Fic: Hell to Raise (Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles), part 1/2
Today is my twreversebang posting day! Apparently the way to get me to finish and post 12,000 words of fic is a deadline and an art prompt.
Title: Hell to Raise
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin, Sheriff Stilinski, Scott McCall, Original Male Deity
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 12,587
Warnings: Consent issues. Stiles is underage and Derek is not.
Summary: Stiles is the last in a long line of pagan priests. Of course, the god in question is a sarcastic trickster god who mostly just wants him to get laid. Of course.
Notes: Infinite thanks to turnonmyheels for the beta and to gone_shaughraun for helping me with plot.
Based on this gorgeous artwork by tipitina.
Also available on AO3.
1.
Stiles's dad had a talent for creative punishments - he had to, with a kid like Stiles who got in trouble so easily and learned his lesson so reluctantly. Stiles was usually one step ahead: if confined to his room, he screwed around on the computer; if denied internet access, he read a book or made character sheets for his online RPGs; if deprived of his phone, he masturbated without interrupting texts from Scott. But Dad had introduced a new strategy after this latest round of lying, missing curfew, and almost getting everyone killed, and Stiles hadn't figured out how to get around it. He was stuck in the attic with boxes of his mom's old stuff, forbidden to come down the stairs until he'd cataloged one full box and divided its contents into "keep" and "Goodwill" piles. When he'd asked what he should do if he had to go to the bathroom, his dad had advised him to pee out the window. Dad was not messing around.
Stiles remembered when Dad had packed these boxes. He'd stood in the doorway and watched, afraid to come closer, too little to help anyway. The remnants of his mother's life were eerie now, untouched as long as she'd been gone. He wished that they could make him cry for her, but even the things he chose to keep - her jewelry, her envelopes of photographs - left him numb. It was all so mundane.
He reached the bottom of the first box. The only thing left inside was a weird hat: a stiff leather cap with a peak in the middle and curling horns sticking out of either side. Something from a Halloween costume, probably. He put it on to prepare for his epic trek to the bathroom.
His full bladder prevented him from thinking through the strange fact that the hat fit perfectly. It gave him a snap of calm and confidence like Adderall kicking in, but he attributed that to the joy of finishing his chores and acquiring an excellent new hat. From the bathroom, he went to his bedroom with a skip in his step, ready to waste the rest of the afternoon on video games. He couldn't think of any other activity where he could combine wearing his hat and not getting his ass kicked.
As he sat down at the computer, he sensed someone standing behind him. He spun around in his desk chair. "Dad?" But there was no one in the doorway, and he still felt like there was a man behind him, watching him. "Derek?" he called out through the open window, because it would not be the first time a werewolf had lurked in a tree in his yard. The presence seemed closer, though, hovering over his shoulder. He gulped. "Mom?"
He heard a voice. No, that wasn't it. He felt a voice in his bones. It's good to be back in the world, it said. It seemed to emanate from the hat.
Stiles took the hat off. He held it in his lap, trying to decide whether to bury it in the backyard, set it on fire, or donate it to Goodwill.
Put the hat back on, the voice said, vibrating into his hands.
Stiles looked it right between the horns. "No."
Please. Just for a minute. Hear me out. I won't harm you. I can't.
Stiles held the hat out in front of him skeptically. The phrase I can't echoed and repeated, coursing through Stiles's body. It was a fundamental truth, something the hat couldn't get past: a rule that its magic was bound to.
Feeling sorry for the hat, Stiles put it back on. His body flooded with gratitude and relief. First of all, it's not a hat. It's a helm. Second of all, I'm not a helm; I'm a god, and the helm you're wearing is mine. You're also mine, in a way. You're a priest, descended from a long line of priests, which is why you can hear me. And why I can't harm you: you're the last of your line, for now, and most of the other lines have died out. The voice stopped for a moment, giving Stiles only an awareness of why it had paused: to let the information sink in. Is that enough exposition for you? The hat god was a sarcastic god. If it was telling the truth, and Stiles was its priest, this was not a surprise.
He tried to ask the voice in the helm which god it was, but he was suffused with the feeling that he was supposed to figure that out for himself. It was a game and a test. Stiles fired up Wikipedia. He found dozens of animal-horn gods - every culture had a deity to protect their livestock - and more than a few sarcasm gods. He was stuck for a while, out of clues, playing impatient solitaire while the helm sat mockingly silent on his head. He worried that his attention had slipped, and the crucial clue had fallen out of his brain.
Sarcasm. Animal horns. Protective. Helm. Long line of priests - that was the one. Any long lines that Stiles descended from were Polish or Ukrainian.
He was wearing the ridiculous ancient hat of Weles, protector of cattle, father of dragons, engine of wealth and commerce, and trickster foil to an otherwise serious pantheon of Slavic deities. Also, Lord of the Underworld, which made all this sound less like an exciting new set of mystical powers and more like he was about to be dragged into Hell.
Weles interrupted, annoyed. I'll have you know it's very nice down there. Green fields, sunshine, happy cows and frolicking sheep. Someday, you'll see it. But I need you alive for now.
Stiles didn't want to ask if that was where his mother was, but he felt a lightness in the pit of his stomach. He chose to believe it was a confirmation and a reassurance.
He dicked around on the computer for a while, reading about ancient Slavic mythology (fact), superstition (fact), and magic (fact). As usual, he soaked up any knowledge that wasn't required for school. Forgetting he was still wearing the helm, he went downstairs for a snack and ran into his father in the kitchen.
Stiles's father swore often in his presence, but Stiles had never heard him do it in Polish. He hadn't realized that his father knew how to swear in Polish. Weles promised to teach Stiles later, and the disembodied voice was confusing with another person in the room.
"I'd forgotten that was in there," Stiles's dad sighed. "Can you take it off, please, and put it upstairs so we can talk in private?"
To Stiles's surprise, Weles didn't protest against being exiled from the kitchen. Stiles would have thought a god would have bristled at being denied control, but Weles seemed relaxed about exercising power. I don't want to rule the world, Weles said into Stiles's hands as he set the helm down on the bed. I just like being in it.
Stiles went back downstairs. His father looked grim. "So I guess you've already talked to the Czernibóg."
"He said his name was -"
"If you use the name he told you, it summons him," Dad said. "Czernibóg is a nickname for when you need to discuss him in his absence. Which is most of the time."
"Because he's evil? Figures."
"The Czernibóg isn't evil. He's not good, either. What he is, is chaotic, and that's -"
"A good reason to keep his helm locked in a box for ten years?" Stiles said. "Yeah, probably. Should I just put the helm back in the attic, or should I send it to Goodwill and let someone else deal with it?"
"Too late now," Dad said. "You inherited him, and you made contact, so you'll have a hard time getting rid of him now. Just take everything he says with a grain of salt."
"Yeah. I got that pretty fast."
"He'll protect you," Dad said, uncharacteristically reverent and unnervingly wise. "Above almost all else. Don't forget that that's the scary part."
Stiles nodded, taking it in. After half a year of werewolves, kanimas, and resurrected alphas, he'd gotten good at wrapping his head around unbelievable things. He wasn't sure if he was pleased or terrified to be one of those unbelievable things.
"But if that's true, then what happened to Mom? Wouldn't he have protected her?" Sometimes Stiles knew better than to ask questions, but he usually asked them anyway.
Dad rolled his eyes like Stiles was unforgivably dense. "The Czernibóg's line is passed from father to son. You didn't find that on the internet?"
Stiles's dad was suddenly as big of a mystery as Weles. It was a mystery he didn't want to solve. Life was easier if Stiles's dad was boring and normal, completely outside of this supernatural stuff. As much as Stiles knew that was impossible, he needed to pretend for a while.
"You're not going to ask me what happened?" Dad said.
"Nope," Stiles replied, already on his way back to his room.
He called Scott, prepared to tell his best friend everything, but there was no answer. Scott had been sleeping a lot lately, depressed about Allison, freaked out about his role in werewolf politics, upset about failing his classes. But Stiles had not been the most supportive friend either, he had to admit. Scott got annoying when he was sad, and Stiles had ignored a lot of his texts lately.
Stiles set off alone into the woods to clear his head. Dad didn't ask him where he was going or try to stop him. Either Stiles had served enough of his punishment for the day, or Dad was too distracted to care. Stiles's philosophy on getting away with shit was, don't question it, just enjoy the opportunity.
As he started up the Jeep, he saw the helm sitting in the passenger seat. He hadn't meant to bring it with him, and he considered carrying it back into the house. That might have raised alarms for his dad. Also, angering a trickster god with a direct line to his brain seemed like a bad move. "Fine, but you have to stay in the car," Stiles told the helm.
He knew it was Weles leading him to the river, but that didn't bother him. His mind was clearer there than anywhere else in town, soothed by the rush of water and the smell of old rain and mild pollution. Digging in the mud with a stick or tossing stones into the eddies, he could distract his ADHD compulsions enough to really think.
Stiles parked at the edge of the woods and walked toward the river. Halfway there, he discovered that he was wearing the helm. It was a good thing there was no one else in the woods. It would be a pain to turn back and put it in the car now, and he suspected it wouldn't stay there anyway. He carried it awkwardly under his arm. Weles seemed to accept the compromise.
On the riverbank, Stiles sat cross-legged, watching the river's lazy progress, flicking bits of dirt and grass into it. The river seemed alive, like a puppy that wanted to jump into his arms. As he was imagining puppies and smiling to himself, a sphere of river water jumped out of the riverbed and into his open hand, oozing and flopping like a water balloon but not spilling. His hand stayed dry. When he mused on how weird that was, the ball of water burst, splashing him in the face.
"Magic," he said to himself. He looked accusingly at the helm. "Magic? Really? All the superpowers of Aquaman? Can I talk to fish, too?"
Ironically, Weles approved of Stiles's incredulity, rewarding him with what felt like a full-body smile. He guided Stiles away from the water and toward the bank. Out of the mud - out of nowhere, and as if formed from the mud itself - a small, red-brown frog leaped, then hopped into position about six inches away from Stiles, staring sweetly at him. Farther away along the bank, four more frogs jumped out of the mud and arranged themselves in a chorus line. Their song began as random ribbits, out of place in the daytime but otherwise unremarkable, but it soon resolved itself into the tune the frog with the top hat sang in old cartoons. Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal.
It was terrifying. Not in the same way as being paralyzed by a kanima or stalked by a werewolf, but it made Stiles shiver nonetheless. The scary part wasn't the unnatural singing, but the fact that he'd been the one to choose the tune, to give purpose and melody to their croaking.
"Okay, that's really enough creepy frogs," Stiles said, and they dispersed, returning to the mud and water from which they'd sprung. "So I guess I can do useful magic, too, when I need to?"
The answer that crawled under his skin was, You already have.
It had only been a couple of hours since Stiles had first put on the helm, but he knew better than to ask Weles what the hell that was supposed to mean.
Stiles plugged headphones into his phone so he could listen to music. He didn't expect it to drown out Weles's voice, but he hoped to force Weles to shout a little louder. Stiles lay on his back on the riverbank, watching the clouds drift and tying knots in blades of grass, wondering what he was going to do with all his power.
He didn't quite fall asleep, but he reached the point where his thoughts drifted as if carried by the current. He woke sharply with someone standing over him. Werewolf? Alpha pack? Was this the end?
It was only Lydia. "Of course you'd be here. You're everywhere."
Stiles sat up, tugging his headphones out of his ears. He tried to say something witty, but Lydia had a way of reducing his intellect. "Just communing with nature. You?"
She was dressed semi-appropriately for a walk in the woods: tight pink strappy top that embraced her breasts, skinny jeans tucked into black boots, hair tied back loosely. Stiles wanted to prefer her this way, but he was more attracted to the artificial ice queen. The more she let him get to know her as a person, the harder it was to deify her.
"I'm looking for varieties of wolfsbane," she said, "but they're hard to find when they're not in bloom."
"So you can run werewolf experiments in your secret lab?"
She glared at him, turning down the corner of her mouth: he'd gotten it a little too right. "Just doing my part to combat the forces of evil. Now that I know there are forces to combat."
"With science."
With a sigh, she said, "It's what I've got to work with."
"We could have prevented a bunch of things if someone had told you sooner," Stiles said. It bothered him that nobody else had seen that. Keeping people in the dark was stupid - Matt's death and Peter's resurrection had convinced him of that.
"Do you know how humiliating it was? To find out everyone was conspiring not to tell me, and let me think I was crazy instead?"
"I understand humiliation," Stiles said. "I'm kind of an expert, in fact."
"Yeah, you are, aren't you?" Lydia sat down in the grass, facing him, like she was ready to soak in his wisdom.
As if to prove his own point, Stiles launched into a mortifying torrent of telling her everything about Weles, starting with the helm and going straight through to the frogs.
Lydia stared at him for a few moments, saying nothing. Weles, who had managed to keep out of the conversation up to this point, filled in the silence with commentary. She's trying to figure out what this has to do with her.
"I'm not trying to get you to like me," Stiles said. "We're way past the possibility of that happening. I just thought you should be the first to know something important. To start to make up for it." In Stiles's mind, Weles threw confetti and flashed colorful lights. Stiles was glad to know Weles approved, but the seizure-inducing game show metaphor made it difficult to carry on a conversation.
"Don't keep doing me favors," Lydia said. "I might start feeling like I owe you something."
"Yeah. That'd be new."
"So stop being nice," she said. "And then I won't have to learn any valuable lessons about the power of friendship."
"No problem." He got up from the grass, assuming she was about to leave.
"I like frogs," she said.
"Frogs? Sure. Frogs. Frogs are good."
"They breathe through their skin," she continued. "And the prettiest ones are poisonous."
Stiles could feel himself on the verge of saying something stupid, but he couldn't stop himself in time. "I remember. You did that report on them in fifth grade."
"Just when I thought you weren't stalking me," Lydia said.
"I'm not. I remember because it was good. All the other girls picked cutesy things like dolphins and penguins, and you did poisonous frogs."
She beamed, but the smile faded. "I'm sorry. I don't remember what yours was."
"I was sick the day we were supposed to pick topics, and I got stuck with walruses. And then I got really interested in walruses and worked really hard on it."
"Oh, wait!" she said. "I totally remember that. You brought in that walrus-shaped rubber duckie and showed how they swim."
"Yep, that was me." He'd managed not to screw up the demonstration, and he'd gotten an A on the project. And then Jackson had stolen his walrus duckie during lunch and left it on his desk with the eyes X'ed out and "FAG" written on it in big black letters.
"So," she said. "Bring on the dancing walruses."
"I think that's beyond the scope of my powers," Stiles said.
"So go work on it and get back to me," she said.
They hung out for a few more minutes, talking mostly about fifth grade, before things got awkward and they made simultaneous quick excuses for heading home.
You'll never fuck that girl, Weles said in Stiles's head when they were back in the Jeep. Weles's language startled Stiles for a moment, even though Weles didn't seem like the type of god to resort to demure sexual euphemisms.
"Because you won't let me?" But Stiles knew the answer without divine interference: because she would never let him. "I'm working on getting over that. I'm close."
I'm going to find you someone to fuck, Weles said. Stiles started to reply that he could take care of that himself, but Weles had no patience for his bullshit. It's impossible for me to work through you like this.
"Sorry for being an awkward, loud virgin," Stiles said. "I didn't exactly choose you, either."
When Weles laughed, Stiles felt it ripple through his body like a small earthquake. This isn't about whether you've been fucked. It's that you're sad and restless about not being fucked, and that drains my power. Weles seemed to gesture through Stiles's body: a sigh and a straightening of the back. I'm an arrogant god. I need you to have enough self-confidence to sustain me.
"Good luck with that," Stiles said.
Stiles could feel Weles rifling through his brain; it was uncomfortable. Well, there's that werewolf, Weles said. The one who likes you. You could make that happen.
"I am not making any werewolves 'happen.'"
You can, and you will. You're going to fuck a werewolf. Weles repeated this the whole way home, turning it into a song that lodged in Stiles's head.
"I hate you," Stiles grumbled as he carried the helm into his house.
2.
Stiles knew it was Weles who kept drawing him into the woods, but each trip felt like it was of his own volition. Alone, he could play with magic, making shapes out of water, drawing bugs from the soil and fish to the surface of the river. Squirrels, chipmunks, and deer stopped to watch him pass and sometimes followed him. He sensed they would do his bidding, which unnerved him. He imagined himself whistling a tune and gathering all the forest creatures to help him do housework.
The only song in his heart was "Fuck a Werewolf." These third-rate superpowers weren't remotely worth the irritation. He put his ear buds in and tried to drown out the refrain, but Weles just sang louder.
He usually went out while Dad was at work, so Dad wouldn't know to ask where he'd been. But on Sunday he got an unshakeable urge to sit near the river, so he lied about going to Scott's house. When he returned, Dad was waiting in the kitchen. "Derek Hale dropped by," he called out as Stiles tried to sneak upstairs. "Does he have a problem with phones?"
"Probably," Stiles said. "What did he want?"
"All he said was, he's looking for you."
"Okay, blowing him off," Stiles said. "I've learned that's the only way to deal with cryptic messages from the supernatural."
"Speaking of that," Dad said ominously.
"You want me to stop communicating with the Polish god of being annoying? Happy to. Don't think he'll cooperate."
"No. I think you're doing the right thing, seeing this through." More and more often, Dad had been talking to Stiles like they were both reasonable adults. It caught Stiles so off guard that he wondered if Dad was being strategic, using it to force Stiles to act like a grown-up when he didn't feel like one, when he wanted to use immaturity to get away with his stupid decisions.
Stiles went into the kitchen: continuing to shout down the stairs to his dad was not a demonstration of maturity. On the table, Dad had laid out a robe made of heavy purple wool, trimmed with green and silver embroidery of animals and crescent moons. Leaning against the table was a carved staff. When Stiles tapped it, he realized it was made of bone, not wood.
"They go with the helm," Dad said. "You might as well have the full package."
Stiles rested his hand on the head of the staff without thinking; it curved into his palm as if it believed it belonged there. Allowing it to bear his weight, he felt solid and strong, immune from harm. "There's more of this? Because I'm going crazy enough as it is."
"But you're exploring it anyway," Dad said. "I wrestled with it, but I think it'll be good in the end. Just because I couldn't hack it doesn't mean you won't do a better job than me."
"So you're just handing me over? To the god of the underworld?" Stiles let go of the staff, expecting it to crash to the ground. It stood, suspended, refusing to cooperate.
"Like you said, you don't have much of a choice at this point," Dad said. "It takes a lot to shake the Czernibóg." Dad looked grim, the way he only did when he was thinking of Mom. "Remember, he's a trickster god. You can't take anything he says at face value, but you can always use it. You can always find the truth in it."
"Okay, Dad," Stiles said because it was impossible to directly acknowledge when his father was wise. He went up to his room with his helm, staff, and robe. He tossed them in a pile in the corner, hoping the Czernibóg would get the message. He sat down at his computer to play video games until he no longer felt the urge to murder an immortal god. While the game loaded, he looked out his window to make sure the squirrels hadn't hitched a ride on the back of his Jeep to do obeisance.
Instead, he saw Derek Hale. Derek had climbed a tree on the edge of the backyard. He was eating a sandwich. It was almost like Derek had a sense of humor.
Stiles opened the window. "Go home," he yelled.
Unhurriedly, Derek tucked his sandwich into a Ziploc bag, stretched his thick arms in a yawning semicircle, and leaped out of the tree. For a few seconds, Stiles thought Derek might actually leave. But he stood in the middle of the yard, lunch under his arm, face impassive and patient.
"Fine," Stiles shouted. He strolled down the stairs and through the kitchen, wasting time. Dad lowered his newspaper and raised an eyebrow.
"I'm completely out of control of my own destiny," Stiles said. "I'm learning to accept that."
He went out the back door. Derek did not appear to have moved. "I need your help," Derek said unenthusiastically.
"No," Stiles said, turning back toward the house.
"With Scott."
"Double no," Stiles said.
"The alpha pack is on its way. I need him."
"And he's nursing a broken heart and trying frantically to pass summer school algebra," Stiles said. "It doesn't matter if you need him. He needs to be left the hell alone."
"So I guess it doesn't matter how much you need him, either," Derek said. It was a smooth, quiet attack to the throat.
Stiles took his phone out of his pocket and texted Scott: Derek can't find you, so is stalking me instead. Come over and tell him to fuck off.
"There," Stiles said to Derek. "Now you can leave."
Derek stood still, as if he couldn't figure out what to do now that he'd completed his mission. He seemed vulnerable despite his formidable biceps and perpetual scowl. Derek was scared, Stiles realized. He was in charge of more than he was ready for, and his pack wasn't returning his calls. Stiles sympathized.
Stiles's brain broke into a fresh chorus of "Fuck the Werewolf." Under his breath, he directed Weles back to the fucking underworld. Didn't he have some bucolic afterlife cows to herd?
No. The souls of the dead tend to the cattle.
"Did you say something?" Derek asked, whiplashing Stiles back to the world.
"No, I - Did you need anything else? Because I have stuff to do."
"I was hoping he'd text you back if I waited a minute," Derek said.
It was as if a magical force was holding Derek there. No, the magical force of a matchmaking trickster god was holding Derek in place, and the only way to break the spell was to kiss him. Stiles hated the certainty he felt about this. He also hated that the thought had occurred to him before: driving Derek after he'd been shot, keeping him afloat in the swimming pool, lying paralyzed on top of him when the kanima took them out. It was like fate was trying to draw them together. Except, again, not "like": fate was drawing them together, and fate was a god that only Stiles could hear.
There was only one way to move forward. With the aggression and surprise of a punch to the mouth, Stiles kissed Derek. Derek didn't reel or shove Stiles away, but softened at his touch, as if he'd been expecting this. He put his arms around Stiles's waist, resting his strong hands on the small of Stiles's back. Derek's beard brushed roughly across Stiles's lips. Stiles knitted his fingers behind Derek's neck to pull him closer.
Stiles hadn't realized other people's tongues took up so much space. He hadn't expected kissing to require coordination or to sting with bites along his swollen lips. On TV, he only saw the surface of a kiss: two mouths tilting cleanly together. All the interesting action took place inside. The tip of his tongue touched Derek's, and the sensation went straight to his cock. Another human being was giving him an erection on purpose. It was spectacular.
Derek pushed Stiles back against a tree and groped up his shirt. A thought crept into Stiles's brain and killed all his momentum - not divine interruption, just a run-of-the-mill distraction. "My dad's in the kitchen," he said breathlessly. "Right on the other side of that window."
Derek pressed his lips to Stiles's, then pulled away slowly, as if they were stuck together with bubble gum. "You started it," Derek said as he released Stiles from his arms.
"And you didn't hurl me across the yard for trying," Stiles said. "I feel we're equally responsible."
"I don't know what came over me," Derek said.
"I do."
Derek narrowed his eyes skeptically.
There was no sense lying to him now. "Trickster god wants me to get laid. Long story."
"And you picked me?" Derek didn't seem angry, just perplexed. "Don't you have a thing for that girl? Lydia?"
"Wel - the Czernibóg picked you. And pestered me 'til I followed through. But I'll put up with the pestering if you don't want it to happen again."
"You don't have to do that," Derek said. "It was a good kiss."
"You - you thought so?"
"Drop by my place when you hear from Scott." It seemed to be Derek's way of saying yes.
"What's your place these days? A warm cave? The animal shelter?" The sarcasm kicked in instinctively. Stiles didn't know how to accept that Derek liked him. Or what to do with the revelation that he was a good kisser.
"I'm squatting in that unfinished condo complex on Willow Street," Derek said.
Stiles knew the one: a rain-battered "Exciting New Homes!" sign still stood at the entrance, four years after the construction vehicles had abandoned it. Dad had busted a meth lab there a while ago and said the place had electricity and running water: the developers had left in such a hurry that they hadn't closed the accounts. Derek was entering the twentieth century, with the lights and the hot showers.
"What if I don't hear from Scott?"
"Then track him down." Derek took Stiles's hand with such tenderness that Stiles expected a princely kiss. Instead, Derek let his hand drop: a deferral, a non-kiss. In a mist of wolf stealth, he was gone.
That wasn't the werewolf I meant, Weles boomed into Stiles's empty brain.
"Then why'd you whammy him into making out with me?"
I didn't "whammy" anyone. I lightened his inhibitions, but he didn't do anything against his will. Weles paused. The silence in Stiles's mind made him squirm. And neither did you. Weles let that sink in, too.
"So if he wasn't the werewolf you meant, then who did you mean?"
The girl, the one with the yellow hair. She told you she has feelings for you. She would climb on top of you without a second's hesitation. But that turns you off, doesn't it? It's that self-confidence problem again. You assume anyone who likes you must have very poor taste.
"Erica." Stiles wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or betrayed. He'd turned Erica down because he knew he'd never love her the way she loved him, and he was enough of an expert in hopeless unrequited fixations to know it wouldn't be fair.
I'm still getting to know you, Weles said. It's not always clear which direction I should lead you. Gods like me don't have the luxury of omniscience - that's the domain of the unambiguously beneficent.
"You could just let me make my own decisions," Stiles said.
Isn't that what I just did?
Stiles conceded it mentally but didn't give Weles the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. "I should find Scott. Not - not for Derek. For Scott. I mean, he's been holed up in his room long enough."
Stiles decided to walk to Scott's house; Weles liked the fresh air, and Stiles wasn't ashamed to curry favor. Along the way, his phone rang. It was Lydia, more breathlessly geeky than he'd imagined she was capable of. It was like the dam had broken on a lifetime of repression. Her comfort with him made it clear that she was indeed never going to have sex with him, but that was different from never loving him. She liked him enough to ramble about Celtic rituals and the kanima while he pretended to keep up.
"The only way to raise a kanima is to call upon Cernunnos," she was saying. "I mean, as far as I can tell. Late Latin is full of quirks, especially material from territories like Gaul and Brittany, and the sources in Old French take out certain pagan references to appease the Church. There's one book in medieval Breton, but I don't speak that yet."
That 'yet' might have been the most terrifying word Stiles had heard all day, and today he had conversed with Weles and made out with a werewolf.
Lydia probably would have talked right over him even if he'd responded. "Cernunnos was a Gaulish god of commerce, travel, and animals. Horned, like yours, and with a similar domain, but not the same personality. More of a benevolent protector."
Uptight, direct, and boring, Weles said in Stiles's head.
Stiles repeated that to Lydia, and she laughed. "And vengeful," Stiles added, an educated guess.
"That word isn't used," Lydia snapped as if he'd misidentified the designer of her shoes. "More like 'just' and 'defender of the virtuous.'"
Worshipers' code for "vengeful asshole," Weles said. It would've been nice if Lydia could hear him. Weles reminded Stiles that was what priests were for.
"It might be possible to... the word in the text is eicere, 'to exile,'" Lydia said. "Or 'banish.' With the connotation of stranding Cernunnos, of dispossessing him. But I can't find a ritual, just the possibility."
Nope, Weles jumped in before Stiles could ask him for anything. Different pantheon, different division of labor, nothing I can do.
"You're lying," Stiles said out loud.
"What? Screw you," Lydia snapped.
"No, not you," Stiles said. "The Czernibóg is afraid we'll use the same ritual to banish him, so he's trying to lie to me, but he can't."
"Oh. Screw him, then."
Stiles reached Scott's house. "I'll see what I can get out of him. You... keep having fun with your database, I guess."
"Let's get something clear," Lydia said. "You're not in charge here. I'm letting you and your invisible friend help."
"Whatever you say," Stiles said, although he knew she was right.
He hung up and rang Scott's doorbell. Scott's mom answered. "He said he doesn't want to see you," she told him. "But he's full of it lately, and he's driving me crazy. Please get him out of my house. Without breaking the law or almost getting yourselves killed, if at all possible."
Stiles went up to Scott's room. Scott opened the door, scowled, and slammed it. "What did I do?" Scott asked the door.
"Nothing," Scott said. "You didn't do anything."
"Was I... supposed to do something?"
There was a long silence, and Stiles had almost resigned himself to leaving as best-friendless as he'd come when Scott finally opened the door. Stiles went in but stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room. He'd expected a tornado of clothes and soda cans on the floor, but Scott's room was as neat as Stiles had ever seen it, as if Scott were barely living in it. "Whatever it is, I didn't mean to," Stiles said. "I've got my own stuff going on, but that's no excuse for -"
"Your own stuff? Really. You have your own stuff."
"Yeah," Stiles said. "But I shouldn't have -"
"No, that's the thing," Scott said. "You should. I was trying to let you. The world doesn't revolve around me, and I just kept thinking it was dumb to bug you when there's not, like, impending doom for once."
"I'm your best friend, though," Stiles said. "You're supposed to bug me."
"I guess."
"No, seriously. If you don't bug me, I assume you hate me," Stiles said.
Scott looked up at Stiles with puppy-eyed annoyance. It was the same expression Stiles imagined Weles shooting him when Weles harangued him about self-confidence. Scott said, "I wish we could still just hang around playing Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks and not have... stuff."
"I don't think there's anything to stop us from playing Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks," Stiles said. "Except possibly our sense of dignity."
Scott grinned wistfully for a moment before getting up and taking the dinosaurs and trucks down from his closet shelf. He kept them in the same Tupperware box he had when they'd been eight years old.
"I'll let you be dinosaurs," Stiles said.
Scott shook his head. "I like being trucks. I... think that's why we work. As friends."
"So," Stiles said. "Be trucks. But dinosaurs are going to kick your truck ass." It was an empty threat, because Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks always ended in a draw. The point of the game was to beat the shit out of toys, not to keep score. The point was, nobody had to lose, and they could play as long as they wanted, not worrying about whether they got it right. Little kids had so much more leeway to pretend there were no consequences.
Only when Stiles left did he realize he hadn't told Scott anything. In the world of Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks, there was no place for Weles or Cernunnos and definitely no place for hooking up with Derek Hale. When Scott had turned into a werewolf, he'd told Stiles immediately; when he'd fallen in love with Allison, he'd bored Stiles with impassioned odes to her smile. Stiles had never had this kind of trouble confiding in Scott, but there was suddenly so much to tell that it tangled up in his brain and couldn't find a way out of his mouth.
Stiles walked home, got in the Jeep, and drove to Derek's condo complex on the edge of town. The temporary fencing that had blocked off the development had long since been vandalized to the ground. Stiles drove up the ghostly road until he found an unpainted rectangle of asphalt that looked like it would have become guest parking. Most of the condos were in various stages of incompletion, but two four-unit blocks looked finished, down to the cheerfully painted fake shutters around the upstairs windows. Stiles marveled that Derek could choose to live here. It's often safest to do what people least expect of you, Weles said in Stiles's head.
Stiles stopped in his tracks, standing with the Jeep door open. You had something to do with keeping him safe. He managed to say it only in his mind and not out loud like a crazy person; he was getting better at that.
I protect creatures that transform, Weles said. They're my domain. And wolves - I'm a cattle god, but I'm fond of wolves. They keep balance. Sometimes the best way to protect a herd is to reduce it.
"That's not comforting," Stiles blurted out loud.
It's not meant to be, Weles replied.
Stiles was still in the parking lot, hesitant to commit to locking the car door. The more impatient he could feel Weles getting, the less enthusiastic he was. If he'd realized that the price of getting some action would be an eternal threesome with Weles, he would have vowed celibacy.
All right, Weles said. I'll let you do this on your own.
Head quiet and clear - disturbingly, distractingly so - Stiles went up to Derek's apartment. Once inside, he got business out of the way first: "Scott's fine. He needs time, but he's fine."
"We don't have time," Derek said with the earnestness of a '90s action hero.
"So go tell him that. If I have to bring a message about Scott every time I come by here, that's just stupid. If I'm here because of the kissing, at least. Which I am. If you're up for it."
"It is why you're here," Derek said. The lack of emotion almost broke Stiles's heart.
"If you're not into it, I'll go. No harm done. It's pretty much what I'm used to."
Derek put his hand on Stiles's chest. Stiles's own breath rang in his ears. He felt like he'd been hit point-blank with a stun gun. "Listen," Derek said. "I know about the magic, and I'm all right with it."
"You don't know. You can't. I barely know. And it wasn't me, exactly, it was - would you believe the ancient Polish god of livestock?"
"Yeah. That's about what I'd expect from you."
"It's the truth. If I made something up, it'd be a lot more badass."
"So you're a shaman." Derek sighed as if he'd been hoping for some less likely, more deadly alternative. "Well, better you than someone who doesn't know what's going on in this town."
"Oh. So I'm useful now." Stiles backed away. Derek was making him less and less interested in another kiss.
"This is coming out wrong," Derek said.
"You think?"
"It went differently when I played it out in my head." So Derek did have feelings. And insecurities.
"How?"
"You were less sarcastic, and I... knew what to say." Derek seemed small and nervous. "Polish cattle god? Really, that's all you've got?"
"Well, most of Eastern Europe," Stiles said. "And also the underworld, water, earth, magic, transformation, and wealth."
"That makes more sense. You have too much power for a cattle god. I mean - in the pool, keeping us afloat. That was you."
"That wasn't -" Stiles had assumed that was the result of frequently treading water as punishment at YMCA swim camp. But if there had been any time when Weles had protected him, that would have been it. "I didn't do anything, at least. But the Czernibóg might have been involved."
"Czernibóg," Derek repeated. "Oh, crap, did I just summon him?"
"No, it's a nickname. To prevent that. He told me I could have some privacy with you. Because he could make you love me, or at least want me, and I don't - I thought that'd be unfair. You know, mind control, not the greatest way to start a relationship."
"So it's just you and me," Derek said.
Stiles nodded and swallowed a big lump of anxiety. Derek kissed him.
They were less cautious this time, mouths open, tongues circling and exploring. Stiles's tongue felt like it had become the center of his body, drawing in all of Derek's warmth. He wanted to run his tongue over every inch of Derek's skin, even though in practice that would just be wet and messy. Stiles told himself to focus on kissing, to be in this moment without second-guessing it. Telling himself to focus never helped, though.
He thought about the parts of Derek he wanted to touch. Like counting sheep, easing his nerves. His imagination had gotten down to Derek's chest before he realized he could actually touch Derek instead of just thinking about it.
He started where his mind already was. Derek was wearing a black undershirt, tight enough that his nipples peaked under the ribbed cotton. And now under Stiles's fingers. The nipple hardened. Derek grabbed the back of Stiles's head with both hands and kissed him fiercely. Stiles leaned forward to catch his balance. His cock rubbed against Derek's thigh. Even through clothes, it felt amazing.
His cock was his entire life now. He needed Derek to - he didn't know what. With his mouth full of tongue, he couldn't make requests.
He ran his hand down Derek's stomach. Derek's cock, when Stiles reached it, was raging hard. Derek gasped and ground against him. Stiles pressed harder against Derek's thigh. Derek let go of Stiles's head. Stiles thought he'd done something wrong until Derek fumbled with his zipper. Stiles swatted Derek's hand away gently and took out his own relieved cock. Derek did the same, and now Stiles had a cock in his hand, someone else's cock. Derek's cock, so hard it strained against its own skin.
Stiles rose onto his toes to kiss Derek. Their cocks rubbed together on the way up. He might have seen actual stars. He wrapped his arms around Derek's waist to pull Derek into him. They ground against each other's cocks and thighs and stomachs, against any warm skin they could find.
Derek's mouth froze against Stiles's lips. His body tensed in Stiles's arms, then eased. Stiles felt better about coming now that Derek had. He rubbed up against Derek's still-hard cock until the pleasure kicked him over the edge. He bit his lip, not wanting this to end.
When it did, he was in Derek's arms, and Derek was kissing his neck softly. He bowed his head and pressed his forehead against Derek's chest. If only they could stay there permanently, like statues of themselves, everything would feel good forever.
Derek didn't ask Stiles to stay, and Stiles wanted to get home early enough to avoid a conversation with his dad about where he'd been. He kissed Derek goodbye, and the kiss kept going. It seemed to be Derek's way of begging Stiles not to leave.
Derek didn't want to be alone, Stiles realized. It was such a simple reason for him to have accepted Stiles so readily, and it made more sense than whatever opportunistic werewolf justification Stiles might have cooked up. Derek was lonely, and people he loved tended to die. Stiles was stubbornly selfless toward him, even if his heroism was often accidental. If anyone could get through Derek's defenses and convince Derek to admit to having feelings, it was Stiles, and that was a power Weles had nothing to do with.
Stiles extricated himself from Derek finally, promising to return. "Or you could lurk in my yard some more. Maybe you could hold a boom box over your head."
"I'll sit in a tree and sparkle." When Derek joked, his voice was so deep and earnest that the humor seemed to whiz by, and Stiles had to grab the tail end of it.
He went home knowing the most exciting part of his day was over, but on the drive back, it dawned on him how exciting this actually was. In one day, Stiles had gone from enormous loser to guy with secret hot older boyfriend who had touched his penis voluntarily. Stopped at a red light, he did a little dance in his seat.
Continued in part 2.
Title: Hell to Raise
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin, Sheriff Stilinski, Scott McCall, Original Male Deity
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 12,587
Warnings: Consent issues. Stiles is underage and Derek is not.
Summary: Stiles is the last in a long line of pagan priests. Of course, the god in question is a sarcastic trickster god who mostly just wants him to get laid. Of course.
Notes: Infinite thanks to turnonmyheels for the beta and to gone_shaughraun for helping me with plot.
Based on this gorgeous artwork by tipitina.
Also available on AO3.
1.
Stiles's dad had a talent for creative punishments - he had to, with a kid like Stiles who got in trouble so easily and learned his lesson so reluctantly. Stiles was usually one step ahead: if confined to his room, he screwed around on the computer; if denied internet access, he read a book or made character sheets for his online RPGs; if deprived of his phone, he masturbated without interrupting texts from Scott. But Dad had introduced a new strategy after this latest round of lying, missing curfew, and almost getting everyone killed, and Stiles hadn't figured out how to get around it. He was stuck in the attic with boxes of his mom's old stuff, forbidden to come down the stairs until he'd cataloged one full box and divided its contents into "keep" and "Goodwill" piles. When he'd asked what he should do if he had to go to the bathroom, his dad had advised him to pee out the window. Dad was not messing around.
Stiles remembered when Dad had packed these boxes. He'd stood in the doorway and watched, afraid to come closer, too little to help anyway. The remnants of his mother's life were eerie now, untouched as long as she'd been gone. He wished that they could make him cry for her, but even the things he chose to keep - her jewelry, her envelopes of photographs - left him numb. It was all so mundane.
He reached the bottom of the first box. The only thing left inside was a weird hat: a stiff leather cap with a peak in the middle and curling horns sticking out of either side. Something from a Halloween costume, probably. He put it on to prepare for his epic trek to the bathroom.
His full bladder prevented him from thinking through the strange fact that the hat fit perfectly. It gave him a snap of calm and confidence like Adderall kicking in, but he attributed that to the joy of finishing his chores and acquiring an excellent new hat. From the bathroom, he went to his bedroom with a skip in his step, ready to waste the rest of the afternoon on video games. He couldn't think of any other activity where he could combine wearing his hat and not getting his ass kicked.
As he sat down at the computer, he sensed someone standing behind him. He spun around in his desk chair. "Dad?" But there was no one in the doorway, and he still felt like there was a man behind him, watching him. "Derek?" he called out through the open window, because it would not be the first time a werewolf had lurked in a tree in his yard. The presence seemed closer, though, hovering over his shoulder. He gulped. "Mom?"
He heard a voice. No, that wasn't it. He felt a voice in his bones. It's good to be back in the world, it said. It seemed to emanate from the hat.
Stiles took the hat off. He held it in his lap, trying to decide whether to bury it in the backyard, set it on fire, or donate it to Goodwill.
Put the hat back on, the voice said, vibrating into his hands.
Stiles looked it right between the horns. "No."
Please. Just for a minute. Hear me out. I won't harm you. I can't.
Stiles held the hat out in front of him skeptically. The phrase I can't echoed and repeated, coursing through Stiles's body. It was a fundamental truth, something the hat couldn't get past: a rule that its magic was bound to.
Feeling sorry for the hat, Stiles put it back on. His body flooded with gratitude and relief. First of all, it's not a hat. It's a helm. Second of all, I'm not a helm; I'm a god, and the helm you're wearing is mine. You're also mine, in a way. You're a priest, descended from a long line of priests, which is why you can hear me. And why I can't harm you: you're the last of your line, for now, and most of the other lines have died out. The voice stopped for a moment, giving Stiles only an awareness of why it had paused: to let the information sink in. Is that enough exposition for you? The hat god was a sarcastic god. If it was telling the truth, and Stiles was its priest, this was not a surprise.
He tried to ask the voice in the helm which god it was, but he was suffused with the feeling that he was supposed to figure that out for himself. It was a game and a test. Stiles fired up Wikipedia. He found dozens of animal-horn gods - every culture had a deity to protect their livestock - and more than a few sarcasm gods. He was stuck for a while, out of clues, playing impatient solitaire while the helm sat mockingly silent on his head. He worried that his attention had slipped, and the crucial clue had fallen out of his brain.
Sarcasm. Animal horns. Protective. Helm. Long line of priests - that was the one. Any long lines that Stiles descended from were Polish or Ukrainian.
He was wearing the ridiculous ancient hat of Weles, protector of cattle, father of dragons, engine of wealth and commerce, and trickster foil to an otherwise serious pantheon of Slavic deities. Also, Lord of the Underworld, which made all this sound less like an exciting new set of mystical powers and more like he was about to be dragged into Hell.
Weles interrupted, annoyed. I'll have you know it's very nice down there. Green fields, sunshine, happy cows and frolicking sheep. Someday, you'll see it. But I need you alive for now.
Stiles didn't want to ask if that was where his mother was, but he felt a lightness in the pit of his stomach. He chose to believe it was a confirmation and a reassurance.
He dicked around on the computer for a while, reading about ancient Slavic mythology (fact), superstition (fact), and magic (fact). As usual, he soaked up any knowledge that wasn't required for school. Forgetting he was still wearing the helm, he went downstairs for a snack and ran into his father in the kitchen.
Stiles's father swore often in his presence, but Stiles had never heard him do it in Polish. He hadn't realized that his father knew how to swear in Polish. Weles promised to teach Stiles later, and the disembodied voice was confusing with another person in the room.
"I'd forgotten that was in there," Stiles's dad sighed. "Can you take it off, please, and put it upstairs so we can talk in private?"
To Stiles's surprise, Weles didn't protest against being exiled from the kitchen. Stiles would have thought a god would have bristled at being denied control, but Weles seemed relaxed about exercising power. I don't want to rule the world, Weles said into Stiles's hands as he set the helm down on the bed. I just like being in it.
Stiles went back downstairs. His father looked grim. "So I guess you've already talked to the Czernibóg."
"He said his name was -"
"If you use the name he told you, it summons him," Dad said. "Czernibóg is a nickname for when you need to discuss him in his absence. Which is most of the time."
"Because he's evil? Figures."
"The Czernibóg isn't evil. He's not good, either. What he is, is chaotic, and that's -"
"A good reason to keep his helm locked in a box for ten years?" Stiles said. "Yeah, probably. Should I just put the helm back in the attic, or should I send it to Goodwill and let someone else deal with it?"
"Too late now," Dad said. "You inherited him, and you made contact, so you'll have a hard time getting rid of him now. Just take everything he says with a grain of salt."
"Yeah. I got that pretty fast."
"He'll protect you," Dad said, uncharacteristically reverent and unnervingly wise. "Above almost all else. Don't forget that that's the scary part."
Stiles nodded, taking it in. After half a year of werewolves, kanimas, and resurrected alphas, he'd gotten good at wrapping his head around unbelievable things. He wasn't sure if he was pleased or terrified to be one of those unbelievable things.
"But if that's true, then what happened to Mom? Wouldn't he have protected her?" Sometimes Stiles knew better than to ask questions, but he usually asked them anyway.
Dad rolled his eyes like Stiles was unforgivably dense. "The Czernibóg's line is passed from father to son. You didn't find that on the internet?"
Stiles's dad was suddenly as big of a mystery as Weles. It was a mystery he didn't want to solve. Life was easier if Stiles's dad was boring and normal, completely outside of this supernatural stuff. As much as Stiles knew that was impossible, he needed to pretend for a while.
"You're not going to ask me what happened?" Dad said.
"Nope," Stiles replied, already on his way back to his room.
He called Scott, prepared to tell his best friend everything, but there was no answer. Scott had been sleeping a lot lately, depressed about Allison, freaked out about his role in werewolf politics, upset about failing his classes. But Stiles had not been the most supportive friend either, he had to admit. Scott got annoying when he was sad, and Stiles had ignored a lot of his texts lately.
Stiles set off alone into the woods to clear his head. Dad didn't ask him where he was going or try to stop him. Either Stiles had served enough of his punishment for the day, or Dad was too distracted to care. Stiles's philosophy on getting away with shit was, don't question it, just enjoy the opportunity.
As he started up the Jeep, he saw the helm sitting in the passenger seat. He hadn't meant to bring it with him, and he considered carrying it back into the house. That might have raised alarms for his dad. Also, angering a trickster god with a direct line to his brain seemed like a bad move. "Fine, but you have to stay in the car," Stiles told the helm.
He knew it was Weles leading him to the river, but that didn't bother him. His mind was clearer there than anywhere else in town, soothed by the rush of water and the smell of old rain and mild pollution. Digging in the mud with a stick or tossing stones into the eddies, he could distract his ADHD compulsions enough to really think.
Stiles parked at the edge of the woods and walked toward the river. Halfway there, he discovered that he was wearing the helm. It was a good thing there was no one else in the woods. It would be a pain to turn back and put it in the car now, and he suspected it wouldn't stay there anyway. He carried it awkwardly under his arm. Weles seemed to accept the compromise.
On the riverbank, Stiles sat cross-legged, watching the river's lazy progress, flicking bits of dirt and grass into it. The river seemed alive, like a puppy that wanted to jump into his arms. As he was imagining puppies and smiling to himself, a sphere of river water jumped out of the riverbed and into his open hand, oozing and flopping like a water balloon but not spilling. His hand stayed dry. When he mused on how weird that was, the ball of water burst, splashing him in the face.
"Magic," he said to himself. He looked accusingly at the helm. "Magic? Really? All the superpowers of Aquaman? Can I talk to fish, too?"
Ironically, Weles approved of Stiles's incredulity, rewarding him with what felt like a full-body smile. He guided Stiles away from the water and toward the bank. Out of the mud - out of nowhere, and as if formed from the mud itself - a small, red-brown frog leaped, then hopped into position about six inches away from Stiles, staring sweetly at him. Farther away along the bank, four more frogs jumped out of the mud and arranged themselves in a chorus line. Their song began as random ribbits, out of place in the daytime but otherwise unremarkable, but it soon resolved itself into the tune the frog with the top hat sang in old cartoons. Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal.
It was terrifying. Not in the same way as being paralyzed by a kanima or stalked by a werewolf, but it made Stiles shiver nonetheless. The scary part wasn't the unnatural singing, but the fact that he'd been the one to choose the tune, to give purpose and melody to their croaking.
"Okay, that's really enough creepy frogs," Stiles said, and they dispersed, returning to the mud and water from which they'd sprung. "So I guess I can do useful magic, too, when I need to?"
The answer that crawled under his skin was, You already have.
It had only been a couple of hours since Stiles had first put on the helm, but he knew better than to ask Weles what the hell that was supposed to mean.
Stiles plugged headphones into his phone so he could listen to music. He didn't expect it to drown out Weles's voice, but he hoped to force Weles to shout a little louder. Stiles lay on his back on the riverbank, watching the clouds drift and tying knots in blades of grass, wondering what he was going to do with all his power.
He didn't quite fall asleep, but he reached the point where his thoughts drifted as if carried by the current. He woke sharply with someone standing over him. Werewolf? Alpha pack? Was this the end?
It was only Lydia. "Of course you'd be here. You're everywhere."
Stiles sat up, tugging his headphones out of his ears. He tried to say something witty, but Lydia had a way of reducing his intellect. "Just communing with nature. You?"
She was dressed semi-appropriately for a walk in the woods: tight pink strappy top that embraced her breasts, skinny jeans tucked into black boots, hair tied back loosely. Stiles wanted to prefer her this way, but he was more attracted to the artificial ice queen. The more she let him get to know her as a person, the harder it was to deify her.
"I'm looking for varieties of wolfsbane," she said, "but they're hard to find when they're not in bloom."
"So you can run werewolf experiments in your secret lab?"
She glared at him, turning down the corner of her mouth: he'd gotten it a little too right. "Just doing my part to combat the forces of evil. Now that I know there are forces to combat."
"With science."
With a sigh, she said, "It's what I've got to work with."
"We could have prevented a bunch of things if someone had told you sooner," Stiles said. It bothered him that nobody else had seen that. Keeping people in the dark was stupid - Matt's death and Peter's resurrection had convinced him of that.
"Do you know how humiliating it was? To find out everyone was conspiring not to tell me, and let me think I was crazy instead?"
"I understand humiliation," Stiles said. "I'm kind of an expert, in fact."
"Yeah, you are, aren't you?" Lydia sat down in the grass, facing him, like she was ready to soak in his wisdom.
As if to prove his own point, Stiles launched into a mortifying torrent of telling her everything about Weles, starting with the helm and going straight through to the frogs.
Lydia stared at him for a few moments, saying nothing. Weles, who had managed to keep out of the conversation up to this point, filled in the silence with commentary. She's trying to figure out what this has to do with her.
"I'm not trying to get you to like me," Stiles said. "We're way past the possibility of that happening. I just thought you should be the first to know something important. To start to make up for it." In Stiles's mind, Weles threw confetti and flashed colorful lights. Stiles was glad to know Weles approved, but the seizure-inducing game show metaphor made it difficult to carry on a conversation.
"Don't keep doing me favors," Lydia said. "I might start feeling like I owe you something."
"Yeah. That'd be new."
"So stop being nice," she said. "And then I won't have to learn any valuable lessons about the power of friendship."
"No problem." He got up from the grass, assuming she was about to leave.
"I like frogs," she said.
"Frogs? Sure. Frogs. Frogs are good."
"They breathe through their skin," she continued. "And the prettiest ones are poisonous."
Stiles could feel himself on the verge of saying something stupid, but he couldn't stop himself in time. "I remember. You did that report on them in fifth grade."
"Just when I thought you weren't stalking me," Lydia said.
"I'm not. I remember because it was good. All the other girls picked cutesy things like dolphins and penguins, and you did poisonous frogs."
She beamed, but the smile faded. "I'm sorry. I don't remember what yours was."
"I was sick the day we were supposed to pick topics, and I got stuck with walruses. And then I got really interested in walruses and worked really hard on it."
"Oh, wait!" she said. "I totally remember that. You brought in that walrus-shaped rubber duckie and showed how they swim."
"Yep, that was me." He'd managed not to screw up the demonstration, and he'd gotten an A on the project. And then Jackson had stolen his walrus duckie during lunch and left it on his desk with the eyes X'ed out and "FAG" written on it in big black letters.
"So," she said. "Bring on the dancing walruses."
"I think that's beyond the scope of my powers," Stiles said.
"So go work on it and get back to me," she said.
They hung out for a few more minutes, talking mostly about fifth grade, before things got awkward and they made simultaneous quick excuses for heading home.
You'll never fuck that girl, Weles said in Stiles's head when they were back in the Jeep. Weles's language startled Stiles for a moment, even though Weles didn't seem like the type of god to resort to demure sexual euphemisms.
"Because you won't let me?" But Stiles knew the answer without divine interference: because she would never let him. "I'm working on getting over that. I'm close."
I'm going to find you someone to fuck, Weles said. Stiles started to reply that he could take care of that himself, but Weles had no patience for his bullshit. It's impossible for me to work through you like this.
"Sorry for being an awkward, loud virgin," Stiles said. "I didn't exactly choose you, either."
When Weles laughed, Stiles felt it ripple through his body like a small earthquake. This isn't about whether you've been fucked. It's that you're sad and restless about not being fucked, and that drains my power. Weles seemed to gesture through Stiles's body: a sigh and a straightening of the back. I'm an arrogant god. I need you to have enough self-confidence to sustain me.
"Good luck with that," Stiles said.
Stiles could feel Weles rifling through his brain; it was uncomfortable. Well, there's that werewolf, Weles said. The one who likes you. You could make that happen.
"I am not making any werewolves 'happen.'"
You can, and you will. You're going to fuck a werewolf. Weles repeated this the whole way home, turning it into a song that lodged in Stiles's head.
"I hate you," Stiles grumbled as he carried the helm into his house.
2.
Stiles knew it was Weles who kept drawing him into the woods, but each trip felt like it was of his own volition. Alone, he could play with magic, making shapes out of water, drawing bugs from the soil and fish to the surface of the river. Squirrels, chipmunks, and deer stopped to watch him pass and sometimes followed him. He sensed they would do his bidding, which unnerved him. He imagined himself whistling a tune and gathering all the forest creatures to help him do housework.
The only song in his heart was "Fuck a Werewolf." These third-rate superpowers weren't remotely worth the irritation. He put his ear buds in and tried to drown out the refrain, but Weles just sang louder.
He usually went out while Dad was at work, so Dad wouldn't know to ask where he'd been. But on Sunday he got an unshakeable urge to sit near the river, so he lied about going to Scott's house. When he returned, Dad was waiting in the kitchen. "Derek Hale dropped by," he called out as Stiles tried to sneak upstairs. "Does he have a problem with phones?"
"Probably," Stiles said. "What did he want?"
"All he said was, he's looking for you."
"Okay, blowing him off," Stiles said. "I've learned that's the only way to deal with cryptic messages from the supernatural."
"Speaking of that," Dad said ominously.
"You want me to stop communicating with the Polish god of being annoying? Happy to. Don't think he'll cooperate."
"No. I think you're doing the right thing, seeing this through." More and more often, Dad had been talking to Stiles like they were both reasonable adults. It caught Stiles so off guard that he wondered if Dad was being strategic, using it to force Stiles to act like a grown-up when he didn't feel like one, when he wanted to use immaturity to get away with his stupid decisions.
Stiles went into the kitchen: continuing to shout down the stairs to his dad was not a demonstration of maturity. On the table, Dad had laid out a robe made of heavy purple wool, trimmed with green and silver embroidery of animals and crescent moons. Leaning against the table was a carved staff. When Stiles tapped it, he realized it was made of bone, not wood.
"They go with the helm," Dad said. "You might as well have the full package."
Stiles rested his hand on the head of the staff without thinking; it curved into his palm as if it believed it belonged there. Allowing it to bear his weight, he felt solid and strong, immune from harm. "There's more of this? Because I'm going crazy enough as it is."
"But you're exploring it anyway," Dad said. "I wrestled with it, but I think it'll be good in the end. Just because I couldn't hack it doesn't mean you won't do a better job than me."
"So you're just handing me over? To the god of the underworld?" Stiles let go of the staff, expecting it to crash to the ground. It stood, suspended, refusing to cooperate.
"Like you said, you don't have much of a choice at this point," Dad said. "It takes a lot to shake the Czernibóg." Dad looked grim, the way he only did when he was thinking of Mom. "Remember, he's a trickster god. You can't take anything he says at face value, but you can always use it. You can always find the truth in it."
"Okay, Dad," Stiles said because it was impossible to directly acknowledge when his father was wise. He went up to his room with his helm, staff, and robe. He tossed them in a pile in the corner, hoping the Czernibóg would get the message. He sat down at his computer to play video games until he no longer felt the urge to murder an immortal god. While the game loaded, he looked out his window to make sure the squirrels hadn't hitched a ride on the back of his Jeep to do obeisance.
Instead, he saw Derek Hale. Derek had climbed a tree on the edge of the backyard. He was eating a sandwich. It was almost like Derek had a sense of humor.
Stiles opened the window. "Go home," he yelled.
Unhurriedly, Derek tucked his sandwich into a Ziploc bag, stretched his thick arms in a yawning semicircle, and leaped out of the tree. For a few seconds, Stiles thought Derek might actually leave. But he stood in the middle of the yard, lunch under his arm, face impassive and patient.
"Fine," Stiles shouted. He strolled down the stairs and through the kitchen, wasting time. Dad lowered his newspaper and raised an eyebrow.
"I'm completely out of control of my own destiny," Stiles said. "I'm learning to accept that."
He went out the back door. Derek did not appear to have moved. "I need your help," Derek said unenthusiastically.
"No," Stiles said, turning back toward the house.
"With Scott."
"Double no," Stiles said.
"The alpha pack is on its way. I need him."
"And he's nursing a broken heart and trying frantically to pass summer school algebra," Stiles said. "It doesn't matter if you need him. He needs to be left the hell alone."
"So I guess it doesn't matter how much you need him, either," Derek said. It was a smooth, quiet attack to the throat.
Stiles took his phone out of his pocket and texted Scott: Derek can't find you, so is stalking me instead. Come over and tell him to fuck off.
"There," Stiles said to Derek. "Now you can leave."
Derek stood still, as if he couldn't figure out what to do now that he'd completed his mission. He seemed vulnerable despite his formidable biceps and perpetual scowl. Derek was scared, Stiles realized. He was in charge of more than he was ready for, and his pack wasn't returning his calls. Stiles sympathized.
Stiles's brain broke into a fresh chorus of "Fuck the Werewolf." Under his breath, he directed Weles back to the fucking underworld. Didn't he have some bucolic afterlife cows to herd?
No. The souls of the dead tend to the cattle.
"Did you say something?" Derek asked, whiplashing Stiles back to the world.
"No, I - Did you need anything else? Because I have stuff to do."
"I was hoping he'd text you back if I waited a minute," Derek said.
It was as if a magical force was holding Derek there. No, the magical force of a matchmaking trickster god was holding Derek in place, and the only way to break the spell was to kiss him. Stiles hated the certainty he felt about this. He also hated that the thought had occurred to him before: driving Derek after he'd been shot, keeping him afloat in the swimming pool, lying paralyzed on top of him when the kanima took them out. It was like fate was trying to draw them together. Except, again, not "like": fate was drawing them together, and fate was a god that only Stiles could hear.
There was only one way to move forward. With the aggression and surprise of a punch to the mouth, Stiles kissed Derek. Derek didn't reel or shove Stiles away, but softened at his touch, as if he'd been expecting this. He put his arms around Stiles's waist, resting his strong hands on the small of Stiles's back. Derek's beard brushed roughly across Stiles's lips. Stiles knitted his fingers behind Derek's neck to pull him closer.
Stiles hadn't realized other people's tongues took up so much space. He hadn't expected kissing to require coordination or to sting with bites along his swollen lips. On TV, he only saw the surface of a kiss: two mouths tilting cleanly together. All the interesting action took place inside. The tip of his tongue touched Derek's, and the sensation went straight to his cock. Another human being was giving him an erection on purpose. It was spectacular.
Derek pushed Stiles back against a tree and groped up his shirt. A thought crept into Stiles's brain and killed all his momentum - not divine interruption, just a run-of-the-mill distraction. "My dad's in the kitchen," he said breathlessly. "Right on the other side of that window."
Derek pressed his lips to Stiles's, then pulled away slowly, as if they were stuck together with bubble gum. "You started it," Derek said as he released Stiles from his arms.
"And you didn't hurl me across the yard for trying," Stiles said. "I feel we're equally responsible."
"I don't know what came over me," Derek said.
"I do."
Derek narrowed his eyes skeptically.
There was no sense lying to him now. "Trickster god wants me to get laid. Long story."
"And you picked me?" Derek didn't seem angry, just perplexed. "Don't you have a thing for that girl? Lydia?"
"Wel - the Czernibóg picked you. And pestered me 'til I followed through. But I'll put up with the pestering if you don't want it to happen again."
"You don't have to do that," Derek said. "It was a good kiss."
"You - you thought so?"
"Drop by my place when you hear from Scott." It seemed to be Derek's way of saying yes.
"What's your place these days? A warm cave? The animal shelter?" The sarcasm kicked in instinctively. Stiles didn't know how to accept that Derek liked him. Or what to do with the revelation that he was a good kisser.
"I'm squatting in that unfinished condo complex on Willow Street," Derek said.
Stiles knew the one: a rain-battered "Exciting New Homes!" sign still stood at the entrance, four years after the construction vehicles had abandoned it. Dad had busted a meth lab there a while ago and said the place had electricity and running water: the developers had left in such a hurry that they hadn't closed the accounts. Derek was entering the twentieth century, with the lights and the hot showers.
"What if I don't hear from Scott?"
"Then track him down." Derek took Stiles's hand with such tenderness that Stiles expected a princely kiss. Instead, Derek let his hand drop: a deferral, a non-kiss. In a mist of wolf stealth, he was gone.
That wasn't the werewolf I meant, Weles boomed into Stiles's empty brain.
"Then why'd you whammy him into making out with me?"
I didn't "whammy" anyone. I lightened his inhibitions, but he didn't do anything against his will. Weles paused. The silence in Stiles's mind made him squirm. And neither did you. Weles let that sink in, too.
"So if he wasn't the werewolf you meant, then who did you mean?"
The girl, the one with the yellow hair. She told you she has feelings for you. She would climb on top of you without a second's hesitation. But that turns you off, doesn't it? It's that self-confidence problem again. You assume anyone who likes you must have very poor taste.
"Erica." Stiles wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or betrayed. He'd turned Erica down because he knew he'd never love her the way she loved him, and he was enough of an expert in hopeless unrequited fixations to know it wouldn't be fair.
I'm still getting to know you, Weles said. It's not always clear which direction I should lead you. Gods like me don't have the luxury of omniscience - that's the domain of the unambiguously beneficent.
"You could just let me make my own decisions," Stiles said.
Isn't that what I just did?
Stiles conceded it mentally but didn't give Weles the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. "I should find Scott. Not - not for Derek. For Scott. I mean, he's been holed up in his room long enough."
Stiles decided to walk to Scott's house; Weles liked the fresh air, and Stiles wasn't ashamed to curry favor. Along the way, his phone rang. It was Lydia, more breathlessly geeky than he'd imagined she was capable of. It was like the dam had broken on a lifetime of repression. Her comfort with him made it clear that she was indeed never going to have sex with him, but that was different from never loving him. She liked him enough to ramble about Celtic rituals and the kanima while he pretended to keep up.
"The only way to raise a kanima is to call upon Cernunnos," she was saying. "I mean, as far as I can tell. Late Latin is full of quirks, especially material from territories like Gaul and Brittany, and the sources in Old French take out certain pagan references to appease the Church. There's one book in medieval Breton, but I don't speak that yet."
That 'yet' might have been the most terrifying word Stiles had heard all day, and today he had conversed with Weles and made out with a werewolf.
Lydia probably would have talked right over him even if he'd responded. "Cernunnos was a Gaulish god of commerce, travel, and animals. Horned, like yours, and with a similar domain, but not the same personality. More of a benevolent protector."
Uptight, direct, and boring, Weles said in Stiles's head.
Stiles repeated that to Lydia, and she laughed. "And vengeful," Stiles added, an educated guess.
"That word isn't used," Lydia snapped as if he'd misidentified the designer of her shoes. "More like 'just' and 'defender of the virtuous.'"
Worshipers' code for "vengeful asshole," Weles said. It would've been nice if Lydia could hear him. Weles reminded Stiles that was what priests were for.
"It might be possible to... the word in the text is eicere, 'to exile,'" Lydia said. "Or 'banish.' With the connotation of stranding Cernunnos, of dispossessing him. But I can't find a ritual, just the possibility."
Nope, Weles jumped in before Stiles could ask him for anything. Different pantheon, different division of labor, nothing I can do.
"You're lying," Stiles said out loud.
"What? Screw you," Lydia snapped.
"No, not you," Stiles said. "The Czernibóg is afraid we'll use the same ritual to banish him, so he's trying to lie to me, but he can't."
"Oh. Screw him, then."
Stiles reached Scott's house. "I'll see what I can get out of him. You... keep having fun with your database, I guess."
"Let's get something clear," Lydia said. "You're not in charge here. I'm letting you and your invisible friend help."
"Whatever you say," Stiles said, although he knew she was right.
He hung up and rang Scott's doorbell. Scott's mom answered. "He said he doesn't want to see you," she told him. "But he's full of it lately, and he's driving me crazy. Please get him out of my house. Without breaking the law or almost getting yourselves killed, if at all possible."
Stiles went up to Scott's room. Scott opened the door, scowled, and slammed it. "What did I do?" Scott asked the door.
"Nothing," Scott said. "You didn't do anything."
"Was I... supposed to do something?"
There was a long silence, and Stiles had almost resigned himself to leaving as best-friendless as he'd come when Scott finally opened the door. Stiles went in but stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room. He'd expected a tornado of clothes and soda cans on the floor, but Scott's room was as neat as Stiles had ever seen it, as if Scott were barely living in it. "Whatever it is, I didn't mean to," Stiles said. "I've got my own stuff going on, but that's no excuse for -"
"Your own stuff? Really. You have your own stuff."
"Yeah," Stiles said. "But I shouldn't have -"
"No, that's the thing," Scott said. "You should. I was trying to let you. The world doesn't revolve around me, and I just kept thinking it was dumb to bug you when there's not, like, impending doom for once."
"I'm your best friend, though," Stiles said. "You're supposed to bug me."
"I guess."
"No, seriously. If you don't bug me, I assume you hate me," Stiles said.
Scott looked up at Stiles with puppy-eyed annoyance. It was the same expression Stiles imagined Weles shooting him when Weles harangued him about self-confidence. Scott said, "I wish we could still just hang around playing Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks and not have... stuff."
"I don't think there's anything to stop us from playing Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks," Stiles said. "Except possibly our sense of dignity."
Scott grinned wistfully for a moment before getting up and taking the dinosaurs and trucks down from his closet shelf. He kept them in the same Tupperware box he had when they'd been eight years old.
"I'll let you be dinosaurs," Stiles said.
Scott shook his head. "I like being trucks. I... think that's why we work. As friends."
"So," Stiles said. "Be trucks. But dinosaurs are going to kick your truck ass." It was an empty threat, because Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks always ended in a draw. The point of the game was to beat the shit out of toys, not to keep score. The point was, nobody had to lose, and they could play as long as they wanted, not worrying about whether they got it right. Little kids had so much more leeway to pretend there were no consequences.
Only when Stiles left did he realize he hadn't told Scott anything. In the world of Dinosaurs Vs. Trucks, there was no place for Weles or Cernunnos and definitely no place for hooking up with Derek Hale. When Scott had turned into a werewolf, he'd told Stiles immediately; when he'd fallen in love with Allison, he'd bored Stiles with impassioned odes to her smile. Stiles had never had this kind of trouble confiding in Scott, but there was suddenly so much to tell that it tangled up in his brain and couldn't find a way out of his mouth.
Stiles walked home, got in the Jeep, and drove to Derek's condo complex on the edge of town. The temporary fencing that had blocked off the development had long since been vandalized to the ground. Stiles drove up the ghostly road until he found an unpainted rectangle of asphalt that looked like it would have become guest parking. Most of the condos were in various stages of incompletion, but two four-unit blocks looked finished, down to the cheerfully painted fake shutters around the upstairs windows. Stiles marveled that Derek could choose to live here. It's often safest to do what people least expect of you, Weles said in Stiles's head.
Stiles stopped in his tracks, standing with the Jeep door open. You had something to do with keeping him safe. He managed to say it only in his mind and not out loud like a crazy person; he was getting better at that.
I protect creatures that transform, Weles said. They're my domain. And wolves - I'm a cattle god, but I'm fond of wolves. They keep balance. Sometimes the best way to protect a herd is to reduce it.
"That's not comforting," Stiles blurted out loud.
It's not meant to be, Weles replied.
Stiles was still in the parking lot, hesitant to commit to locking the car door. The more impatient he could feel Weles getting, the less enthusiastic he was. If he'd realized that the price of getting some action would be an eternal threesome with Weles, he would have vowed celibacy.
All right, Weles said. I'll let you do this on your own.
Head quiet and clear - disturbingly, distractingly so - Stiles went up to Derek's apartment. Once inside, he got business out of the way first: "Scott's fine. He needs time, but he's fine."
"We don't have time," Derek said with the earnestness of a '90s action hero.
"So go tell him that. If I have to bring a message about Scott every time I come by here, that's just stupid. If I'm here because of the kissing, at least. Which I am. If you're up for it."
"It is why you're here," Derek said. The lack of emotion almost broke Stiles's heart.
"If you're not into it, I'll go. No harm done. It's pretty much what I'm used to."
Derek put his hand on Stiles's chest. Stiles's own breath rang in his ears. He felt like he'd been hit point-blank with a stun gun. "Listen," Derek said. "I know about the magic, and I'm all right with it."
"You don't know. You can't. I barely know. And it wasn't me, exactly, it was - would you believe the ancient Polish god of livestock?"
"Yeah. That's about what I'd expect from you."
"It's the truth. If I made something up, it'd be a lot more badass."
"So you're a shaman." Derek sighed as if he'd been hoping for some less likely, more deadly alternative. "Well, better you than someone who doesn't know what's going on in this town."
"Oh. So I'm useful now." Stiles backed away. Derek was making him less and less interested in another kiss.
"This is coming out wrong," Derek said.
"You think?"
"It went differently when I played it out in my head." So Derek did have feelings. And insecurities.
"How?"
"You were less sarcastic, and I... knew what to say." Derek seemed small and nervous. "Polish cattle god? Really, that's all you've got?"
"Well, most of Eastern Europe," Stiles said. "And also the underworld, water, earth, magic, transformation, and wealth."
"That makes more sense. You have too much power for a cattle god. I mean - in the pool, keeping us afloat. That was you."
"That wasn't -" Stiles had assumed that was the result of frequently treading water as punishment at YMCA swim camp. But if there had been any time when Weles had protected him, that would have been it. "I didn't do anything, at least. But the Czernibóg might have been involved."
"Czernibóg," Derek repeated. "Oh, crap, did I just summon him?"
"No, it's a nickname. To prevent that. He told me I could have some privacy with you. Because he could make you love me, or at least want me, and I don't - I thought that'd be unfair. You know, mind control, not the greatest way to start a relationship."
"So it's just you and me," Derek said.
Stiles nodded and swallowed a big lump of anxiety. Derek kissed him.
They were less cautious this time, mouths open, tongues circling and exploring. Stiles's tongue felt like it had become the center of his body, drawing in all of Derek's warmth. He wanted to run his tongue over every inch of Derek's skin, even though in practice that would just be wet and messy. Stiles told himself to focus on kissing, to be in this moment without second-guessing it. Telling himself to focus never helped, though.
He thought about the parts of Derek he wanted to touch. Like counting sheep, easing his nerves. His imagination had gotten down to Derek's chest before he realized he could actually touch Derek instead of just thinking about it.
He started where his mind already was. Derek was wearing a black undershirt, tight enough that his nipples peaked under the ribbed cotton. And now under Stiles's fingers. The nipple hardened. Derek grabbed the back of Stiles's head with both hands and kissed him fiercely. Stiles leaned forward to catch his balance. His cock rubbed against Derek's thigh. Even through clothes, it felt amazing.
His cock was his entire life now. He needed Derek to - he didn't know what. With his mouth full of tongue, he couldn't make requests.
He ran his hand down Derek's stomach. Derek's cock, when Stiles reached it, was raging hard. Derek gasped and ground against him. Stiles pressed harder against Derek's thigh. Derek let go of Stiles's head. Stiles thought he'd done something wrong until Derek fumbled with his zipper. Stiles swatted Derek's hand away gently and took out his own relieved cock. Derek did the same, and now Stiles had a cock in his hand, someone else's cock. Derek's cock, so hard it strained against its own skin.
Stiles rose onto his toes to kiss Derek. Their cocks rubbed together on the way up. He might have seen actual stars. He wrapped his arms around Derek's waist to pull Derek into him. They ground against each other's cocks and thighs and stomachs, against any warm skin they could find.
Derek's mouth froze against Stiles's lips. His body tensed in Stiles's arms, then eased. Stiles felt better about coming now that Derek had. He rubbed up against Derek's still-hard cock until the pleasure kicked him over the edge. He bit his lip, not wanting this to end.
When it did, he was in Derek's arms, and Derek was kissing his neck softly. He bowed his head and pressed his forehead against Derek's chest. If only they could stay there permanently, like statues of themselves, everything would feel good forever.
Derek didn't ask Stiles to stay, and Stiles wanted to get home early enough to avoid a conversation with his dad about where he'd been. He kissed Derek goodbye, and the kiss kept going. It seemed to be Derek's way of begging Stiles not to leave.
Derek didn't want to be alone, Stiles realized. It was such a simple reason for him to have accepted Stiles so readily, and it made more sense than whatever opportunistic werewolf justification Stiles might have cooked up. Derek was lonely, and people he loved tended to die. Stiles was stubbornly selfless toward him, even if his heroism was often accidental. If anyone could get through Derek's defenses and convince Derek to admit to having feelings, it was Stiles, and that was a power Weles had nothing to do with.
Stiles extricated himself from Derek finally, promising to return. "Or you could lurk in my yard some more. Maybe you could hold a boom box over your head."
"I'll sit in a tree and sparkle." When Derek joked, his voice was so deep and earnest that the humor seemed to whiz by, and Stiles had to grab the tail end of it.
He went home knowing the most exciting part of his day was over, but on the drive back, it dawned on him how exciting this actually was. In one day, Stiles had gone from enormous loser to guy with secret hot older boyfriend who had touched his penis voluntarily. Stopped at a red light, he did a little dance in his seat.
Continued in part 2.