly-large shirt made this guy look scrawny?
“Okay, so maybe I am afraid of you,” Stiles says, and then shoves five pieces of jerky between the bars.
The werewolf snatches them up, still glaring, but Stiles thinks that there might be a bit of amusement in the stare too.
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“Probably,” Stiles says. “Are you coming with me tomorrow?”
“Hell yes,” Scott says.
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Apparently the werewolf doesn’t like Scott too much (Stiles tried calling him Clarence but the glare he shot Stiles made Stile’s balls try to climb up in his body, so he’s still ‘the werewolf’), but as long as Scott hangs back he doesn’t do more than glare his judgmentally at him. Stiles gives him water and fish tacos, which Scott has no right to make fun of because he puts ketchup on scrambled eggs. The werewolf has the entire tacos in the cage, instead of eating from Stiles’ hand, but he still glares until Stiles lets him lick whatever miniscule residue is on his fingers. Then, Stiles slides lock picks into the cage.
The werewolf’s face is still judgy and scary, but it’s the closest thing to a gleeful expression that Stiles has seen him make. Stiles thinks he’s happy.
Scott, on the other hand, is nowhere near happy.
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“Look, if he’s human enough to pick the lock then he’s human enough to deserve to escape,” Stiles says as they walk back home. “Give me one good reason that we should go back and take the picks away from him.”
“Raptors!”
“Where?!” Stiles spins around, arms pinwheeling.
“Not here, man; I meant raptors as an example. They opened doors so they could eat people. Ow!” Scott rubs the back of his head. “What the hell was that for?”
“You can’t use Jurassic Park as a reason, you dumbass. That’s like trying to woo a girl by watching Conan the Barbarian or something. Raptors don’t even exist anymore!”
“Neither do werewolves!” Scott says.
“People claim that they see werewolves all the time. Have you ever been on the internet? No one claims they see dinosaurs,” Stiles says.
“I’m not going to be sad if he gets out and eats you. Slowly,” Scott tells him.
“Deal,” Stiles says.
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Stiles goes up to the cabin two days later. The cage door is swinging in the wind, creaking and dragging the chains in the dirt.
Stiles grins.
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He wakes up gradually to the feeling of something rubbing against his shoulder blades. The smooth pressure is nice, kind of like a massage, and Stiles drifts, half-asleep, until he realizes that he’s he really is awake and something really is rubbing against him.
As soon as he tenses the rubbing stops, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, sends a quick prayer to the ninja gods that he’ll pull this off, then tries to flip over while flailing his elbow backwards.
He flips over, but he doesn’t actually take down whatever was on him with an amazing hit to the face. The ninja gods have deserted him once again.
He’s surprised to find a guy on top of him. He’s slightly back-lit by the yellow of the streetlights, but Stiles can make out the dark hair and hazel eyes. There’s something familiar about the curve of his cheekbones, the line of his shoulders, but mostly Stiles’ brain is shouting, guy rape! Guy rape! Do not let him take off your boxers!
Stiles flails, which is something he’s pretty good at, if he does so say, and nearly catches the guy in the eye with an errant hand. The guy snatches his wrists firmly and growls, glaring down at Stiles.
Wait. Wait.
Stiles peers up at him, and yes, that’s the glare that makes him feel like his masculinity has fled two states over. Oh my god, this is his werewolf.
“So this is what you look like as a human,” Stiles blurts out, then winces when the werewolf (can Stiles still call him a werewolf when he looks like a human?) glares even more. Stiles should shut up.
“I should shut up, shouldn’t I? That’d be the smart thing to do right now since you’re getting pissed and pinning me down and…and now you’ve got the whole eyes and fangs thing going on, oh god don’t eat me, Scott will never let me live it down if you eat me.”
Apparently, Stiles is incapable of shutting up.
But it’s okay, since the werewolf takes the choice out of his hands when he leans down until Stiles can feel his breath on his cheek. Stiles is so scared that he might be in danger of pissing himself, and as he closes his eyes he finally understand why people do that all the time in horror movies. If he can’t see it, it’s not happening.
Stiles is waiting for the werewolf to rip off his face, or maybe even call him chicken-shit, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, he rubs his cheek against Stiles’ and makes that happy rumble again. He trails his nose down Stiles neck, lapping at his pulse-point, then rubs his cheek against Stiles chest, noses into both his armpits. Stiles squirms when the werewolf’s breath tickles him through his shirt but otherwise stays still, waits it out. The repetitive motion of rubbing lulls him, and despite all the questions running through his head, Stiles can feel sleep tugging at him. The werewolf settles against his side, the concave of the bridge of his nose fitting against the curve of Stile’s jaw. Stiles falls asleep to the steady puffs of breath against his neck.
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The next day, Stiles gets out of school to find the werewolf leaning against his Jeep’s passenger door, face set in its usual glare. Stiles barely knows the guy, and he’s already figured out that it’s his version of a happy face.
“Derek Hale,” the werewolf says when Stiles reaches the Jeep, and Stiles trips over his own feet in shock. Hale? As in the burned Hale house?
“Stiles,” he says.
The werewolf-Derek, wow, no wonder he hated Clarence-nods, glares at Stiles, and then opens the passenger door. “Let’s go,” he says.
Okay. Stiles can flow with this. He gets in, revs his baby up, and grins over at Derek. “Where to?”
“Home,” Derek says.
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The story foundation you set here makes me want to read more of this 'verse in the future, if you're willing? Does Derek still need to hide from the Argents (since Allison has already moved to Beacon Hills and stolen Scott's heart)? Or does he become kind of like a permanent guest in the Stilinski house? (the thought of Derek at the dinner table with Stiles and his dad cracks me up) Really, I adore this story and I would love to read anything and everything else you may decide to write in this 'verse in the future. ;)
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Oh, god, you have no idea how amazing it is to hear that. I haven't actually written for Teen Wolf before, and I just sat down and banged it out (which almost never happens), and then I posted it and promptly freaked out. So thank you for calming my inner hater screaming, "BOO YOU WHORE."
I have at least one other prompt that I want to fill, but it would definitely be worth it to come back to this 'verse and dabble some more. I probably wouldn't write sequential stories like this (This is about as long and as plot-filled as I get), but there could be some one-shots. :D
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I look forward to reading your next fill! And any one-shots in this verse would be much appreciated! Yay! Now I'm all excited and wanting chocolate (well, I always want chocolate, but still--I'm excited!) :D
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Now I'm excited to do my next fill! Yay!
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The ninja gods have deserted him once again.
It had me in stitches. ♥
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Stiles is forever being deserted by the ninja gods. I don't think that boy could be subtle in an apocalypse.
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the banter was in top form, i dont get why stiles didnt just hand him the bottle, although i guess ferral derek could of just riped it apart and died of dehydration, but back onto topic. i loved the story, and this you wrote it well, i noticed a couple of missing word type errors, it was in the line about the mummy slow walk (one of them was) it doesnt read as fluently as i think you intedned it to, but the story was awesome non the less.
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Thanks for the comment!
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Stiles barely knows the guy, and he’s already figured out that it’s his version of a happy face. hahaha that's so perfect. :)
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