Julie, I tried to get them on a plane together, but I … well, technically I got them on the plane. Technically. I had to stop there on account of falling asleep at my laptop, but hey, maybe you can have more tomorrow, when it’s no longer timely.
—
“What is that about?”
Derek looks up from the book in his hand. A man with a beat-up messenger bag slung over one shoulder is standing just to his right, heat tilted, squinting at the book.
“You’ve been reading the back cover for five minutes,” the man says, grinning. “It must be riveting. I might need a copy, too.”
“You can have this one,” Derek says, handing him the book. The man flips it over to look at the front cover, his face scrunching up with comical disbelief. Shit, what book did Derek just give him? He didn’t read a word on that cover, he has no idea what the book is about.
The man holds up the book so Derek can see. An impossibly muscled man with Fabio hair is clutching a swooning redhead. Behind them, a badly drawn wolf is howling at a lopsided moon.
Derek hates everything.
“Paranormal romance?” The man’s grin widens. “What was so fascinating on the back?” Derek opens his mouth to tell the man to buy it or go away (or buy it and go away), but the man holds up a hand, cutting him off. “Forbidden love … battle-scarred warrior … mysterious lady of the forest … dude, I think she’s the werewolf, that’s different.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, then,” Derek says as judgmentally as possible, grabbing a bag of trail mix off the wall and walking away.
*
“It’s a trilogy,” says the man from the magazine stand, dropping down onto the chair across from Derek. “I bought all three.”
Derek glares at his iPad, refusing to look up. If he doesn’t acknowledge the guy, maybe he’ll go away.
“I could ask myself, what are the odds we’d be on the same flight, but the odds are probably pretty good,” the man says, loudly crinkling a wrapper. “It’s a small airport.”
“Not that small,” Derek says, casting a pointed look at all the empty chairs around them. There’s no reason the guy needs to sit so close to him. Isn’t there unspoken airport etiquette about this? Why won’t he just leave Derek the hell alone?
“This is my first time flying out of this airport, so I could be overlooking a concourse or two, but I’m pretty sure this is small by most standards,” the man says, either missing the point or choosing to ignore it. “It doesn’t even have a Starbucks, that’s how small it is.”
“I’m busy,” Derek says.
“Yeah, me too. I have important things to read.” The man holds up the book from the magazine stand. He actually bought it? Derek thought that was a joke. “If it turns out to be any good, maybe I’ll let you borrow it.”
Derek is beginning to suspect the guy bought that book just to fuck with him.
At least Derek will be rid of him once they board the plane.
*
A paperback book lands on the aisle seat next to Derek, startling him. The painfully inaccurate wolf stares at him from the cover, mocking him with its eyes.
“No,” Derek says, staring at the book.
“Yes,” says the bane of Derek’s existence, struggling to fit his suitcase into the overhead bin. His shirt rides up, revealing pale skin and a dark trail of hair. Derek isn’t the only one watching him shove at his suitcase; the woman in B4 is blatantly staring at his ass. “Think you can put up with me for two hours?”
“That depends,” Derek says, digging his fingers into his eyes. “Are you going to talk the entire time?”
“Only if provoked,” the man says. The aisle seat creaks. For a second their arms brush, shoulders knocking together, and then the man eases out of Derek’s space, settling into his seat. “Lucky for you, I have this amazing book I’m reading.” He brandishes the book, tapping the cover. “Someone recommended it to me at the magazine stand. I hear it’s riveting.”
derek wouldn’t want a pet. he can barely take care of himself and his pack (or what’s left of it) much less a pet. cats hate him, dogs are afraid of him. he wouldn’t want something that would cower away from him and he has enough people in his life that hate his guts to add another. he’d probably have a fish or something small like that because they don’t know any better.
halffizzbin reblogged your link: Fang-On is now on AO3!
TRUE STORY: My mom knows a guy named Mr. Fangboner. That name was already hilarious but it just got 10000 times worse.
Oh god, I’m seeing awkward references. No way would Stiles miss an opportunity to use that word in every situation possible.
The restaurant is dark and stuffy, even by Derek’s standards - and there had been that week in the cave that he doesn’t talk about anymore.
The maitre d’ has that expression like something crawled under his nose and died (but Derek would smell that, right?) and he takes one look at Stiles, practically vibrating from foot-to-foot in front of the reception booth, mouth open and smiling, and fights off a roll of his eyes. Derek knows that look. He invented that look, and he growls gruffly under his breath because it’s nobody else’s place to shoot it at Stiles.
“Hello, good sir,” he beams, because there’s an unspoken agreement that Stiles does the talking in public and ‘people being ten seconds away from wetting themselves in fear isn’t conducive to good customer service, Derek.’
Whatever. It’s not like he can help what his face does when people are being stupid. And they’re always being stupid.
“We have a reservation, for two? Eight-thirty,” Stiles says, almost like he’s unsure of it, like he’s not old enough to be in here and expects to get kicked out at any second.
“Name?” the maitre d’ drawls, bored and judgemental, and Derek takes a step closer to the booth, bristling. Sure, they’re kind of out of place in here, with their loose ties and sneakers, but there’s no need to be such a dick about it.
There’s a slow smile coming over Stiles’ face, and Derek freezes when he says, “Fangboner,” snaking a hand around Derek’s hips and pulling them flush together. “It’s our anniversary.”
The maitre d’ almost chokes - and it’s the first real expression he’s had all night - but he struggles to be professional as he checks the bookings. Stiles sees the opportunity and runs with it.
“I know, unusual name, huh? I think it’s German,” he says looking at Derek fondly. “Ivor, here, comes from a long line of Fangboners. They fangboned their merry way all across Europe and settled right here in Cali, where they continue to fangbone to this day.”
Stiles looks so innocent. How does he pull this crap off without cracking up?
There’s an awkward cough, and Derek’s jaw clenches. “I see, yes, it is an unusual name,” the maitre d’ says, voice cracking, and fuck Derek’s life. It was bad enough when Stiles insisted on wearing The Pants.
‘It’s nostalgic, man. These are my lucky pants now. A year ago today, they landed me a regulation hottie,’ he’d said, doing a little wiggle, and Derek has no idea if he even wants to be a ‘regulation hottie’, but it kind of makes him feel warm all over when Stiles says it.
There’s also, well, the teeth, thing, but he’s got that under control. Mostly.
“Yes, well,” the maitre d’ says picking up two menus, “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, I’ll show you to your table.”
They fall into step behind him, Derek pressing his lips together to fight off the smirk that Stiles is willing him to return. There’s a thumb hooked into his back belt-loop, and then Stiles is leaning in close.
“They say the steak here is, like, legendary,” he whispers, and Derek’s steps falter at the ghost of breath across his ear. “But if yours is too tough for, y’know, human teeth, I have Candy Shop by The Dan Band synced on my phone.” His eyes are bright and taunting, and fuck. “Just say the word, and I’ll grind all up on it.”
Derek’s breath stutters, - Jesus, the mental image - but he’s not showing his hand this early in the night. Stiles always wins.
“Don’t need help in that department,” he says tightly, and Stiles’ brows rise.
“No shame in it… they say it happens to one in ten men at some point,” he teases, and they’ve reached the table.
Derek curls a finger around the tie Stiles is wearing, leans close, and lets the sharp edge of his canines gleam in the candle-light. He lets his eyes rove over Stiles’ face, which is curious and flushed, and says,
“Believe me, it’s not going to be a problem.”
just another cat fic
The cat is loud.
She doesn’t greet Derek at the door every day when he comes home for work, or really, any other time - just yowls plaintively from the kitchen while she bats at her half-empty bowl.
“She doesn’t like being able to see the bottom,” Stiles says. “Food-insecure. I googled it. Also, dude, you should name your cat.”
“She’s a cat.” Derek shrugs. “And she’s not mine.”
“You just keep telling yourself that,” Stiles says, crouching down to scratch the cat under her chin.
—
The cat is not Derek’s.
She doesn’t belong to anyone else—they put up flyers—but she definitely does not recognize Derek’s authority as her Alpha. Instead, she wakes him up by settling in for a nap on his chest at 2AM, knocks all of his Warhammer figurines off the shelves, and sharpens her claws on his couch.
“What are these things?” Stiles says, picking one of the newest victims off the ground. It’s one of Laura’s elves; she painted all of them with help from their sister Natalie.
Derek bends down to pick up a dwarf. “Some of us had lives before the internet,” he says.
—
The cat likes Stiles.
When he comes over to the apartment, usually on the pretext of borrowing one of the books Peter left behind, she trails after Stiles the whole time, curls up on his lap and purrs while he scratches behind her ears with one hand and turns pages with the other. She brings him her little catnip mice, and one time an actual mouse, and one time one of Derek’s orcs. “Good kitty,” Stiles says, stroking her side.
“She’s always nice to you,” Derek says. Which is petty. He feels petty. The cat should respect him: he’s her Alpha, he feeds her, he scoops her litter box every night before he goes to bed. Instead…. the cat climbs on top of the two hundred year old grimoire in Stiles’s lap, twists around until she’s comfortable, her belly soft and bare.
Stiles coos and pets her. “You’re engaged in a battle for dominance,” he says. “Which is, no offense, kind of ridiculous. She’s a cat. Either she’s your pet or she’s your Alpha. With cats, you’ve only got two options.”
—
Derek is the cat’s.
He gives in.
—
Eventually, he gets her a collar. Engraved in neat copperplate on the silver pendant, it says: The Cat. The cat won’t let him put it on her, but she takes it from him and hoards her tribute.
The next time Stiles comes over, he finds it buried in the couch cushions and says, “Really, Derek?”
The cat purrs.
"Not My First Rodeo," halffizzbin, hatteress - links.
- Initial post: suggestion that Derek and Stiles meet at a cowboy bar. Boners.
- Elaboration, part 1: Stiles is a city boy with newfangled ideas about farming.
- Elaboration, part 2: Back to the bar, where there is a mechanical bull. Then boners, redux.
- Elaboration, part 3: More boners, a little bit of D/S.
Supposedly there will be more! And then it will go up on AO3, I’m assuming.
I really, really like gay cowboys.
hark! the slash fic angels sing
supergreakrrrowr replied to your post:rrrowr replied to your post: one of these things…
WHAT IF A DEREK HALE CHRISTMAS SPECIAL
HARK! THE SLASH FIC ANGELS SING,
“DEREK AND STILES ARE NOW FUCKING”
SEX IN BED, BOTH ROUGH AND MILD
A.D.D. BOY DRIVES SOUR WOLF WILD
JOYFUL AS THEIR ERECTIONS RISE
SHOUTING THEIR LOVE TO THE SKIES
PRAYERS OF MATES THEY BOTH PROCLAIM
LOVE AS SWEET AS BLOOMING WOLFSBANE
HARK! THE SLASH FIC ANGELS SING,
“DEREK AND STILES ARE NOW FUCKING”
I BET SCOTT SINGS THIS ON THE SCHOOL’S LOUDSPEAKER IN HIS LAME-WOLF VOICE
OR MAYBE ONE OF US COULD SING IT
IN A NON-LAME VOICE
A BEAUTIFUL, CAROL-ISH VOICE, EVEN
Embedded because the link was stupid
What do you most want for Lydia next season? If someone already asked you about Lydia, same question for Allison :)
MOSTLY I WANT HER TO KILL PETER. Which, don’t get me wrong, I love me some Peter, he is deliciously evil and beautifully conniving and dripping with the trademark Hale sass, I love him as a villain and I love watching him on my TV screen. But I want Lydia to murder his ass so hard he never rises from the dead again. I want Lydia to tear him to tiny vicious pieces, or slowly poison him over a period of several months and smirk as he withers away, or inject him with a lethal dose of wolfsbane, or throw him out of an airplane and shoot him in the back of the head as he falls. I love me some Peter, but everything about that storyline made my skin crawl on Lydia’s behalf, and I want her to Get Hers and ruin him. And I want him to know that it’s her ruining him, and I want her to know he knows and love it. REVENGE, that’s what I want for Lydia next season. Revenge and continued flawlessness.
WHAT IF THE ARGENTS WEREN’T ARMS SUPPLIERS
BUT
COOKWARE SUPPLIERS
LIKE WILLLIAMS-SONOMA
SO THEY’RE ARGENT COOKWARE INSTEAD OF ARGENT ARMS
(AND THEY ARE NOTORIOUS FOR LACING THEIR FOOD WITH MONKSHOOD TO ROOT OUT WEREWOLVES.)
OR THE HALES ARE A NUTRITION STORE CHAIN THAT SELLS GOJI BERRIES AND WHEATGRASS. THE OPPOSITE OF THE SUGARY AND BUTTERY DELIGHTS OF THE ARGENTS
