ficlets
3 ficlets written for teenwolf-slash's ficlet challenge.
Derek/Stiles, PG
They dance around each other like it’s a game, the kind of game where the rules keep changing but the players are always the same, never giving an inch. They’ve been playing long enough that Stiles has forgotten who’s winning now. He forgets how to win.
Or maybe it’s less of a game and more of a puzzle. Derek, that is. Derek is the puzzle. Stiles leans against the kitchen counter and peels his orange, assessing him. Derek is filthy, mud-caked, bloodied. He wrinkles his nose when Stiles takes a bite.
He’s known for his words, Stiles is. The excess of them, anyways. He knows that. If he’s poor in attention, in courage or strength or whatever - well, he’s wealthy in words.
But he’s run dry, suddenly. He has no more insults, no more sarcasm. He’s tired. The orange is sharp and delicious, juice running down his chin. The kitchen floor is cold under his feet. Derek is silent, watching him the same way Stiles watches him. And maybe he’s less of a puzzle and more just a guy who’s a little lost. Hurt. Maybe it’s not so much a game, anymore.
Maybe, Stiles thinks, moving towards him. Maybe it never was.
--
Derek/Jackson, PG
Jackson dreams of him, dreams that go on and on and never quite seem to end, even after he wakes and sleeps and wakes again. He touches his neck and aches a little, then a lot, an ache everywhere, an ache that goes through his whole body. And then the ache is more, as Derek sneers, and that’s like salt in a wound. But Derek is - Derek is moving towards him, in dreams and out, and Jackson is afraid.
He curls into himself at night. Curls tight. Thinks of running, but that does no good. Will not. He dreams, always. He pretends to be a king. He has a crown, a great big gold crown, and he is so, so very good at pretending. But it’s hard, sometimes, being alone. Afraid. He dreams and he is rain, mud, dirt, nothing more; he’s falling down and drifting, swirling, clinging like filth in the gutters.
--
Derek/Stiles, G
+ ridiculous art
“So let me get this straight,” Stiles says.
Derek grits his teeth, says nothing.
“Once a month you suddenly grow a tail. A giant fish tail. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Yes, Stiles,” Derek hisses. He flounders a little, grasping at the sides of the bathtub.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re actually -”
“Don’t, Stiles -”
“A mermaid,” Stiles says, trying to stifle his laughter. “Derek Hale, the mermaid. Oh, this is beautiful. Do you live in a grotto, Derek? Do you sing songs and collect spoons?”
Derek reaches out with a clawed hand (webbed fingers and all) and grasps Stiles shirt, hauling him in close. When he opens his mouth, his teeth are sharp, pointy. His breath smells horrible - fishy, a bit like onions. Stiles gulps, goes quiet, holds his breath.
“If you don’t shut up, I am going to make pain a very big part of your world,” Derek hisses. Stiles can only hold in his laughter for about five seconds, and then he’s bursting with it, laughing until tears stream from his eyes. Derek lets go of him out of surprise, then he’s reaching for him again, growling, but Stiles is backing away from the tub, gasping for breath. He leans against the bathroom counter, clutching his sides.
“Stay right here,” he gasps. “I’m going to go get my camera. I need a picture of this.”
“It’s not like I can move, Stiles,” Derek hisses, his gills fanning. “Stiles. Stiles, get back here, you are not taking a picture - Stiles!”
--
And then ridiculous discussion ensued with pyrodynamo and now it's quite likely that there will be more TEEN MERMAID. possibly like, a really long, ridiculous fic. SHAME FOREVER.
Derek/Stiles, PG
They dance around each other like it’s a game, the kind of game where the rules keep changing but the players are always the same, never giving an inch. They’ve been playing long enough that Stiles has forgotten who’s winning now. He forgets how to win.
Or maybe it’s less of a game and more of a puzzle. Derek, that is. Derek is the puzzle. Stiles leans against the kitchen counter and peels his orange, assessing him. Derek is filthy, mud-caked, bloodied. He wrinkles his nose when Stiles takes a bite.
He’s known for his words, Stiles is. The excess of them, anyways. He knows that. If he’s poor in attention, in courage or strength or whatever - well, he’s wealthy in words.
But he’s run dry, suddenly. He has no more insults, no more sarcasm. He’s tired. The orange is sharp and delicious, juice running down his chin. The kitchen floor is cold under his feet. Derek is silent, watching him the same way Stiles watches him. And maybe he’s less of a puzzle and more just a guy who’s a little lost. Hurt. Maybe it’s not so much a game, anymore.
Maybe, Stiles thinks, moving towards him. Maybe it never was.
--
Derek/Jackson, PG
Jackson dreams of him, dreams that go on and on and never quite seem to end, even after he wakes and sleeps and wakes again. He touches his neck and aches a little, then a lot, an ache everywhere, an ache that goes through his whole body. And then the ache is more, as Derek sneers, and that’s like salt in a wound. But Derek is - Derek is moving towards him, in dreams and out, and Jackson is afraid.
He curls into himself at night. Curls tight. Thinks of running, but that does no good. Will not. He dreams, always. He pretends to be a king. He has a crown, a great big gold crown, and he is so, so very good at pretending. But it’s hard, sometimes, being alone. Afraid. He dreams and he is rain, mud, dirt, nothing more; he’s falling down and drifting, swirling, clinging like filth in the gutters.
--
Derek/Stiles, G
+ ridiculous art
“So let me get this straight,” Stiles says.
Derek grits his teeth, says nothing.
“Once a month you suddenly grow a tail. A giant fish tail. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Yes, Stiles,” Derek hisses. He flounders a little, grasping at the sides of the bathtub.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re actually -”
“Don’t, Stiles -”
“A mermaid,” Stiles says, trying to stifle his laughter. “Derek Hale, the mermaid. Oh, this is beautiful. Do you live in a grotto, Derek? Do you sing songs and collect spoons?”
Derek reaches out with a clawed hand (webbed fingers and all) and grasps Stiles shirt, hauling him in close. When he opens his mouth, his teeth are sharp, pointy. His breath smells horrible - fishy, a bit like onions. Stiles gulps, goes quiet, holds his breath.
“If you don’t shut up, I am going to make pain a very big part of your world,” Derek hisses. Stiles can only hold in his laughter for about five seconds, and then he’s bursting with it, laughing until tears stream from his eyes. Derek lets go of him out of surprise, then he’s reaching for him again, growling, but Stiles is backing away from the tub, gasping for breath. He leans against the bathroom counter, clutching his sides.
“Stay right here,” he gasps. “I’m going to go get my camera. I need a picture of this.”
“It’s not like I can move, Stiles,” Derek hisses, his gills fanning. “Stiles. Stiles, get back here, you are not taking a picture - Stiles!”
--
And then ridiculous discussion ensued with pyrodynamo and now it's quite likely that there will be more TEEN MERMAID. possibly like, a really long, ridiculous fic. SHAME FOREVER.