Imagine stiles is practicing his magic, it’s all new and he’s not very good but he’s thinking about Derek during a spell and he wishes that Derek loved him as much as he loves Derek. Then next day Derek is paying more attention to stiles, bringing him food, being a lot nicer to him. So stiles thinks his spell worked. He’s freaking out thinking he manipulated Derek’s feelings. he tries to find a way to reverse the spell and nothing he does is working. Derek is getting more and more affectionate and at one point Derek even tries to kiss stiles after a “date” (stiles kept trying to say it was just a friend hangout) but stiles rejects Derek and runs away. Derek sneaks in through his window a couple of couple hours later and stiles tells him what he did and Derek is confused and asks stiles what spell he used. stiles shows him and Derek tells him one of his ingredients was off so the spell wouldn’t have worked and stiles asks him why was he acting like he was in love with him and Derek tells him that the night stiles was doing his spell he decided to show stiles how he feels and it was just a coincidence. And stiles is so happy that Derek is in love with him too.
Sterek The Dragon Prince AU. Many years ago, the land of Zadia was home to to humans, elves and dragons. But that changed when a human mage sought to harness magic - a power that only elves and dragons had managed to access. But magic only comes from six natural sources known as Arcana: the sky, earth, water, ice, the sun, and the moon. Humans couldn’t harness these Arcana, and so one mage accessed a new power, a destructive force that consumes the life essence of living creatures: dark magic.
Elves and dragons banned together to exhile the humans from Zadia. Centuries later, the human’s lands are frozen over, the crops are dead and food stores have rotten. The high mage, Chris Argent, offers Queen Talia a solution, but it requires the heart of a creature only found in Zadia. The King knows it’s a bad idea, but it’s their only choice. It’s a choice that costs him the love of his life, his queen (who is one of the best fighters in the kingdom) is killed by the Dragon King, leaving behind a son (the kings step son) - Stiles - and their son, Eli.
Years later, the king exacts revenge on Zadia when he and the high mage kill the Dragon King and destroy the dragon’s egg, an act that Zadia reteliates for, sending moon elf assassins to kill the king.
The youngest moon elf assassin is Derek, who is tasked with finding and killing the King’s son, Eli.
But when he breaks into the castle, it’s Stiles he finds. Stiles lies to protect his half-brother, saying he’s Eli, but Eli comes tumbling into the room at that moment. Stiles tries to get Eli away from Derek but the three stumble upon the high mage’s secret, hidden below the castle is the egg of the Dragon Prince. Chris had stolen the egg, not destroyed it, hoping to use its immeasurable energy for his dark magic.
Stiles begs Derek to let them take the egg back to the Dragon Queen in hopes it will bring peace to the land and stop the war. Derek agrees on the condition he goes with them to make sure the egg is safe.
If only it were that simple. Their journey is drought with danger and the high mage’s daughter, Allison, is sent to kill them and take back the egg.
Imagine stiles being a spark and having actual magic and he’s also a magician but he only performs “bad magic” and it’s hilarious. Like he doesn’t use any of his powers. Like here and there he might perform something amazing with his powers but then he makes it seem to the audience that it failed. Like he tries to make himself disappear so he throws a smoke bomb and instead of actually disappear he stays coughing on the stage and when the smoke almost clears he runs away as the audience watches. But then in a second he’s in the audience clapping at the show.
Ancient Magus Bride: Stiles sold himself into slavery after his father was killed in the line, Derek is a powerful wolf mage that bought him. Turned out Stiles is a spark as Derek wants to save him from an untimely death due to the strain of the magic on Stiles' body, he also hopes to made Stiles his bride.
Imagine Stiles being the school nerd who is usually picked on for being gay, really smart, and... just being Stiles. The pack were worried for him since he's a 'human' and he can't protect himself from the bullies but he just waves them off and say that he'll be just fine. Now, by the time that school is over and the pack are all walking to the parking lot of the school when they see a familiar looking black camaro with a familiar looking person sitting on the hood if the car, swinging his legs back and forth. The pack was surprised to see Derek there, looking like a college senior who just came from Berkeley until they saw Stiles skip his way to the man, hugging him tightly when Derek came down from his car. They didn't interfere them due to shock but still listened.
"Hello, my Spark."
"Hi, Alpha."
And just by that exchange, they immediately lounged at the pair and begged for an explanation on what... that was. And Derek said Stiles is a Magical spark while Stiles said they were both mates and they both said that they were seeing each other since the staart of the pack's senior year. And to say that the boys weren't expecting it was an understatement and the girls expected it was also an understatement.
(Derek graduated college here while the pack are still in Senior High.)
Stiles casts a spell to protect Beacon Hills, but something goes wrong and he finds himself bound to Derek.
For @kirjastorotta
(Read it here on AO3)
Stiles drew in a deep breath, taking a moment to centre himself as he let the world around him drift away. He felt the warmth of his powers seep into his veins, flowing through him as he steadied his breathing.
“Just focus,” Scott encouraged, his quiet voice startling Stiles and pulling him back to reality.
“I know,” Stiles said, hiding the sharp edge of irritation in his voice as he tried to stay calm.
Stiles had been training ever since he discovered his abilities as a Spark. Casting small spells like defensive spells or bursts of energy during their fights was easy, but a spell like this required concentration; focus.
“Just clear your mind of all distractions,” Scott encouraged.
“Easier said than done,” Stiles uttered under his breath.
He drew in a deep breath, letting his eyes fall shut again as he let all distractions drift from his mind.
He was still new to all of this, still learning how to use his powers, and it didn’t help that he had distractions.
“Just take a deep breath and focus.”
“I know,” Stiles snapped. He drew in a measured breath, calming down. “Just… let me do it, okay?”
“Okay,” Scott said, taking a step back and watching on.
Stiles sighed, drawing in another breath as he closed his eyes.
He felt the coil of power in his chest slowly unwind, reaching out as the warmth flowed through his body. A silvery glow ran along his body like streams of moonlight as his power ignited his veins.
He tried to focus his energy, channelling it thought the runes he’d drawn on the floor in chalk. The scrawls of ancient lettering encircled him, beginning to glow as he channelled his energy into the protection spell—trying to imagine the spell taking effect, stretching from the old water tower on the hill to the Hale house on the far side of the reserve. He tried to envision a woven net of power being laid over the town, shielding Beacon Hills in an unseen magical barrier.
He felt the runes call back to him as the spell took hold.
A strange heat coiled around his left wrist. He winced, letting out a sharp hiss as the coil tightened, burning him. He cried out as searing pain flooding his veins.
He broke away from the spell, his eyes burning with the glow of his power as he collapsed to the floor.
He curled in on himself, cradling his arm to his chest as tears streamed down his pale cheeks.
“Stiles!” Scott called out. He waited for the runes on the floor to stop glowing before running to his friend’s side.
Stiles slowly straightened up, his right arm still curled around the patch of skin that burnt with pain. He sat upright, blinking back his tears as he lowered his arm and cautiously unfurled his fingers. His eyes flew open wide, his heart lurching into his throat as he stared down at the bold black marking that had been burnt into his skin.
It looked like a Celtic symbol, a triquetra: triangular in shape, but the three points were made up of one line that wove over and under itself.
“What the…?” Stiles’ voice trailed off as he stared down at the branding.
The lines were bold and black, standing out against his pale skin as if it were tattooed on his wrist.
But what was more intriguing was the coil of blue light that was tangled around his wrist like thread.
Stiles hesitantly reached out to touch it. He felt the familiar warmth of power radiate against his fingertips, but as he tentatively brushed his fingers across it, his hand slid right through it as if it were only light.
“What is that?” Scott asked.
“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted, staring at it in awe.
“Maybe Derek knows,” Scott suggested, pushing himself back up to his feet. “He knows all sorts of things about this kind of stuff, maybe he knows what happened.”
Stiles hummed in agreement, still focused on the strange blue coil of light and black branding on his wrist. He absentmindedly lifted himself up off the floor, taking a few steps over to his desk and picking up the book of spells he had used. He dropped it into his backpack before stepping over to the door.
Scott pulled his phone out of his pocket and taking a photo of the chalk circle on the floor before leading the way out to the car.
Stiles clambered into the car, still staring at his wrist as Scott started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
The further they drove, the more the coil of blue light began to dim until it faded away, leaving only the bold black lines of the symbol tattooed on his wrist.
“Derek,” Scott called out as they climbed the flights of echoing metal stairs up to the loft.
They’d called ahead, but Scott had made a habit of announcing himself whenever he came over. They stopped before the door to the loft, hauling open the heavy iron door.
The loud rumble echoed through the open space.
“Whatever your problem is, I’m busy,” Derek announced from where he stood hunched over his desk.
The light of midday poured in through the wall of windows, bathing Derek in golden light.
“Stiles did a spell and something happened,” Scott told him.
“That tends to happen when you do spells; things happen,” Derek snarked, looking up from his desk to level Scott with an exasperated look.
“Yeah, but we don’t know if thing was meant to happen or not,” Scott explained.
Derek let out a dramatic sigh. “What thing?”
Stiles tugged up his sleeve slightly and turned his arm to show Derek the triquetra. “This.”
Derek froze, staring at the bold black mark. He stepped out from behind his desk, making his way over to Stiles’ side. He stared at the branding for a moment before pulling up the sleeve of his old sweatshirt and turning his wrist over to show the same symbol branded into his tanned skin.
His eyes darted up to meet Stiles’. “What did you do?”
“I was casting a protection spell over Beacon Hills, and – I guess – something went wrong,” Stiles explained.
“A protection spell?” Derek repeated.
Stiles shrugged his backpack off his shoulder, pulling out the old spell book and opening it up to the page he wanted. He passed it to Derek.
Derek took the book, his eyes focused on the pages as he began to wander back to his desk.
“I took a photo of the circle too,” Scott said, fishing his phone out of his pocket and sending Derek the photo. “Just in case.”
Derek nodded, picking his phone up off the desk and opening the photo and setting it down on the page to compare the spells. He looked from the text book to the circle of runes in the photograph.
“This isn’t the same spell,” he said.
“I had to modify it,” Stiles explained. “The original spell was limited: it was only meant to protect a house or a castle, but I needed it to protect a town.”
“And something went wrong in translation?” Derek proposed.
“Maybe,” Stiles said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”
Scott looked down at his phone.
“I’ve got to go,” he said quietly, a little impatient. “I’ve got work.”
“Go,” Derek said, not looking up from the book. “I’ll drive Stiles home later.”
Stiles offered him a friendly smile and watched as he left.
Once Scott was gone, Stiles took a step down unto the sunken living room, dragging his feet across the polished concrete and dropping onto the couch.
“You okay?” Derek asked, glancing up at Stiles.
“Yeah,” Stiles replied dismissively. “Just a little drained.”
“Do you need anything?” Derek asked.
Stiles shook his head. “I’ll be okay. Just need to rest.”
Derek nodded, watching Stiles for a second longer before turning his eyes back to the textbook.
Stiles let his mind wander, his eyes growing heavy as his thoughts drifted away. He lost track of time, only pulling himself back to reality when he heard Derek say, “Oh.”
“What?” Stiles asked, perking up.
He turned to look a Derek, the golden light of day now fading to a glow of pink, red and orange as the sun crept towards the horizon.
“I see where you went wrong,” Derek said.
Stiles scrambled over to the desk, standing beside Derek as he looked down at the pieces of paper with old runes scrawled on them—transcriptions he had made and notes that Derek had taken.
“This is the spell you were trying to cast, right?” Derek said, pointing to the protection spell in the text book.
“Yeah.”
“When you translate the original runes, they read ‘protect home’,” Derek explained. “But in trying to make the spell less limited, you tried to translate it so that it read ‘protection’, correct?”
“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed.
“Well, instead of writing ‘protection’, you wrote ‘protect him’,” Derek pointed out, showing Stiles the difference in the runes.
Stiles cursed under his breath. He stepped back from the desk, dragging his hands down his face.
“But ‘him’ could be anyone, so why did it bind you to me?” Derek mused.
“Because I was thinking about you,” Stiles admitted.
Derek looked at him, his brow raised in surprise.
“Well, not you,” Stiles backtracked. “I was thinking about your house; the boundaries of the spell had to reach from the old water tower to your house, so I guess, in a way, I was thinking about you.”
Stiles turned his face away, trying to hide the fact that his cheeks were flushed bright red.
“How do we break it?” Stiles asked over his shoulder.
Derek was quiet.
An icy shudder clawed its way up Stiles’ spine, sending chills through his veins that froze him in place. He slowly turned to face Derek.
“There is a way to break it, right?” Stiles said, his voice hitching with panic.
“If there is, it’s not here,” Derek told him.
Stiles cursed under his breath.
“There’s more.”
“What?” Stiles asked, hesitant and disheartened.
“When it first appeared, did you see a sort of blue string?” Derek asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles replied.
“That’s what’s binding us,” Derek explained. “It was a manifestation of the bond that only appears when we’re at the limits of its reach. I guess it’s a way of the spell showing that we’re too far away from each other to protect each other.”
“Can we just… cut it?” Stiles asked.
“It’s not physically there, so no,” Derek replied.
Stiles thought it over for a minute. A though struck him, his heart sinking with realisation.
“I can’t go home,” he said quietly.
Derek nodded, looking at Stiles almost sympathetically.
“You can stay here,” Derek offered.
It’s not like I have much of a choice, Stiles thought as he wandered back over to the couch and picked up his phone, typing out a message to Scott explaining that he had to stay over at Derek’s and he’s going to need Scott to grab some things from his house—a change of clothes, his toothbrush, and his pillow.
He sent another message to his dad saying he was going to be staying at Derek’s tonight then tossed his phone onto the coffee table, dropping his head into his hands with a dejected sigh.
“Are you alright?” Derek asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Stiles replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he threw his hands up.
“We’ll find a way to fix this,” Derek said encouragingly.
“Until then, I’ve magically handcuffed us together,” Stiles pointed out. He slumped back against the couch cushions, letting gout a heavy sigh as he dropped his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and full of pain. “I just wanted to do something right. And, like always, all I did was mess up.”
“Stiles,” Derek said softly.
“Don’t,” Stiles interrupted, burying his face in his hands. “Please, just… don’t.”
That night, Stiles slept on the couch.
He didn’t sleep much; he spent most of the night staring at the branding on his wrist, the black marking illuminated by the silvery moonlight that bled through the windows.
He stayed awake long enough to see the sky lighten, streaks of blue, purple, pink and orange lighting up the sky.
It was only as dawn broke that his heavy eyes finally fell shut.
When he woke again, Derek was standing at his desk, looking over stacks of old books.
Stiles sat up on the couch, rubbing his eyes as he let out a weak groan.
“Morning,” Derek said quietly, glancing up at him.
“Morning,” Stiles replied lethargically. “What time is it?”
“Nearly midday,” Derek answered.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I figured you could use your sleep,” Derek replied.
“I only got to sleep at like, five—six o’clock,” Stiles admitted, raking his fingers through his tousled hair.
“Was it the couch?” Derek asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
“No,” Stiles replied. “My thoughts kept me awake.”
Derek nodded slightly, quiet for a moment.
“There’s some breakfast and coffee in the kitchen,” he told Stiles. “Help yourself to whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said quietly. He rose from the couch and shuffled into the kitchen.
He switched on the percolator and made a fresh batch of coffee, picking up one of the bagels that Derek had set out on a plate.
He ate the bagel as he waited for the coffee to finish before grabbing two mugs and pouring the coffee and carrying it out to Derek.
He set it down on the desk in front of Derek, careful not to rest it on any books or pages that could get damaged.
“Thanks,” Derek said quietly, picking the mug up and sipping at the coffee.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, stepping around the desk to look at the stacks of books; old leather bound books with metal brackets and gold inlay in the worn covers and dusty hardcover books with faded covers and worn spines—all different shapes, sizes and colours.
“Trying to see if there’s anything that could help us with this spell,” Derek said. “But so far the closest I’ve come is a general protection spell.”
“And protection spells are made to never be broken; they’re meant to last until the caster’s death,” Stiles said, more so to himself. He let out a heavy sigh. “So, what do we do?”
“Alright,” Stiles said, picking up a couple of the old books from the pile. He carried them over to the couch and set them down on the coffee table. He set aside his mug and picked up the first book, carefully opening the cover and turning through the wrinkled brown pages that had been thumbed smooth with reading.
He read page after page of spells – a lot of the books written in runic languages that he would have to translate – but to no avail. He couldn’t find any protection spells that were meant to protect people, nor anything about how to break a protection spell.
Stiles let out a heavy sigh, sinking back into the cushions of the couch.
He held out his arm, looking down at the triquetra on his wrist.
“It could be worse,” Derek said, his deep voice breaking the surprisingly comfortable quiet that had settled between them.
“How’s that?” Stiles asked.
“At least it’s a triquetra and not something phallic,” Derek said. “Just imagine being bound to someone and having what looks like a dick drawn in sharpie on your arm… or your face.”
Stiles snorted and burst out laughing at the thought.
After a moment he quietened.
“I don’t care that it’s there,” Stiles explained. “I just care that it’s bound me to you; I care that you’re…” He let out a heavy sigh, his voice quieting even more. “… that you’re trapped.”
“I’m not trapped,” Derek said, trying to sound reassuring.
“You’re stuck with me,” Stiles reminded him.
“There are worse people to be stuck with,” Derek told him. “Could you imagine being bound to Isaac or Jackson?”
Stiles screwed his face up. “Oh god.”
Derek let out a low chuckle. “Like I said, it could be worse.”
He stepped away from the desk and crossed over to Stiles’ side, picking up the old hardcover book that was sprawled open in Stiles’ lap.
“Let’s order dinner and start anew tomorrow,” Derek suggested.
Stiles let out a heavy sigh.
“Alright ,” he agreed, watching as Derek picked up his phone and placed the order he had memorised from years of pack meetings and movie nights.
“You take the bed tonight,” Derek said as he packed up the books.
“No, I’ll take the couch,” Stiles politely refused. “I’m not going to sleep anyway.”
“You’re taking the bed,” Derek said with finality, leaving no room for argument.
“Derek, it’s fine, really.”
“Either take the bed, or I’ll wait until you’re asleep and put you there myself,” Derek said, threateningly.
“Fine,” Stiles said, throwing his arms into the air. “But only because I don’t want you watching me like a creeper.”
He grabbed his pillow and made his way over to the bed, grumbling under his breath. He crossed the loft, stepping up the small step that led to the alcove where Derek had set up his bedroom. He threw his pillow down on the bed and threw back the blankets.
He slid into the bed and pulled the blankets up over himself, wrapping himself in the warm embrace of a cocoon of sheets.
He listened as Derek switched off the lights and lay down on the couch.
Stiles drew in a deep breath, the scent of Derek’s musk that lingered in the sheets putting him at ease.
He felt his body relax, sinking into the soft sheets as his heavy eyes fell shut. He tried to fight it for a moment, but sleep inevitably won over, pulling him down into the darkness.
Stiles sat, cross-legged, on the couch—a sharpie in one hand and a bunch of dusty old books lying around him, their withered pages – browned with age – open. He closed his eyes as he tried to think.
He bit into the lid of the sharpie and pulled it off, holding out the arm that had the triquetra braded onto it. He drew runes across his skin in scrawls of black ink.
“You’d better not be drawing a dick,” Derek said from where he stood at his desk.
Stiles tilted his head back, spitting the sharpie lid into the air and catching it.
Derek looked up at him, meeting the young man’s gaze and narrowing his eyes slightly—questioningly.
“I’m not drawing a dick,” Stiles reassured him. “I’m trying a more direct approach.”
Derek’s brows furrowed slightly as he looked at Stiles in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“The bond was made by magic, so I’m going to try using magic to break it.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Derek asked.
“We’ve found nothing in these books and I hate sitting around, doing nothing and feeling useless,” Stiles objected.
“You’re not useless,” Derek replied, voice soft. “And if you think it’ll work, then I rust you. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Aw, Sourwolf,” Stiles cooed teasingly. “You do care.”
Derek rolled his eyes.
Stiles chuckled.
“I want to at least try,” Stiles said, looking at Derek as if he were asking for permission.
“Okay,” Derek said. “I trust you.”
Stiles felt a strange warmth settle in his chest, a sweet smile playing across his lips.
“What do you need me to do?” Derek asked.
“I just need some quiet to focus,” Stiles told him.
“Okay,” Derek said, taking a step back and standing back behind his desk again.
Stiles sat back against the soft cushions of the sofa, letting his eyes fall shut as he tried to focus. He breathed in deeply, feeling the tension in his body ease as he unleashed his hold on his power.
The familiar warmth soared through his body as his power coursed through his veins. He felt it outline his body, drawn to the blue threat that was tangled around his wrist.
He focused on the runes he’d drawn there, focusing on the word he’d written beneath the triquetra.
Unravel.
He tried to imagine the blue thread slowly fraying, strands pulling away and drifting into the air like embers rising from a fire only to flicker out in the darkness.
He concentrated on imagining the coil of magic unravelling; the stands that were wound together like rope slowly began to loosen, unwinding. Piece by piece, it began to weaken and fray, flickering blue embers drifting away.
He felt his hold on his powers weaken. There was a rush of air that threw him into reality, eyes flying open as he gasped. The glow of his irises faded back to their natural hue.
“Stiles?” Derek called out, unable to hide the panic in his voice as he rushed over to Stiles’ side. “Are you okay?”
“I think I can do it,” Stiles said, still trying to catch his breath. “I don’t know how to remove the triquetra, but I might be able to unravel the bond.”
Derek lay on the couch, the old blue and grey blanket pulled up to his chest. His eyes were shut but he wasn’t asleep.
Stiles stood over him, glaring down at him.
“You’re in my spot,” he said.
“No, I’m not,” Derek replied calmly, not opening his eyes.
“I had the bed last night, it’s your turn,” Stiles argued.
“My house, my rules,” Derek muttered.
Stiles let out a frustrated sigh and climbed up onto the couch, flopping on top of Derek with an exaggerated sigh.
“What are you doing?” Derek objected.
“Being petty,” Stiles answered honestly.
“Stiles, get off me,” Derek growled.
“Not until you agree to give me the couch.”
“Stiles,” Derek said warningly.
“I’m sleeping here tonight, whether you move or not,” Stiles threatened.
“Stiles,” Derek growled, pushing himself up onto his elbows and levelling his gaze with Stiles’.
He seemed to realise at the same time just how close they were.
Stiles blinked in surprise, his dark brown eyes turning to pools of gold as they caught the light. His lips quivered slightly as he tried to find his voice, his face flushed with warmth as a rosy pink blush coloured his cheeks.
Derek’s pale adventurine eyes darted from Stiles’ eyes to his lips and back up again. He shifted his weight slightly, edging closer—hesitant, as if he expected Stiles to pull away.
He lifted his hand to cup Stiles’ cheek, tilting his head and leaning in close; his lips millimetres away from Stiles’.
The warmth of his breath rolling across Stiles’ lips sent a shiver down the young man’s spine. He felt his breath hitch in anticipation as he leant forward slightly, urging Derek on.
Derek drew their lips together.
Stiles let his breath fall from his lungs as his shoulders dropped. His eyes fluttered shut as he melted into Derek’s arms. He set one hand against the man’s chest, balling the soft cotton of his shirt into his fist.
Derek sat up a little more, dropping his other hand to Stiles’ waist and pulling him close.
Stiles sighed in return, looping an arm around Derek’s shoulders and running his fingers through Derek’s hair. He pulled the soft tufts into his fist as his other hand ran up to the man’s shoulder and down his bice and back, yearning to feel every inch of him.
His lungs burnt so much he wanted to cry but he desperately didn’t want to let go.
Derek broke away first, drawing back slightly and licking his lips as if to savour the kiss.
Stiles tilted his chin, chasing his Derek’s lips. He felt Derek chuckle against his mouth as he brought them back together again.
Derek gently pulled Stiles closer, holding the young man against himself as he sat up more and laid Stiles back against the couch cushions.
Stiles hooked his legs around Derek’s waist, urging him on.
Derek felt Stiles smiles against his lips as he pressed his body against Stiles’, pinning him in place.
He drew back from the kiss and craned his neck, trailing kisses across the young man’s cheek, jaw, and neck. He buried his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck, gently kissing, sucking and nipping at the pale flesh; making Stiles moan.
“Derek,” Stiles gasped.
The sound of his name on the young man’s lips sent chills through Derek’s veins. He let out a low growl in response, pressing soft kisses against the patches of reddening skin before bringing his lips back to Stiles’.
They don’t know how long they stayed like that – entangled in each other’s warmth and ensnared in passionate kisses – but eventually they fell asleep, curled up in each other’s arms and stretched out across the couch.
When Stiles awoke the next morning, he was alone.
He sat up on the couch, blinking his heavy eyes as he took in his surroundings.
The quiet was disturbed by the rumble of the metal stairs as Derek made his way down from the mezzanine.
“Morning,” Stiles said quietly.
Derek nodded slightly.
Stiles frowned slightly.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Derek said curtly.
“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” Stiles asked.
“No,” Derek replied gruffly.
“Look, if you regret it then just say so; we’ll put it behind us and pretend it didn’t happen,” Stiles said.
“I don’t regret it,” Derek blurted out. “And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. But I don’t want to talk about it until I know for sure that what happened last night was because of what I feel for you and not because of this spell.”
Stiles felt his heart sink into his gut, his stomach twisting into knots as he sat back against the cushions of the couch.
“Right,” he said quietly.
He lifted himself to his feet, making his way into the kitchen to get breakfast and coffee. He made his way back o the couch, sitting down and crossing his legs underneath him.
He drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes. He tried to let his mind drift, but swarming thoughts made it hard to focus.
“I can’t do this,’ he said abruptly, opening his eyes. “You may be able to set this aside, but I can’t concentrate until I get answers.”
“Stiles,” Derek said, almost pleadingly.
“I’m not going to ask you how you feel about me now,” Stiles told him. “But I need to know, did you feel that way about me before—before the spell, before me being here, before we kissed?”
Derek let out a measured breath.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“And you never said anything?” Stiles asked.
“I was scared that you wouldn’t feel the same way or that I’d scare you off,” Derek confessed. “And I’m much rather have you as a friend and not tell you how I feel then lose you.”
“And it never occurred to you that I might feel the same way?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” Stiles admitted. “I’ve felt that way about you for the longest time. But I never thought you could ever like someone like me.”
“This entire time,” Derek muttered, his voice trailing off as he let out a quiet, breathless chuckle. He bowed his head slightly as he tried to hide a bashful smile.
Stiles felt a sigh of relief escape his lips; he’d wanted to say that out loud for so long.
“Okay, now that we have that in the open, what now?” Stiles asked.
“Now we break the spell, and then talk about what happens next,” Derek said.
“Okay,” Stiles agreed, feeing the knot of tension in his stomach slowly uncoil. He drew in a deep breath, settling back against the soft cushions as he felt his anxiety ease.
He let his eyes drift shut, breathing steadily as he slowly unravelled the tendrils of his power. The familiar warmth ignited his veins as he focused on the strand of power wrapped around his wrist.
He took his time, slowly unravelling it. He let the coil of blue energy fray, flickering embers drifting like dust in sunlight before disappearing in the darkness.
The band began to thin out, bit by bit.
He felt his hold on his power start to slip.
No, he thought. I’m so close. Just a little longer.
He drew in a deep breath, holding it as he tried to focus his energy.
He felt hot tears prick at his eyes. His lungs felt as if they were filled with fire, burning him from the inside and desperate to draw breath.
He reached out for the thin blue strand wrapped around his wrist, feeling his power grasp it and pull.
The strand snapped, drifting into the air and fizzling out.
Stiles watched it disappear into the darkness, letting his hold on his power slip as he drew in a deep breath as he opened his eyes.
His eyes were heavy and unfocused, his vision blurred to streaks of colour and light. Somewhere among the blur, he could make out Derek’s face, the man’s expression warped by panic and worry as he stared at Stiles. His lips were moving, but Stiles couldn’t hear what he was saying.
He felt a strange warmth trickle from his nose, running down his face.
His lips quivered as he tried to find his voice, but his words died away in his throat.
Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision. His eyes fell shut, his body weakening. The world seemed to disappear beneath him as he was dragged into the abyss.
Stiles let out a weak groan as he woke up, wincing as his eyes slowly adjusted to the light.
He found himself lying in bed, wrapped in the warmth of a soft blanket and surrounded by a comforting scent.
His head was throbbing and his body ached.
He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, his pulse throbbing in his ears as the room spun around him.
The front of his shirt was stained with splatters of red and brown—blood. He remembered feeling the strange warmth of something trickling from his nose just before he blacked out.
He braced his hands on the mattress and pushed himself upright, regretting it almost instantly as the world around him spun turbulently.
He felt a wave of bile rise into his throat, burning his oesophagus as he swallowed hard.
“Hey, hey, hey,” a familiar voice called out, rushing to his side. “Take it easy.”
Stiles looked up at Derek.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice quiet and raspy.
“You passed out,” Derek told him. “I thought you promised not to push yourself too far.”
“I was so close to breaking the spell, I just needed a second longer,” Stiles said. “I did it, by the way. You’re welcome.”
“Welcome?!” Derek cried out.
Stiles flinched, the man’s voice making his head pound.
“Stiles, I didn’t care if it took days, weeks—hell, even years –to break the spell,” Derek growled. “I didn’t want you to take it too far. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Derek raked his hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Just…” His voice broke off, growing quiet. “Get some rest.”
Derek turned and walked back into the open space of the loft.
Stiles felt his heart sink into his gut. He lay down, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders as his heavy eyes drifted shut.
A few hours later, he was drifting in and out of sleep when a familiar warmth laid down beside him.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d join me,” Stiles said quietly.
“I’m still debating it,” Derek replied gruffly.
Stiles let out a soft sigh. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” Derek said, his voice softening. He exhaled heavily. “Stiles, you scared the shit out of me.”
He turned to look at Stiles, his pale adventrine eyes lit by the dim light of dusk that bled through the windows.
“Another reason I didn’t tell you how I felt about you was because I was trying to protect you,” Derek told him. “Everyone I’ve ever loved, I’ve lost. And I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you, because if I lost you I… I wouldn’t survive.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered.
Derek let out a measured breath. “I know.”
Stiles shuffled closer, curling up against Derek’s side.
He waited for Derek to pull away, but he didn’t; he wrapped his arms around Stiles, holding him close.
Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s warmth.
“You won’t lose me,” he promised.
Derek seemed to relax, the tension easing from his body slightly. He rested his cheek atop the tousled mess of Stiles’ hair, holding the young man close.
“Are we going to talk about this or not?” Stiles asked, the soft blanket pooling around his waist as he sat up in bed.
The golden light of the early morning streamed through the large windows, illuminating the loft.
“Talk about what?” Derek called back from the small kitchenette.
“About us,” Stiles answered.
Derek came out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Stiles before sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Stiles looked down at the mug he cradled in his hands, feeling the warmth seep into the palms of his hands.
“I like you,” he admitted, not able to look up at Derek. He swallowed his pride. “I really like you. And I don’t know if I have a shot, because God knows you deserve better than me—”
“I like you too,” Derek said, interrupting Stiles’ rambling. “And I really want to be with you… That is, if you want to.”
“More than anything,” Stiles blurted out.
A second later, he realised what he’d said. His face turned red as he bashfully bowed his head.
Derek let out a quiet chuckle.
He reached forward, gently sliding a finger beneath Stiles’ chin and tilting the young man’s head up. He met Stiles’ gaze, looking deep into the dark brown depths that turned to honey in the morning light.
He leant forward, bringing his lips to Stiles’ in a tender, loving kiss.
Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut as he melted into Derek’s touch.
Derek drew back slightly, resting his forehead against Stiles’.
A sweet smile played across Stiles’ lips. He tilted his chin and brought their lips together again in a chaste kiss.
Derek gently cupped Stiles’ cheek.
Stiles caught a glimpse of the bold black lines of the triquetra that were branded on his wrist.
He pulled back slightly, taking Derek’s hand in his and looking down at the symbol.
“I promise, I’ll find a way to get rid of that,” Stiles said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said softly. “I’m starting to like it.”
A smile turned up the corners of his lips as he looked up at Stiles.
Stiles is a young mage who moved to Beacon Hills to learn how to use his powers, but the day he stepped onto the palace grounds was the day he stepped into his destiny.
For @bilesandthesourwolf - Happy birthday!
One – The Beginning of a Legend
The dry husks of leaves crackled beneath their feet, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling their lungs as they walked along the muddy train and further into the woods. The trees towered over them, wavering beams of light shining through the canopy. The leaves were beginning to change, a few trees turning golden or auburn as the autumn chill hung in the air.
Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and delicate flowers grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, orange, yellow, and blue.
He ducked under the low hanging branches, brushing aside the spindly limbs that reached out for him.
He followed the path that was worn through the undergrowth, smiling as he passed traders, merchants, and messengers who passed him.
He made his way across the grassy knolls, his feet slowing as he approached the gates of the kingdom. The surrounding walls were made of sandstone, the beige walls towering over him as he made his way over to the guards at the gates.
He dug into his pockets, pulling out the crumpled pieces of parchment and handing them to the guard. As he stepped into the archway, he caught a glimpse of the city beyond the walls. The tall buildings were made of sandstone and marble, the pale bricks juxtaposed by the dark grey slate of the roofing tiles.
The streets of the lower town were lined with tall buildings—houses and storefronts. The rest of the kingdom was tiered, up to the castle that stood proud above it all.
“First time in Beacon Hills?” the guard remarked.
“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, tearing his eyes away from the city. “How did you know?”
“The look on your face,” the guard replied. “Awe struck. My guess is you’re from the country?”
“Farmlands up north,” Stiles admitted. “We have wooden houses with straw roofs, picket fences and fields of crops—nothing like this.”
The guard smiled fondly at the young man, reading over the papers once more before handing them back to Stiles.
“John is in the upper city,” the guard said. “Just follow the roads up to the castle.”
“Thank you,” Stiles said, taking the papers back from the guard and stashing them in his pocket.
“Welcome to Beacon Hills.” The guard offered him a friendly smile. “Just stay out of trouble.”
Stiles made his way up through the markets, passing the small fruit stalls, stands with bundles of cloth and tailored clothes, and merchants. A crowd gathered in the courtyard, a buzz of chatter filling the cool air as the thundering drums echoed in Stiles’ chest.
He wove his way through the crowd, slowing to a stop as he looked at the gallows that stood in the centre of the town square.
Across the square, two guards dragged a man out into the open. He was wearing a thin cotton shirt, left ragged and untucked and stained with mud and blood. His long dark hair was unkempt, falling out of the tie that held it back and hanging before his face. Beneath the shadows, Stiles caught a glimpse of his face. He was a youth—barely in his teens. His hands and feet were shackled, the heavy wrought-iron chains clattering as they dragged against the cobblestones. He put up no fight as the guards carried him over to the gallows.
“Let this serve as a lesson to all,” a deep voice rang across the space.
Stiles looked up at the man on the balcony. His long dark hair was sleeked back from his face. A short, groomed beard shadowed his jaw line, his dark features and tanned skin contrasting the pale depths of his peridot green eyes.
He wore a thick black coat with fine gold embroidery, tailored to sit on his broad shoulders. A golden pendant hung around his neck, gleaming in the sunlight.
King Alexander Hale.
“This man, Julius Baccari, is adjudged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic,” the king proclaimed. “And pursuant to the laws of Beacon Hills, I, Alexander Hale, have decreed that such practices are banned on penalty of death.”
Stiles swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat. His heart beat rose, hammering against his tightening chest.
“I pride myself as a fair and just king. But for the crime of sorcery, there is but one sentence I can pass."
The king nodded to the guards.
They hauled the prisoner onto the stand and fastened the noose around his neck. The man did not even lift his head, his eyes vacant and his body sagging forward, defeated.
The guards stepped back.
Stiles watched on, sickened and helpless as the executioner stepped forward.
The drumming grew louder, rising with the deafening thunder of his racing heartbeat.
There was a loud thud as the executioner pulled the lever and the floor beneath the man dropped. The crack of the rope rang out across the square.
Stiles flinched, turning his face away. Searing pain enveloped his lungs as he forgot to breath.
He opened his mouth, gasping for air. He drew in a deep breath, his chest aching as his racing heart beat pounded against his ribs.
“When I came to this land, this kingdom was mired in chaos,” the king continued. “But with the people's help, magic was driven from the realm. So I declare a festival to celebrate twenty years since the great dragon was captured and Beacon Hills was freed from the evil of sorcery. Let the celebrations begin.”
There was a quiet chatter among the crowd, elation and joy ringing out, but it fell silent as the heartbreaking wail of a woman cried out.
Stiles turned, looking at the woman who stood at the front of the crowd.
Her pale, ashy-white skin was wrinkled, twisted and scarred. She almost seemed inhuman. Her long raven-black hair hung around her shoulders, cascading down her back. Despite her scarred and worn face, she wasn’t old; she couldn’t have been more than thirty-five years old.
“There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic,” she said, her voice ringing out across the town square. Glistening tears streamed down her pale cheeks, clearing tracks through the dirt. “It is you. You, with your hatred and your ignorance.”
King Alexander straightened slightly, his expression composed as he looked down on the woman.
“We were the overlooked—the Emissaries,” the woman said, bitterness and hatred adding an edge to her voice. “It was a mistake that you should never have made, because I made an oath of my own: from virgins to warriors, from healers, philosophers and guardians, to loan me their power so I could teach the real monsters that their monstrous actions will never be overlooked.”
She took a step forward, her dark eyes burning with livid rage as she levelled her glare on the king.
“You took my son. And I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth… A son for a son.”
Without another word, the woman vanished into wisps of smoke that drifted through the air and disappeared into nothingness.
There was a moment of tense silence before everyone turned and went about their business.
Stiles stood still for a second, staring at where the woman had stood. He swallowed hard, turning away from the gallows and heading across the square to where a guard stood.
“Where would I find John Stilinski, the court physician?” he asked.
The guard gave him directions that led him across the courtyard, up a flight of stairs and down a hallway, to a heavy oak door with a sign on it with painted lettering that read ‘Court Physician’.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, looking about the room.
The walls were covered in large shelves full of old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.
In the centre of the room was an old wooden table, covered in scattered vials and bottles of coloured liquids, and mortar and pestle, bundles of dried herbs and flowers, and a few books that lay open—their worn pages covered in scrawls of black ink.
More bundles of herbs hung above the small window, next to a cabinet of bowl, boxes, and bottles.
“Hello?” Stiles said quietly, stepping further into the room.
There was a small platform that stretched around the room, a mezzanine that allowed them to reach the higher bookshelves.
Atop the mezzanine stood a man with thinning brown hair, dressed in a faded grey coat.
“John?”
The man let out a surprised yelp, staggering backwards. There was a loud crack as the wooden railing splintered, the banister breaking as the man fell backwards.
Stiles’ eyes lit up with a golden glow, his breath rising into his throat as time seemed to slow. He glanced across the room, spying the man’s cot. With a sweep of his hands, he sent it flying across the room, just in time to break the man’s fall.
John sat upright, shoving aside the blankets as he rose to his feet and turned on Stiles. “What did you just do?”
“Um—” Stiles chocked on his words, staggering backwards as the man advanced towards him.
“Tell me,” John demanded.
“I have no idea what happened,” Stiles lied.
“If anyone had seen that—”
“No, that was nothing to do with me,” Stiles interrupted, taking another step back.
“I know what it was,” John told him. “I want to know where you learnt it!”
“Nowhere,” Stiles answered.
“How do you know magic?” John demanded.
“I don't.”
“Where did you study? Answer me!”
“I've never studied or been taught,” Stiles answered.
“Are you lying?”
“What do you want me to say?” Stiles said, pleadingly.
“The truth.”
“I was born like this,” Stiles admitted.
“That's impossible.” John paused for a moment, looking the young man up and down. “Who are you?”
“I’m Stiles,” he answered.
“Claudia's son?” John said, a fond smile lifting the corners of his lips.
“Yes.”
“You're not meant to be here till Wednesday,” John said.
“It is Wednesday,” Stiles told him.
“Huh,” John muttered.
He shook his head and took a second to compose himself.
“You’d best put your bag in there,” he said, pointing to a door across the room.
Stiles nodded and made his way over to the door. He paused for a moment, turning back to John. “You won’t say anything about…”
His voice trailed off as his dark eyes flitted from John to the bed and the broken railing.
“No,” John reassured him.
“Thank you,” Stiles replied, turning back to the door.
“Although, Stiles,” John started, making Stiles pause. “I should thank you.”
Stiles offered him a kind smile and nodded before stepping into his room.
The room was small and sparsely furnished. There was a bed in the centre of the room, pushed back up against the far wall. A small table sat beside the bed and an old wooden cupboard was pushed up beside the door. His bag lay at the foot of the wardrobe.
The small space was lit by the flickering glow of the candles that sat on the table beside the bed, the melted wax dripping down the sides.
Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the chatter of the kingdom as night settled. He rose from the bed and stepped over to the small window. He pulled the old latch up and pushed the window open, leaning against the window sill as he looked out across the towns.
The windows were lit by lanterns and candles, the glimpses of golden glow spread across the town like starlight across the dark abyss of the night sky.
The kingdom was quiet, the only noise that disturbed the quiet was the guards marching across the cobblestones, the sound of nocturnal animals and stirring livestock, and the music and raucous laughter that echoed across the square from the tavern.
Stiles let out a heavy sigh, letting the cool night air seep into his lungs, calming him.
He couldn’t help but smile as he embraced the feeling that something was about to change.
John carried a candle over to the table, setting it down as he picked up the wrinkled parchment of the letter that Stiles had given him. He recognised the handwriting, the elegant scrawls of ink across the page.
My dearest John,
I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust.
It is every mother's fate to think her child is special.
Yet I would give my life that Stiles were not.
Ours is a small village and he is so clearly at odds with people
here that if he were to remain, I fear what will become of him.
He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone that might
help him find a purpose for his gifts.
I beg you, if you understand a mother’s love for her son, keep him safe.
And may God watch over you both.
Claudia.
John read the letter again, memorising every word—every curve and flick of her handwriting.
His eyes drifting from Claudia’s writing to the door across the room.
“I’ll keep him safe,” John whispered, folding up the letter. “I promise.”
He held the paper over the wavering flame of the candle, watching as the parchment caught fire. He held it up, watching as the fire consumed the paper, before letting it drop to the table where the flames destroyed the last of the parchment, leaving only a pile of charred ash.
The sound of the celebrations echoed through the hall of the castle.
The young woman stood by the window, the glow of the candle light catching her face as she stared out the window. Her long brown hair was pulled back from her face, pinned into place by a bejewelled hair pin.
“Laura.”
“Yes?” Laura replied, startled. She turned away from the window and looked at the man who walked towards her.
“Why are you not joining us?” the king asked, stepping over to his ward’s side.
“I don't think a man’s execution is cause for a celebration,” Laura answered honestly.
Her eyes drifted away from the man’s face and back out the window to the square where the gallows still stood.
“That poor mother,” she muttered.
“It was justice for what he'd done,” the Alexander replied bluntly
“To whom?” Laura asked. “He practised magic, but he did not hurt anyone.”
“You were not around twenty years ago. You have no idea,” Alexander said, anger adding an edge to his voice.
“How long will you punish people for what happened then?”
“Until they realise there is no room for magic in my kingdom.”
Laura turned away from him, staring out at the starry night sky that hung over the kingdom.
“You will be with me when I greet Lady Helen,” he said with finality.
“I want no part of this,” Laura argued.
“I am your guardian. I expect you to do as I ask,” Alexander said with finality. He drew in a deep breath, composing himself. “If you show me no respect, at least respect our guest.”
Alexander turned, storming away down the hallway.
“The more brutal you are, the more enemies you'll create,” Laura called after him.
“Stiles.”
Stiles gasped as he sat upright in bed, the echo of the voice still ringing in his mind. He shoved aside the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He dressed quickly and stepped out of the room to join John.
The man stood at the bench, rifling through vials of liquids and jars of ingredients.
“Oh good, you’re up. I got you some water,” John told him. “You didn’t bathe last night.”
“Sorry,” Stiles said quietly, rubbing his eyes lethargically.
“Help yourself to breakfast,” John said, nodding towards the bowl of porridge that sat on the table.
“Thank you,” Stiles said quietly, sitting down at the table. He picked up the spoon, eating the porridge without another word.
John glanced over his shoulder at Stiles, watching the young man as he set his hand against the side of the water bucket and pushed it off the bench.
Stiles acted without thinking.
He leapt out of his seat, his hand flying out and his eyes lighting up with a golden glow as he froze time.
The bucket stilled, he spilling water suspended in mid air.
Stiles realised what he’d done, glancing at John before releasing the spell and letting the bucket fall to the ground.
The water splashed across the floor, the bucket clattering as it hit the tiles.
“How did you do that?” John asked. “Did you incant a spell in your mind?”
“I don't know any spells,” Stiles told him.
“So what did you do? There must be something.”
“It just happened.”
Stiles hurried across the room, grabbing the mop from where it leant against the wall behind the door. He began to mop up the water when John reached for the broom, halting Stiles.
“Well, we'd better keep you out of trouble. You can help me until I find some paid work for you,” John said. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stiles. “Here’s some errands I need you to run.”
Stiles nodded, glancing down at the list before sliding the piece of paper into the pocket of his jacket. He grabbed a slice of bread and slung his satchel over one shoulder before heading for the door.
“And Stiles,” John called after him, making the young man pause. “I need hardly tell you that the practice of any form of enchantments will get you killed.”
Stiles nodded, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway.
He made his way through the markets, stopping at a few of the stalls to buy the things John had listed.
Children ran through the streets, laughing as they wove their way through the crowd.
Above all the chaos and the noise, Stiles heard a voice that caught his attention.
“Where's the target?” he heard a man ask, turning to see a man dressed in gleaming armour standing by the walls that overlooked a field.
The man had thick black hair and a soft beard that cast a shadow across his jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale, the colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused. His expression was composed and stern.
“There, sir?” the servant said, unsure of himself.
“That's into the sun,” the man said.
“It's not that bright.”
“A bit like you, then,” the man replied. He nodded to the old wooden target. “Move it.”
The servant nodded, stepping over to the heavy wooden target and hoisting it up.
Stiles’ eyes drifted back to the man giving orders. A coy smirk lifted the corners of his mouth as he whispered something to one of the men standing beside him.
A glint of silver caught Stiles’ eyes as the man lifted something above his head and threw it.
There was a heavy thud as the knife’s blade stuck into the target.
Bullseye.
The servant looked up at the man, his eyes wide with terror.
“Don't stop,” the man ordered. “I told you to keep moving.”
The servant was frozen, looking at him in shock.
“Come on,” the man in armour said teasingly, drawing another throwing knife from his belt and lifting it up. “Run.”
He threw the knife, the blade striking the target near centre. He was quick to grab another, hurling it as the servant began to run back and forth.
The servant tripped, dropping the target as the fell to the ground.
The wooden wheel rolled to a stop at Stiles’ feet.
“Come on, that's enough,” Stiles said, keeping his voice level and calm.
“What?” the man in armour asked, surprise breaking through his composure as he took a step towards Stiles.
“You've had your fun, my friend.”
“Do I know you?”
“I'm Stiles,” he introduced himself.
“So I don't know you,” the man in armour replied.
“No.”
“Yet you called me ‘friend’.”
“That was my mistake,” Stiles replied.
“I think so,” the man replied.
“Yeah. I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass.”
“Or I, one who could be so stupid,” the man replied without missing a beat. “Tell me, Stiles, do you know how to walk on your knees?”
“No,” Stiles replied.
“Shall I help you?”
“I wouldn't if I were you,” Stiles said warningly.
“What are you going to do?” the man asked.
“You have no idea.”
“Be my guest,” the man challenged, taking a step back and holding his arms open wide. “Come on.”
Stiles balled his fist and swung, but the man’s reflexes were too fast. He caught Stiles’ fist and jerked the man’s arm behind his back.
Stiles let out a grunt of pain, gritting his teeth. He felt the burning rage of his power prick at his eyes.
“I'll throw you in jail for that,” the man said.
“Who do you think you are, the king?” Stiles growled.
“No,” the man replied calmly. “I'm his son. Derek.”
Stiles was hurled into the cell, his body hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
The guards slammed the cell door shut, the sound ringing in his ears long after they were gone.
The floor was covered in straw and the walls were cold and damn, rivulets of water trickling down the uneven surface. It smelt of mould and faeces, the rancid stench burning his nostrils.
He let out a heavy sigh, slumping back against the rocky cell wall. He pressed his head back against the stone, letting his eyes drift shut.
He must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he remembers is the voice in his head.
Stiles.
He bolted upright, kicking about as he staggered to his feet.
The only sound that greeted him was silence.
There was a heavy clang as someone opened the door upstairs.
“Stiles,” John’s voice rang out, not angry, but rather disappointed. “You never cease to amaze me. The one thing that someone like you should do is keep your head down, and what do you do? You behave like an idiot.”
“I'm sorry,” Stiles said quietly.
“You're lucky,” John said firmly, nodding towards one of the guards, who unlocked the heavy iron cell door and held it open. “I pulled a few strings to get you released. Now, let’s go.”
Stiles followed him out of the cells and through the main square, following him in silence.
They returned to John’s quarters.
“I know you're angry with me,” Stiles started slowly.
“Your mother asked me to look after you,” John said, irritation adding an edge to his voice.
Stiles dropped his gaze, looking down at his feet.
John let out a heavy sigh, his voice dropping to its usual calm, level tone as he asked, “What did your mother say to you about your gifts?”
Stiles paused for a moment. “She just said that I was special.”
“You are special,” John said. “The likes of which I have never seen before.”
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked.
“Well, magic requires incantations—spells. It takes years to study,” John said. “What I saw you do was elemental—instinctive. Your magic is part of your nature, your being.”
“What's the point of it if it can't be used?” Stiles asked, looking away again.
“That I do not know.”
“Did you ever study magic?” Stiles asked.
“The king banned all such work twenty years ago,” John replied, avoiding the question.
“Why?”
“People used magic for the wrong reasons,” John explained. “It threw the natural order into chaos. Alexander made it his mission to destroy everything from back then—even the dragons.”
“All of them?”
“There was one dragon he chose not to kill,” John said. “Instead, he kept it as an example. He imprisoned it in a cave deep beneath the castle where no-one can free it.”
“I thought that was just a tale,” Stiles said. “A story you tell your kids at night.”
“All tales have some truth behind them.”
Stiles made his way through the marketplace, making his way down the street and past stalls. He buried his hands in the pocket of his jacket.
He glanced around, his eyes falling on the young man walking towards him—dark hair, pale aventurine eyes, and a cocky smirk on his face.
Prince Derek.
He hadn’t seen Stiles.
Stiles dropped his head, staring down at his feet as he passed the prince and his posse.
The prince stopped in his tracks, turning back to look at Stiles as he walked by.
“How's your knee-walking coming along?” the prince called after him, his voice teasing.
Stiles bit his lip, walking on as if he hadn’t heard him.
“Oh, don't run away,” Derek said, feigning pleading.
Before he could stop himself, Stiles turned around to face the prince, raising an eyebrow.
“From you?” Stiles asked.
“Ah, thank God,” Derek said, taking a step towards Stiles. “I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.”
“Look, I've told you you're an ass,” Stiles said. “I just didn't realise you're a royal one.”
A look of surprise passed over the prince’s face as an amused smile played with the corners of his lips. He took another step toward Stiles.
“What are you going to do? Get your daddy's men to protect you?” Stiles asked, nodding to the guards and the knights who stood behind the prince.
“I could take you apart with one blow,” the prince boasted.
“I could take you apart with less,” Stiles replied.
“You sure?” the prince asked. He tossed the wooden sparring pole in his hand to Stiles, chuckling as the boy fumbled but caught it.
Derek reached behind himself as one of the knights passed forward their sparring staff.
“Come on, then,” Derek challenged, swinging the pole around.
Derek juggled it in his grasp, the pole flipping over the back of his hand and nimbly woven between his fingers.
“I should warn you, I’ve been trained to kill since birth,” the prince boasted.
“Really?” Stiles said, feigning awe. “And how long have you been training to be a prat?”
Derek caught his staff, stilling the pole as he stared at Stiles, shocked. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“My apologies,” Stiles said, correcting himself. “How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?”
An amused smirk turned up the corners of Derek’s mouth.
Without warning, he swung at Stiles.
Stiles ducked, the staff swinging over his head. He staggered backwards, trying to regain his balance.
Derek advanced, keeping Stiles moving back as he continued to swing the pole around. He swung at Stiles again, cutting downwards.
Stiles dodged to the side at the last second, the staff crashing agaisnt the wooden bench of a nearby stall.
Stiles spun his around, swinging the pole upwards and smacking the side of Derek’s face with the side of the pole.
Derek staggered back, stunned as he rubbed his cheek with one hand.
His eyes honed in on Stiles, a mix of surprise, admiration and burning rage filling the pale depths.
Derek quickly countered Stiles’ attack, swinging his pole and slamming the end of the staff into Stiles’ wrist.
Stiles let out a pained yelp, his staff falling from his grasp. He stumbled slightly as he tried to dodge another attack, but Derek swung the staff low, knocking Stiles’ feet from under him and leaving him to tumble to the ground.
Derek stood over him, his smile menacing as he looked down at Stiles.
“You're in trouble now,” Derek said.
Derek swung the staff over the back of his hand, tauntingly.
Stiles’ eyes darted around the space.
Above the prince, loops of rope hung from the overhead beams.
Derek adjusted his grip on the staff, holding it like a spear—ready to strike Stiles. He lifted his arm.
The glow of Stiles’ eyes was lost in the sunlight.
The loops of rope entangled themselves around the end of Derek’s staff, stopping him.
“What the—?” Derek muttered, looking up at the entangled rope.
Stiles rolled aside, his feet pedalling beneath him as he scrambled upright. He grabbed his spear from where it had been knocked aside, turning and holding it up in time to block Derek’s blow.
Derek raised an eyebrow, surprised.
The prince swung again.
Stiles blocked it, taking another step back as her struggled to match the prince’s blows.
Derek swung downwards again.
Stiles held the staff up, blocking the prince.
A devilish glint darkened Derek’s eyes, a coy smirk turning up the corner of his lips. He moved too fast for Stiles to counter, slamming the end of the staff into Stiles’ stomach and knocking him back before swinging and smacking Stiles across the face.
There was a sickening crack as the staff collided with Stiles’ cheek, knocking the young man to the ground.
Stiles hit the dirt with a heavy thud, gasping for air
Tears welled his eyes, blurring his vision into streaks of light and colour. Rising bile burnt at his throat as he struggled to swallow.
Two guards stepped forward, grabbing Stiles by his arms and hauling him to his feet.
“Wait,” Derek called out.
He guards froze.
“Let him go,” the prince instructed. “He may be an idiot, but he's a brave one.”
The guards did as they were ordered.
Stiles staggered slightly, no longer held up by the guards. He looked up at Derek, his brow furrowed with confusion.
Derek met his gaze, taking another step forward as he looked Stiles over, his aventurine eyes full of curiosity. “There's something about you, Stiles. I can't quite put my finger on it.”
“How could you be so foolish?” John cried out as he stormed across the room. “Not only did you pick a fight with the prince, but you struck him. You do realise that that alone would be enough for the king to have you executed?”
“He needed to be taught a lesson,” Stiles argued.
“You can’t just go around picking fights, Stiles—especially not with your powers. Magic must be studied, mastered, and used for good,” John said. “Not for idiotic pranks and petty feuds.”
“What is there to master?” Stiles asked. “I could move objects before I could talk.”
“Then you should know how to control yourself.”
“I don't want to!” Stiles shouted, his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths. “I’m one-hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. My magic is my only defence.” Stiles paused, swallowing hard. “If I can't use magic, what have I got?”
John didn’t reply—he couldn’t; he didn’t have an answer.
“I'm just a nobody,” Stiles said, dropping his gaze to hide the glistening tears that welled in his eyes. “And I always will be… If I can't use magic, I might as well die.”
Stiles turned and stormed into his room, shutting the door behind him.
The old door rattled on its hinges as John carefully nudged it open and stepped into the room, carrying in a bowl of water, a rag, and some bottles of ointments.
Stiles lay across his bed, unable to move—not wanting to. Every inch of his body hurt. He could feel the welts and bruises forming under his shirt.
“Stiles, sit up,” John said softly. He set the basin down on the small table by the bed and sat down beside Stiles.
The young man sat up, groaning at the effort to move.
“Take your shirt off,” John encouraged, soaking the rag in the water before ringing it out. He turned back to Stiles, freezing for a moment as he noticed the young man’s back. There were angry red welts, patches of torn skin and abrasions and smears of black, blue and purple bruises across his skin. But he felt his heart drop into his gut when his eyes fell upon the pale pink scars that covered his pale flesh.
Stiles stared forward, not speaking.
John let out a soft sigh, gently cleaning the young man’s wounds before opening the bottles of ointment and smearing it across some of the more serious ones.
“You don't know why I was born like this, do you?” Stiles asked, his voice quiet but loud enough to disturb the silence.
“No,” John answered honestly.
“I'm not a monster, am I?”
There was a hint of fear in his voice that made John freeze. He drew his hand back, shifting on the bed to look Stiles in the eye.
“Don't ever think that,” he said, his voice firm but soft.
“Then why am I like this?” Stiles asked.
“I don’t know… Maybe there's someone with more knowledge than me,” John offered.
Stiles turned away from him, his chocolate brown eyes darkening with despair. “If you can't tell me, no-one can.”
The hooves of the horses pounded the ground, the metal horse shoes clattering against the cobblestone streets as the group rode into the kingdom, slowing to a halt before the welcoming party on the steps of the castle.
One of the knights dismounted, stepping over to the lady who rode beside him and helping her down from her horse.
The woman wore a dark purple velvet dress, the long skirt billowing around her legs. The fitted front of the gown was embroidered with fine beads and gemstones that were sewn into the pattern of twirling vines, leaves and budding flowers. A dark hooded coat was pinned around her shoulders, a shimmering broach holding it together. She pushed back the hood of her coat, revealing the waves of long, dark curls that cascaded down her back.
“Lady Blake,” King Alexander greeted, bowing politely before approaching the young woman. “Welcome to Beacon Hills.”
The young lady curtsied in return, her dark eyes shimmering as she offered a sweet smile as she stepped over to the king’s side. “It is a pleasure to be here, my king.”
“I trust your journey was not unpleasant.” The king held out a hand, letting her take it and leading her towards the steps of the castle.
“Not at all,” Lady Blake replied, smiling sweetly.
“May I introduce my ward, Laura,” the king introduced, gesturing towards the young woman on the steps.
Laura nodded curtly, offering the lady a kind smile.
“My son, Derek,” the king said, gesturing to his son.
Derek bowed politely.
“And my daughter, Cora,” he finished.
Cora curtsied, staying close to Laura’s side.
“We have prepared a meal for you,” Alexander announced, leading the woman up the stairs and towards the castle doors.
“How thoughtful of you.”
“We offer only the very best for our guests,” the king said. “After all, we want the celebrations tomorrow night to be memorable.”
Something shifted on the woman’s face as she dropped her gaze, looking into the reflection of a puddle at her feet. The smile fell from her face, a steely composure settling in its place as she quietly replied, “They will be.”
“Stiles.”
Stiles eyes flew open. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to clear the haze of sleep from his mind.
“Stiles.”
He hadn’t been imagining it—he heard the voice as clear as day.
He sat upright in bed, shoving aside the blankets as he looked around the room, lit by the pale glow of the light from the sun that had not yet crested the horizon.
He pushed back his blankets and climbed out of bed, pulling on his books and struggling on his jacket before stepping out of his room.
The main room was filled with the sound of rumbling snoring from the cot in the corner, where John lay—fast asleep.
Stiles wove his way through the furniture, careful not to make a sound as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
The echo of the voice in his head called to him, leading him across the courtyard and down a passage that led beneath the castle. He made his way through the labyrinth of hallways beneath the castle, until he reached a doorway.
A wrought-iron door blocked the passage, the lock fastened into place.
Stiles glanced over his shoulder, checking that no one had followed before holding his hand out. His eyes lit up with a golden glow for just a second as the lock slid back.
He reached for the torch that sat in the metal bracket on the wall, the flickering flame making the shadows dance about the place.
He held the torch up as he looked down the flight of stairs carved out of the rocky earth that led into the abysmal darkness.
He drew in a measured breath and began his decent, the wavering light of the torch lighting his way.
At the bottom of the stairs, the passageway opened up to a large cavern.
Stiles stepped out onto the rocky plateau, shuffling towards the edge as he looked down into the darkness that stretched on below him.
“Stiles.”
He jumped, his heart lurching into his throat as his wide eyes darted about the cavern.
“Where are you?” Stiles called into the darkness.
There was a rush of wind, the gust blowing into Stiles.
Stiles lifted his arm, shielding his face from the wind. He squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the flap of wings, the crumbling of rock and the rattling of a chain.
He waited for the wind to die down before slowly blinking open his eyes. He turned, looking at the beast that perched on the rocky mound in the middle of the cavern.
The dragon shuffled slightly on the rocky ledge, its claws digging into the rocks—a few stones crumbled away, echoing through the darkness as the crumbled and fell into the depths of the cavern. A thick silver chain was coiled around the dragon’s hind leg, the shimmering metal engraved with runes. Its golden scales shimmered in the streams of silvery moonlight that filtered into the cave.
“I'm here,” the dragon answered, looking Stiles over with its glossy black eyes. “How small you are for such a great destiny.”
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked. “What destiny?”
“Your gifts, Stiles, were given to you for a reason.”
“So there is a reason,” Stiles said, his heart skipping a beat as a blossom of hope settled in his chest.
“Derek is the once and future king who will unite the land of Albion, but he faces many threats from friend and foe alike.”
“I don't see what this has to do with me,” Stiles said.
“Everything,” the dragon answered. “Without you, Derek will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion.”
“No,” Stiles said bluntly. “No, you've got this wrong.”
“There is no right or wrong. Only what is and what isn't.”
“If anyone wants to kill him, they can go ahead,” Stiles protested. “I'll help them.”
“None of us can choose our destiny, Stiles,” the dragon said. “And none of us can escape it.”
“No way,” Stiles objected. “There must be another Derek because this one's an idiot.”
“Perhaps it's your destiny to change that,” the dragon replied.
The beast opened its wings, a gust of air whipping at Stiles as the creature took flight, flying as far as the chain that held it would allow.
“Wait,” Stiles called out, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Please, I need to know more. I need answers. Please…”
But the dragon did not return. It did not reply.
He was left standing on the plateau, alone in the darkness.
The ballroom was filled with quiet chatter as delegates from the neighbouring kingdom gathered for the celebrations.
Stiles lingered in the shadows, following John as the man made his way through the crowd, talking to dignitaries and delegates. His eyes drifted across the crowd, falling upon the young man across the room.
Derek.
He wore an elegant black suit, the jacket made of a soft fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern woven into it. The collar of his jacket and the tabs of his shirt collar were adorned with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals. He wore an ash-grey vest with silver stitching, his outfit bringing out the rich colour of his eyes and flattering his features.
Stiles expected him to be joking around with the knights like he did during the day, but instead, he stood aside from the crowd, not talking to anyone.
His little sister, Cora, stood beside him. The young princess looked to be about fifteen-years-old, dressed in an elegant gown made of velvety navy-blue material. The top was drawn into a Grecian neckline and covered in gold lace and beading, and the skirt of her dress was covered in fine gold detailing, beading and lace. Her long dark hair had been pulled back from her face and a band of woven metal made to look like a wreath sat atop her head.
“Please don’t start any fights tonight,” John whispered.
Stiles blinked as he pulled himself back to reality.
“I won’t,” Stiles replied, keeping his voice quiet. “I promise.”
John nodded, stepping over to his place in the corner of the room.
Stiles stood behind him, watching as the chatter of the room fell quiet as the king entered, escorted by his ward, Princess Laura.
She wore a sleek red dress, the top of the dress pulled to a point and held up by an elegant golden chain that looped around her neck. A belt of golden leaves was sewn onto the dress, accentuating her slim waist. A shawl was draped over her forearms, the dark red fabric matching her gown. Her long dark hair had been drawn back and pinned into a bun, a few loose strands framing her face. A circlet of woven gold and rubies on her forehead.
Derek and Cora joined them as the king walked over to the chairs that sat in the centre of the room, stepping up to his seat before turning to look at the others who were gathered.
“We have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity,” he announced. “It has brought the kingdom and myself many pleasures. But few can compare with the honour of introducing Lady Jennifer Blake.”
The crowd cheered and took their seats, their applause dying away and the room falling into silence as they turned their attention to the woman in the fine golden gown standing at the far end of the room.
Jennifer began to sing, the sweet tone of her voice ringing out around the room. It was a song Stiles didn’t recognise, but the melody seemed calming and hypnotic to all those in the room.
A stillness settled over the hall as the woman’s voice filled their ears. Those gathered struggled to keep their heavy eyes open, their eyelids fluttering and falling shut. Heads fell forward, some of the guests leaned against each others, as they were lulled into a sleep. Servants slouched back against eh walls, sinking to the floor.
Stiles looked around, panic spiking his heartbeat as he realised something was wrong. He pressed he pals of his hands to his ears, blocking out the sound of the woman’s voice.
An icy chill rolled through the room, blowing out the candles and plunging the hall into darkness. The only light was the silvery glow that streamed in through the windows, lighting half the woman’s face and letting shadows linger around her.
Cobwebs and dust settled over the room, as if those present had been asleep for a century, not a few seconds.
Lady Jennifer continued to sing, not missing a note as she took a step forward, her eyes fixed across the room.
Stiles followed her gaze, his eyes falling on Derek.
The young prince sat in his seat, his head lulled to the side and his expression softened by sleep.
Stiles looked back and forth between Derek and Jennifer, watching as the woman continued to walk towards the prince.
Jennifer drew a knife from under the gusset of her gown. She held the gleaming silver blade in her finger tips and raised it above her head, ready to throw.
Stiles’ eyes flew open wide.
His eyes darted up to the chandelier that hung over the woman.
His eyes lit up with a golden glow as he focused his power.
The chain shattered.
The chandelier fell, a thundering crash filling the hall as the woman was crushed.
Stiles froze, staring across the hall at the woman’s still body. He stomach twisted in knots. Bile burnt at his throat as he struggled to swallow against the lump in his throat.
He slowly lowered his hands from his ear.
The guests bean to wake, the hall filling with quiet mutters as they stirred.
Derek blinked his eyes open, pushing himself upright. He reached over to his little sister, brushing the cobwebs away from her face and looking at her with concern.
The king’s eyes widened in shock as he looked at the fallen chandelier. He rose from his seat, looking down at the woman.
The illusion was broken—the woman’s umber hair was streaked with grey and her face worn with age. Her body lay still, unmoving, the knife lying by her hand.
Stiles had seen her before, he recognised her face—the woman had been crying at the execution.
The king seemed to recognise her too.
The woman stirred, lifting her head. She choked on her breath as she tried to push herself upright. She grabbed the knife and hurled it.
Stiles’ acted without thought. His eyes lit up, slowing time as he sprinted across the room. He grabbed Derek, tackling the young man to the floor. Time returned to normal as they fell to the ground with a painful grunt.
There was a loud thunk as the blade tore through the solid mahogany of the chair.
The witch let out one last breath before collapsing back against the floor. Her body fell still, her dark eyes clouded and lifeless.
Stiles pushed himself upright, looking at the young prince that lay on the floor beside him.
Derek pushed himself up on his elbows, staring in horror as his eyes drifted from the witch lying beneath the fallen chandelier and the point of the blade that jutted out the other side of the chair. He turned to Stiles, looking at him as if seeing him in a new light, but Stiles’ eyes were still on the witch.
Laura and John rushed over to their sides, helping the two of them to their feet.
The king stepped over to Derek’s side, looking his son over before turning his attention to Stiles, his eyes full of gratitude. “You saved my boy's life. A debt must be repaid.”
“Oh, um,” Stiles stammered over his words as he struggled to find an answer.
“Don't be modest. You shall be rewarded,” the king said.
“Really, you don't have to, your majesty.”
“No, this merits something quite special,” the king insisted. “You'll be awarded a position in the royal household.”
Stiles blinked in surprise.
“You shall be Prince Derek's manservant,” Alexander announced.
“Father,” Derek protested, shocked, but his objections were drowned out by the applause of those gathered in the room.
Stiles glanced across to John, the man smiled back at him.
Stiles sat alone in his room, watching the candle flicker.
The old hinges on the door groaned as John entered, carrying something wrapped in a velvety red cloth.
“It seems you're a hero,” John said, a hint of pride in his voice.
“Hard to believe, isn't it?”
“No,” John told him. “I knew from the moment I met you. You saved my life, remember?”
“But that was magic,” Stiles argued.
“Now it seems we've finally found a use for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw how you saved Derek's life,” John told him. “Perhaps that's its purpose.”
“My destiny,” Stiles muttered.
“Indeed.” John sat down beside him, holding out the bundle of soft red velvet.
Stiles took it,
“This book was given to me when I was your age,” John told him. “But I have a feeling it will be of more use to you than it was to me.”
He carefully unwrapped the folds of fabric to reveal a book—old and bound in aged leather. The cover was adorned with metal studs and gold leaf lettering.
He opened the book, looking through the wrinkled, discoloured pages that were worn with time. He looked at the lettering and ink that covered the pages, but something struck him.
“This is a book of magic,” Stiles said.
“Which is why you must keep it hidden,” John encouraged.
“I will study every word,” Stiles promised, struggling to hide his excitement.
A loud knock at the front door startled them.
“Stiles,” a guard called from outside the door. “Prince Derek wants you right away.”
“Your destiny's calling,” John teased. “You'd better find out what he wants.”
Imagine stiles is a long lived either fey or druid (merlin BBC druid) and passes through the boundary of Hale pack when he is accosted by The Hale Alpha's son and border patrolman: Derek. Derek is fascinated by this kind of old but really weird stranger but he knows enough about their species to know he wont hurt them.
