#stilescrow

[drunktuesdaze]

cannot believe you motherfuckers let me find out on my OWN.

[drunktuesdaze]

I AM STRAIGHT-UP PROTESTING DEREK JIZZING ON TRACTOR!SHERIFF. THAT IS TOO FAR, AND I OBJECT. However! I'm loving that maybe this is a Beauty & the Beast thing and once Stiles' curse is broken, EVERYONE'S curses are broken, because Stiles pissed off this fairy enough to get everyone he loved cursed. But they all know the rules of the curse, so as Derek & Stiles track them down, one by one, waking confused in barns, they ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

[one] [two]

oh, this is everyone’s line.  EVERYONE DRAWS A LINE AT A JIZZTRACTORSHERIFF.

Okay fine, so the cross country roadtrip isn’t a jizztrip, just a farmer and a former scarecrow in a minivan, crisscrossing the countryside to stop off at all the farms everyone had been scattered to.  

It’s a jubilant reunion, filled with delighted shrieking and hugging and profusely thanking Derek without…really..mentioning..why.  Derek’s face is red the entire time, and he holds himself stiff, at the edges of the crowd.  He wonders what will happen when Stiles has collected everyone, when he no longer needs Derek around.

Except that Stiles keeps dragging him forward, yanking on his wrist, hipchecking him until Derek’s forced to interact, to speak with everyone.  The owners of the various farms stand bemused, staring at their former tractors and rakes and weathervanes.  Stiles takes the opportunity to introduce Derek to them, telling them about the crops Derek grows, the business he’s in.   

One of them, a werewolf himself, eyes Derek speculatively.  ”I’m gonna want to see your bulk pricing,” he says.  ”I know my alpha’s emissary is going to be very excited.”

"We’ll send over a copy tomorrow," Stiles promises.  "Stale’s Bales is here for anything you need."

"Stale’s Bales?" Derek asks, when they’ve wandered off.

"Stilinski-Hale," Stiles says, promptly.  "It’s a namesmush."  He pauses then, colors.  "Unless I’m overstepping.  I can—"

"No," Derek says.  "This is—this is good."

[drunktuesdaze]

Lea you're killing me with that goddamn story because it started out the bizarre tale of a lonely dude falling for a bag of straw and doing it in the pumpkin butt and I was confused and alarmed and DIDN'T WANT TO LIKE IT but now I want to know Stiles' STORY. WHEN was he cursed, HOW LONG was he there, not long enough to not know about the internet, right? HOW IS HE ADJUSTING. WHERE IS HIS FATHER. WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS THING TO ME

MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN DO I GOTTA FACT CHECK THE STILESCROW FUCKING?

I don't know--it could go many ways here.   It could be recent--I can walk that back about the DECADES, maybe it only FELT like decades and Stiles has only been up there a few months, still recent enough that his father's still looking, maybe they go into town for supplies and Derek sees the MISSING posters, and Stiles goes white, panicky, nervous about facing his father after everything that happened.

ORRRR and I have to be honest with you, I'm feeling pretty good about this option--all of Stiles's friends and family have been similarly cursed, and they travel the countryside, looking for things for Derek to jizz on.   Stiles's dad was cursed into a tractor, Scott a yoke, Lydia a weathervane.  They save them all, one comeshot at a time.  

[drunktuesdaze]

I'm torn between begging you for more, tell me how Derek saves his farm, raises the Hale name back to its old glory and for how Stiles runs those condo-people into the ground with his words, and curling up in a corner to question my life choices.

Accept it.  We are all scarecrow sexual now.  We are all shifting uncomfortably when watching the Wizard of Oz.  We’re all in this together, and “this” is being aroused by bags of straw.  

HERE IS SOME MORE: 

[one]

"I’m serious about this place being a site of historical significance," Stiles says. "How long has it been here, hundreds of years?"

Derek looks around at the sloping ceilings, the uneven wooden floor.  ”A few hundred,” he says, shrugging.

"We’re going to have to hit up the library," Stiles says, eyes flashing in excitement.  "I have an idea, but I gotta back my stuff up, you know?"

"it’s three in the morning," Derek says, helpless.  It’s three in the morning, and he’s not entirely sure this is real, that he isn’t going to wake up again, this time on the hard ground of his fields, straw poking into his skin.  

This does stymie Stiles a little, and he sighs like the weight of the world is against him.

Derek goes to sleep instead, his hangover creeping in on the edges of his consciousness, and the knowledge that dawn is a scant few hours away.   Stiles settles next to him, a book in his hand, and Derek sleeps, sounder than he thinks he maybe ever has.  

When he wakes, Stiles is gone.  He has a moment to panic, but then he hears someone moving in his kitchen.  When he pads closer, he sniffs, and is assaulted by the smell of something burning, charred.

Stiles is at the kitchen stove, blowing on a blackened lump in a frying pan. “Oh you’re up,” Stiles says brightly.  ”I made pancakes!” and he gestures to the stack of coal-like objects all ready for him on a plate.

Derek eats every single bite, and praises Stiles all the way.

It goes like that, for awhile.  Stiles bounces off walls, jumps from task to task, gets in Derek’s way.   Derek tries to adjust, makes room for Stiles, who seems to take up as much space as twenty men.

"Condo people thwarted," Stiles says smugly, brandishing a stack of papers at Derek.  "No matter what, the Hale Farmhouse is to be preserved until forever, motherfuckers."

Derek’s relieved, he is.  He’s glad to have someone at his back, sharing his burden, on his side.  But he also knows that Stiles has been up for two straight days working at this, that Stiles has done nothing more than catnap, falling into a doze against his own will before he wakes and jumps to his feet.

"Thank you," he says, and takes Stiles’s wrist in his hand, and tugs.  He leads Stiles upstairs, refusing to answer any of Stiles’s questions, protests.   He pushes Stiles down into his bed—their bed, and settles next to him, curling around him, fitting Stiles into the curve of his body.   "It’s time for sleep now," he says, and yawns.  Today, he had harvested, a tiresome practice that had to be done with little assistance, almost entirely by hand.

Stiles goes rigid.  ”I slept enough,” he hisses, and thrashes in Derek’s grip.  ”I slept for years, and I don’t need—I’m not going to—” and he digs his nails into Derek’s arm.

Derek lets him, doesn’t loosen his hold.  There are purple bruises under Stiles’s eyes and a shake to Stiles’s hands, a glazed look that comes over him sometimes.  ”You do,” he says quietly.  ”You have to.”

Stiles sags against him, defeated.  ”I’m afraid,” he says, almost a whisper.   “I’m afraid that if I sleep, I’ll find myself back in the fields, hazy and trapped and waiting.”  

Derek tightens his grip, as if he could stop it from happening by force.  ”It won’t happen,” he tells Stiles firmly. “You won’t turn back.”

"How do you know?" Stiles says, and he presses against Derek’s hold again, this time only to twist and face him.  

"Because I need you here," Derek says, simply and they kiss, tender, sweet, full of promise.

"Do it again," Stiles breathes out. "Break it again, just like the first time."

Derek knows what he means, and he doesn’t hesitate to draw himself out, stroking himself to hardness.  But this time, he reaches for Stiles too, strokes them together.  Stiles is warm, soft, making little noises with every pass, and Derek can’t imagine him as straw anymore, can’t even picture what his before life was like.   Derek comes first, streaking Stiles’s belly with his claim, but Stiles marks him too, making him messy as he sighs out his released and Derek rubs it in, rubs it into both of them, mixing it together, Derek and Stiles, alive.  

Stiles sleeps.  And when he wakes up, Derek is making breakfast, fluffy omelets with fresh vegetables diced in and hot coffee waiting at Stiles’s place at the table.  

"Good morning," Stiles says, kissing him lightly.

And it is.  

[drunktuesdaze]

oats in the water

Derek throws the men out of his house.  He does it rudely, unceremoniously, in a way his mother would have been angry at him over.

She would have found a way to talk to them, to smile at them in her way, lean in, and somehow, somehow they would have left convinced that the condos were a bad idea and that the hale farm had to be preserved forever.

Derek doesn't do that though, doesn't even hear them out.  He tells them to leave his goddamn house, and he shakes for an hour after, shakes knowing how much he'd disappointed his family, how he's going to lose the last thing he has of them.  

The men weigh heavily on his mind.  They'll be back, he knows, this time without pretty papers tempting him with generous offers he can't be swayed with.  They'll come back with threats instead, manipulations to force him off this land and he finds himself moving angrily, jerkily, twisted up with rage and disappointment.  

When he finishes, he lingers as he always does, over the tall scarecrow that guards over his fields.  It's a goofy looking thing, hardly enough to frighten any sort of bird but it's hung here as long as he can remember and he likes it, inexplicably.  

"You see those men come back," he tells it, "scare em off like a bunch of crows."  

The scarecrow winks at him, or rather, the sun glances off the amber marbles some Hale had sewn in for eyes.  He snorts at himself for resorting to speaking to men of straw, and heads inside.  

He hasn't gone to town for food in a few weeks and his cubboards show it.  All he has is a small packet of ramen, and he heats it over his gas stove, carefully pouring it into a cracked little bowl.   He sits at his old, worn kitchen table with seats enough for eight, and eats it, slowly and mechanically.  

He goes up to his bedroom then, and curls up under the cool linen sheets to read until finally his eyelids droop into sleep, letting another day pass him by and giving him space before he's forced to face the next one.  

"Any visitors today?" he asks the scarecrow when he goes out to the fields the next morning.  "Bet the sight of you scared them right off."

Haha, he thinks the scarecrow would say, his impish little drawn on face lending itself easily to imagined sarcasm. Good joke, you could go into stand-up with an act like that. 

He snorts at his own foolishness and gets to work, attacking the weeds in the far left field, the work tiring and satisfying.  He's thirsty after a bit, and meanders back toward the scarecrow, under which he's stashed a jug of water, kept cool in the shade the Scarecrow's form makes.   

"Can't keep calling you Scarecrow," Derek tells him, after he's slaked his thirst.   He studies the smiling face, the plaid shirt and ripped up jeans, circles him, trying to pick out the best name.   He sees something sticking out of the pocket, a fragment of paper that just reads Stiles.  He thinks maybe the author meant to write Styles, and mispelled but oddly enough, he thinks it suits him. 

"Stiles the Scarecrow," he announces, and gets a blank smile in return.  

The men do come back, like Derek knew they would.  Only this time, they have a woman with them, a cruel, sharp woman Derek instantly mistrusts.

"Deucalion wants to be reasonable," the man, Ennis, says. "Provided you're willing to reason with him."

"I'm not," Derek growls.  "Tell him to build his eyesores somewhere else."

"He wants yours," the woman says, almost singsong.   She smiles at Derek, and Derek bristles, throws them out once again.  

"I can't let it go," he tells Stiles later. "This stupid farm, it's all I have of them."   He swallows hard, and rests his chin on his knees and watches the sunset, his back pressed hard against the comforting weight of Stiles's beam.  Stiles's straw rustles comfortingly, and Derek sighs and inexplicably, feels better.

"What do you have here that's so worth protecting," Kali asks him, on the next visit.  "You have no one, no friends, and your little farm makes nothing, barely subsists.  Poor sad, stubborn, Derek Hale," and she laughs as Derek throws them out for the third time.  

Her words echo though, rattle around in his chest.  The wallpaper in his mother's sitting room is peeling, and he looks around at the dust, grim like it never was when she was alive, before Kate and everything she took.  

He eats his ramen, the noodles like cardboard in his mouth.   Poor, sad, pathetic, lonely Derek Hale, he thinks and when he gets up, it's to fetch his father's scotch.  

It's treated for wolves, brewed here, with one of the Hale family's strain of wolfsbane.  His mother had wanted to stop selling it at one point, but his dad had laughed, said "everyone wants to get away sometime, even wolves."

Tonight, Derek wants to get away, far away.   He drinks and drinks until he gets restless, stumbles outside to see the moon.   He sees Stiles in the distance and heads toward him, lurching unsteadily until he topples forward to land at Stiles's feet.  

The weight of the impact makes the beam shudder and suddenly Stiles is in his arms, limbs askew and straw tickling him everywhere.  "Hello," he says seriously.  "Thank you for coming out tonight."

Stiles's face is still goofy, mischievous, but Derek sees a kindness in it, somehow, and he buries his face in the scarecrow's neck, breathing in the scents of his farm, of nature, of Stiles.   The wind blows over them, making one of Stiles's inert arms fly up in the air before landing on his shoulder, in an imitation of a hug.  

Derek shudders.  It's foolish, he knows, to lie here with this bag of straw.  But he's so lonely and touch-starved that he lets himself pretend anyway, pretends someone's hand is cupping his neck, someone's weight has settled on his lap.  He revels in it, and in his drunken mess, he falls asleep like that, tucked in Stiles's embrace.

He wakes again, startled by the sounds of an owl hooting close by.  He's more sober now, conscious of the rocks under him and the cool night air on his skin.  He shifts, intending to lay Stiles down, reattach him to his post in the morning, but Stiles's rump skates over his groin as he does and it makes him groan.  

This is crossing a line, he knows.  Talking to what essentially can be categorized as a doll is foolish, worrisome.   Getting pleasure from it makes him another sort of loser, the sort that orders blowup figures from the backs of porn magazines.   Derek's not that pathetic.

Except he is, because he's alone and still a little drunk and wanting so much for someone to be there with, someone to share his burdens.  He rocks up tentatively again and hisses at the pleasure of Stiles's plump, straw filled bottom.  

He keeps a rhythm like that for a bit, simple, teasing, but eventually it's not enough, and he takes himself in hand, imagines someone else doing this for him, someone else's hand on him.   He keeps one hand on Stiles's thigh and squeezes when he comes, splashing over his hand.  

"Party foul," he mumbles, wiping his come from where it landed on Stiles's pants.  "I'll get that tomorrow."

He's tired again, suddenly, and he sinks back, naps again until the warm light of sunset wakes him, the sound of a rooster announcing the day.  

The scarecrow is gone, the weight lifted off him, and instead there's a freckled kid with a goofy face sitting across from him, staring.  

"I'm not real sure I want to know why you fulfilled the terms of my curse," he says.   "But I'm so glad you did that I'm not even going to ask any questions.   If I had to hang up there another decade, I think I was gonna lose it."

"Curse?" Derek says, dumbly. 

"Yeah," Stiles says.  "Don't ever piss off a fairy on May Day, they're so goddamn touchey about their stupid garlands."   He stands, crackling his knuckles.  "Also, you totally don't have to sell your farm.  That farmhouse has got to be elligible as a historic site, so fuck those guys.  Also, have you considered putting your business on the internet?  Because I didn't even know you existed before I ended up here, and honestly I think you've got a market."   He grins at Derek, goofy and happy.  "First," he says.  "We both need showers because we smell like the inside of a feedbag."   He holds out a hand to help Derek up, and Derek takes it.  Stiles's grasp is firm, his fingers long and smooth.  

"We could share," Stiles says, smirking.  "If you still had interest.   I won't judge you if it was just the straw thing.  I can maybe take some with us."

"You're an idiot," Derek says, and leads the way.

[drunktuesdaze]

(1/2) Yes good beautiful. I'm picturing the visuals of Sad Farmer Derek as scenes from a movie, one of those sad indie ones. It starts with the scene where he's drinking alone at his dimly-lit kitchen table, you can hear every swallow, it's painfully awkward and sad. The next scene he's running across the field of newly-harvested corn, you can see his form outlined against the tail end of the sunset, you can see the outline of Stilescrow on his pole, a fixed point on the bleak skyline.

(2/2) If you're the kind of person who talks to movie screens (I am) you might whisper "oh honey, oh honey no" to the screen, trying to drown out the too-loud sounds of rustling, first from Dereks run across the field and then of Derek vigorously assaulting the straw-stuffed scarecrow. It's a low point, it can't get worse. Cut to a morning-after feet-to-heads pan up, all warm and sleepy skin of the knotted couple.

RIGHT RIGHT, I'm with you to a point, like definitely embracing the stark, indie movie feel to it.  the kitchen scene is set to sufjan steven's cover of "the one i love."  everything is hard and miserable and derek hale (you know, the farmer?) shoulders against all the pain and sets out to the fields again and again, ignores his calluses and wipes the sweat from his brow only to go home to his sad kitchen again, alone, to cook a tiny sad meal for him to eat at his tiny sad kitchen table before sleeping alone in his cold sad bed.  

But I take issue with him assaulting the scarecrow, because I think it'd be more pathetic than that.  I think it'd be a thing that's building, because he's talking to this scarecrow, making conversation, silly stuff at first to keep himself occupied while he works, but something about talking to stilescrow is soothing, makes his work lighter and his day pass, and he tells stilescrow about bigger things, deep shit, and he imagines Stilescrow reacting, talking back to him.  I think that's the piece that's SO IMPORTANT, that he anthromorphizes the scarecrow from the BEGINNING, and he lets himself do it because he's not HARMING anyone, it's silly and sad but it's HIS.  

And then I think there's a catalyst--an unpaid bill, an unpleasant letter from a lawyer, a nosy neighbor, maybe even just a BAD DAY.  And Derek's sitting at his sad kitchen table feeling so alone and badly for himself, and he starts drinking and thinking, and he just wants company so bad.  He misses having a pack, a family, even a friend.  And he drags himself out to the fields, takes Stilescrow down and talks to him, drunken rambles, tells Stilescrow how much he wishes he was real, how much he wishes he could talk back.   

The ACTUAL SEX is set to Neighborhood #1, and Derek pretends Stilescrow is kissing him, holding him, touching him, telling him he's doing a good job, saying nice things, and he cries when he comes, and closes his eyes, stays there in the dirt because he doesn't want to wake up and go back to his lonely small life.  

THE SHOCK when he wakes up, expecting to be hungover and instead is being clutched by a REAL BOY, with straw in his hair and a smile on his face and he says "hullo" and PROBABLY the end credits roll to crosby, stills and nash's "Our House"

[drunktuesdaze]

Is Stilescrow cursed? Can he only be restored to human form by TRUE LOVES KNOT? Or Jizz? Does farmer Derek end up humping Stilescrow in a haze of lust and self-hatred, only to find himself knotted in a beautiful human boy?

I'm literally laughing so hard I'm crying. Nothing will ever be as important to me as a drunk, sad, self-loathing farmer Derek shamefully humping a scarecrow in the middle of the night and waking up spooned with the most beautiful human who's like "thank god you broke my curse, shit was getting so boring hanging up there, dealing with all those asshole crows."