@loveactually-rps said: Hi, for the prompt, can you please write - bodyguard (Derek) gets sent flying by giant, hairy, nearly naked attacker - passes out and client (Stiles) laughs and proceeds to kick the guys ass.
I honestly don’t know what happened, but this became a Neckz ‘n’ Throats AU while so being a president’s son!Stiles fic, and there’s also mentions of BDSM? *Shrugs*
Stiles doesn’t need a bodyguard, no matter how much his dad thinks otherwise. He can take care of himself. It doesn’t matter that he’s the newly elected president’s step-son, no one has ever tried to kill/kidnap/maim him ever before, (okay, so maybe Jackson tried with the maiming, but that stopped after graduation.)
In the end, he’s right on the one account, very wrong on the other, because Stiles has fanboys. Like run after the Town car, screaming their heads off, tearing out their hair, trying to just get a look at him, fanboys.
And Stiles is not talking young teenagers, which he could understand considering he is a healthy twenty-five year old man with impeccable hair—and because of Lydia—amazing style. No, his fanboys are usually men, in their thirties to forties, typically big, and quite often hairy as all heck.
Stiles is pretty sure how he started attracting that specific demographic, and it probably has to do with the skin mags he used to pose for in college, long before his dad married Melissa and she became president.
What were they called? Something along the lines of Neckz ‘n’ Twinks, or maybe Bearz ‘n’ Throats. Oh well. All he knows is that the White House publicist starts foaming at the mouth with rage whenever he goes anywhere near her. He’s starting to think she really doesn’t like him.
As it is, the aforementioned bodyguard hired by his dad is pretty much useless, if not nice to look at. And, boy, is he nice to look at. All hazel eyes and gloomy looks, Derek Hale is a fox in a suit. Stiles gets the vapours anytime he comes near, and since he’s around Stiles pretty much 24/7, Stiles has practically become a Victorian lady, with the fainting and the hankies, goddamn, so many hankies.
He’s at a convention in Portland when all hell finally breaks loose and a big hairy guy wearing a speedo with his face on it—which creeps Stiles out a tad too much—manages to push past all the secret service dudes and pounces.
Derek shields him with his body, but he’s no match for the raw power that is creepy speedo guy, and he’s flung to the side, landing on a pile of spectators—ouchie—knocked out cold.
Stiles might say many bad things about Derek, but no one messes with his staff like that.
The guy approaches uncapped sharpie in hand, one of Stiles’ old skin mags in the other, practically salivating at the mouth, and Stiles holds up one hand, right in the guy’s face.
The guy stops.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Stiles scolds.
The guy blinks.
“You hurt a lot of people.” Stiles gestures around him. “Violence, is never the answer, dude. It’s messy and everyone ends up hurt. Most of all you, cause you must be crazy if you think I’m giving you my autograph now.”
The guy whimpers.
“Go help my secret agent man up.” Stiles points to Derek and the guy goes and does his bidding, helping a very groggy looking Derek to his feet. “You good, Der?” Stiles asks, worried, and Derek gives him a thumbs up, but Stiles sure as heck doesn’t trust him to not not keep working even with a concussion.
He turns to Parrish. “Check and see if the idiot is really okay, and you.” He points to speedo guy. “Apologize to all these people.”
After a long, heartfelt apology, hotel security finally escorts speedo guy out. Stiles is ushered up to the room in a sea of black suits, just in case some other fanboy shows up out of nowhere.
Derek’s sitting on the bed, ice-pack to his forehead, when Stiles goes to join him, clapping him on the back. “How’s the bump?”
“Just dandy,” Derek mutters.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Stiles reassures him. “It could have happened to anyone.”
“If the guy hadn’t listened to you…” Derek trails off.
“But he did.”
“If he didn’t, though.”
“Did I ever tell you about the types of skin mags I used to pose for?”
Derek shakes his head.
“BDSM,” Derek stares at him, mouth gaping. “Why do you think Melissa’s publicist wants my head on a platter? Everyone in politics has been involved in a sex scandal, Derek. But not everyone has posed for photographs sitting on top of big dudes in latex suits with a whip in hand.”
Derek mouth opens and shuts a few times, and Stiles shrugs.
“Do you still do it?”
Out of all the things Stiles expected Derek to say, he never thought that would leave his lips.
“Why? You interested?”
Derek’s face floods with blood, and Stiles grins. Oh yeah, he’s interested.