chase_acow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chase_acow) wrote2011-09-19 03:15 pm
chase_acow) wrote2011-09-19 03:15 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Go the Fuck to Sleep (Teen Wolf Derek/Stiles)
Title: Go the Fuck to Sleep
Fandom –Pairing: Teen Wolf – Derek/Stiles
Rating: Teen
Word Count: ~2,300
Warnings: unsexy bodily fluids
Notes: See the end!
Summary: Stiles is sick and Derek takes care of him. Kinda. And mostly despite himself. Who am I kidding? Derek plays nursemaid better than that chick from Animaniacs.
He never knew the human body could contain so much puke. It just kept gushing into the toilet bowl, and then there was the stench and the moaning. Derek backed away, only restraining himself from covering his ears because it would leave his nose unguarded. He made it down the hallway and into the kitchen, knocking over a picture frame that bounced on the carpet without breaking.
Derek picked up his phone and hit speed-dial one. "Scott you have to help me," he said the second the line clicked open, knowing Scott would hear him. "Stiles won't stop puking."
"How should I know what to do?" Scott asked, whispering into his phone.
"What are you doing for your girlfriend?"
"Refilling her water cup mostly," Scott said. Derek could hear springs shift and guessed he was speaking so quietly because they were in bed together. "Allison is cute and clean even when she's sick."
Stiles wretched even louder, and from the sound of the splash, missed the bowl entirely. Derek rubbed his nose. "I hate you so much right now," he said, meaning all three of them. Over the phone he heard Allison ask who Scott was talking to and growled at the answer she got. "I am not his boyfriend!"
"Calm down," Scott said, sighing. "I dunno. Why don't you call my mom and ask? She's a nurse."
"Fine," Derek snarled and hung up. He went to the refrigerator and looked through the Sheriff's list of emergency numbers. Melissa McCall – work was fourth from the top. He quickly dialed and waited impatiently.
"McCall."
"Mrs. McCall, I'm one of Scott's friends," Derek lied, rolling his eyes while trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Stiles has that flu that's going around, and I hoped you could give me an idea what to do for him."
"Well, has he been eating?"
Derek winced at a new thump from the bathroom and answered, "He was hungry when I got here, so I cooked a pizza and he added jalapenos. He seemed tired so I gave him a couple of energy drinks."
"Are you stupid? Don't answer that," Mrs. McCall said, easily matching his irritation. "Let me guess, now he's puking his guts up in the bathroom?"
"Yes," he growled.
She sighed and spoke to someone on the other end on the line before she got back to him. "Where's his dad?" she asked. "I told him after the last time Stiles got sick that he had to be more careful. Now, I'll bet he's off God knows where doing-"
"I'm here. Tell me what did you did when Scott got sick," Derek demanded, cutting off her tirade. He listened to her with one ear while he kept track of Stiles' heartbeat with the other. Werewolves didn't get sick, which was why Scott volunteered to take care of Allison and Derek was guilted into looking after Stiles. It also meant he didn't have the first idea how to take care of a sick teenager. He listened carefully, "That doesn't sound so hard.'
"But that was when-"
"Derek?" Stiles' sounded absolutely miserable.
"I have to go, thanks Mrs. McCall."
"Wait!"
Derek clicked his phone shut and tossed it on the table. He pulled out a few supplies and followed Mrs. McCall's directions. Stiles called again, and Derek hurried, slamming the freezer door behind him. The closer he went to the bathroom the more his nose wrinkled. Sweat, bile, half-digested jalapenos and the sour smell of sickness itself made him want to gag.
This was way above his pay grade.
He blanked his face and peeked into the bathroom. Stiles slumped against the bathtub, eyes bruised and skin paler than the porcelain behind him. A dark stain colored his t-shirt starting under his chin and curling under his armpit. A small puddle of yellow bile told Derek he'd guessed right about Stiles missing the toilet.
"Please," Stiles moaned, clutching his stomach and the back of his head. "Kill me now and put me out of my misery."
Heaving a sigh, Derek bent over and picked Stiles up more gently than usual. He pulled the sticky shirt over Stiles' head and tossed it into the hamper. Stiles moved like a giant ragdoll, his head lolling back on Derek's shoulder as Derek propped him up by the sink. He carefully washed away the stink of sweat and slick of vomit, rinsing the washrag repeatedly in the warm water until Stiles sighed and tightened his grip on Derek's forearm.
Once he was sure Stiles was as clean as Derek could make him, Derek ignored Stiles indignant squawk and picked him up. As tempting as it was to 'accidentally' knock Stiles' head into something hard while carrying him to his room, Derek got them there in one piece. He pulled the covers down and settled Stiles in the bed.
"I'm cold," Stiles said, stretching and pulling his blankets up to his chin.
Derek went to the closet and yanked down an extra quilt he thought would be heavy enough to keep Stiles' body heat in. He snapped the blanket out and tucked the edges down under Stiles' body. He was out in the hallway when he heard Stiles cough and say, "Now I think I'm hot."
His knuckles creaked as he fisted his hands by his sides, but Derek kept the snarl behind his teeth. "I'll fix it," he said. "Don't move."
He jumped down the stairs, landing lightly on his feet. He followed his nose and common sense to search through the storage space. However, if the Stilinskis had a system to their madness, Derek couldn't figure it out in ten short minutes. The avalanche that fell out of the hallway closet would have buried a lesser wolf. With a sigh, he gave up, collected his ice from the kitchen and trudged back up the stairs.
The quilt wrapped tightly around Stiles' body, locking his arms to his sides like a Stiles-burrito. Somehow he'd rolled sideways on the bed, and his head dropped over the side. "Derek," he whined, "I'm stuck."
"How are you even still alive?" Derek asked, resisting the urge to rub his temples. He set his glass on the nightstand and untangled Stiles from his deathtrap and propped him back in bed. Before Stiles could do anything else annoying, disgusting, or dangerous, Derek shimmied out of his shoes and jeans, and slid into bed.
Stiles blinked blearily at him, instantly melting himself to Derek's side. "You want to cuddle me?" he asked.
"We're not cuddling, you need help with temperature regulation," Derek answered, picking up Stiles' head so he could slide his arm behind it. "I couldn't find a heating blanket or water bottle."
"So, we're going to snuggle," Stiles said, tucking his cheek into Derek's armpit.
Derek's eye twitched, but he did tug the blanket up to cover Stiles' bare shoulder, "I do not snuggle."
"There's nothing wrong with you wanting to be my nap buddy."
"I want to eat your face off," Derek answered, sucking in a breath when Stiles' fingers trailed across his abs and tucked just barely under the elastic of his boxers. He handed Stiles the glass he brought from the kitchen. "Here, suck on some of these."
Stiles popped an ice chip in his mouth and immediately pulled a face. "Is that frozen pickle juice?" he asked, trying to balance the ice on his tongue, outside his mouth while he spoke.
"Yes, and if you drop it on me, I will shove it somewhere much worse," Derek said, glaring until Stiles took it back in his mouth and started sucking it. "It's good for you."
"Really?"
"Yes, now shut up and keep sucking," he said, groping down beside the bed until he pulled up the first book he found. Opening it to a random page, he started reading, "'Pleonasm. Noun. The use of more words than are necessary to express an idea. An instance or example of pleonasm. A superfluous word or expression.'"
Stiles picked up his head, squinting at Derek. "Are you reading the dictionary?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter what I read, it's the tone of my voice," Derek said calmly, and continued reading the 'p's until Stiles snored softly against his chest.
#
Derek woke up, groggy for a second before he remembered the new state of his existence. The left side of his shirt was moist with what he hoped was drool, but dreaded it was more than half snot. Stiles' breathing sounded like wind whistling through a wet and twisty tunnel. Every once in a while, he hit a block, and Derek would hold his own breath waiting for Stiles to hitch back into rhythm.
He'd almost drifted back to sleep when he felt Stiles roll his hips against Derek's thigh. Stiles sucked a kiss on his collarbone, shifting restlessly as he rubbed against Derek's body. Heat flared off him in waves, and clean sweat pooled around him.
"Love you," Stiles mumbled, smacking his lips and tangling his fingers in Derek's shirt. "Gonna make you feel so good. Love fucking you."
Derek heard his teeth grind before he felt the flash of pain in his jaw. He couldn't help the spike of sex that jolted through his belly to his dick, but jealousy heated him as a close second. He wondered who Stiles was dreaming about, who he was fucking while Derek put up with his fever dream molestation.
"Love you, Derek," Stiles hooked his leg over Derek's and humped faster. "Let me. Just let me."
Ice and lava both flowed through his veins when he realized Stiles was dreaming about fucking him. In reality, Stiles had never asked and he'd never offered. He wondered how it had happened in Stiles dream, if Stiles bent him over or crawled up his body begging. His dick was hard, straining against the tight cotton boxers and aching for Stiles to touch him.
As suddenly as it started, Stiles flopped over the other way, curling into a pillow. "No, Coach, I don't want to go on the cupcake ride," he whispered right before falling back into a deeper sleep.
It was much longer before Derek found any peace.
#
The next day passed better with less puke but more snot. Derek fed him light soup and crackers, and made sure he balanced juice, milk, and water to keep him hydrated. In between feedings, Stiles slept a lot and Derek curled around him on top of the covers listening to him breathe and counting heartbeats.
He woke up late that afternoon with Stiles combing a hand through his hair. Stiles mopped his nose with a kleenex in the other hand, and Derek prayed he wouldn't mix them up. He didn't need a fistful of mucus to gel his hair up. Weak winter sunlight slanted through the window and bathed them in a dying pool of light.
"How are you so good at this?" Stiles asked, though Derek had to translate through Stiles' sore through and plugged nose.
"I called Scott's mom yesterday," Derek answered, bending his head down for Stiles to scratch the short hair at the base of his skull. "I just did what she told me to."
Stiles grinned, but he knew Derek well enough to scratch with his blunted fingernails. "No wonder you've been shoving pickle chips down my throat," he said, tossing the soggy kleenex to the floor. "She used to do that for me and Scott, but Scott was seven the last time he was this bad sick."
"Oh," Derek hated feeling embarrassed, the pricks of shame on the edge of his skin. Possibly, he should have listened more to what she had been trying to tell him.
"No, it's good," Stiles said, cupping his hand around the back of Derek's neck so he couldn't easily pull away. "Thank you. I know you, this isn't your idea of a good time."
Derek snorted. "No shit," he said, wincing when a blob of snot dripped down onto Stiles' mouth.
#
Getting Stiles to bed again that night turned out to be not so easy. Derek trudged back and forth between Stiles' bedroom and the kitchen, carrying juice, cold milk, warm chocolate milk, cold chocolate milk, more ice chips, a bag of animal crackers, and a glass of flat 7-Up. On his tenth trip back, he slammed the door behind him and turned off the overhead light, interrupting Stiles from reading his comic book.
"Dude," Stiles complained, waving the thin paper book in the air. The single lamp from his desk didn't cast enough light for him to see the pictures.
Derek stomped over and yanked it away, replacing it with a cough drop. He growled low in his chest, watching as Stiles flicked his eyes down to the side and meekly unwrapped the cherry flavored lozenge, popping it into his mouth. He felt Stiles forehead and frowned at the heat Stiles generated. Pulling his shirt off, Derek shoved Stiles over and climbed into bed again. After a few minutes, he felt Stiles struggling to stay awake.
"Did you mean what you said to Scott yesterday?"
"What did I say to Scott yesterday?" Derek asked, closing his eyes determined not to open them again until morning.
Stiles wiggled closer, spreading his hand out on Derek's chest. "You said you weren't my boyfriend," he said softly. "But you have sex with me, and you watch movies with me. I let you eat my food, and here you are taking care of me. I really like you, but maybe you don't feel the same way."
Derek groaned, and thought longingly of either curling the pillow around his ears or over Stiles' mouth. He rolled over and roughly manhandled Stiles until Derek spooned behind him, caging him in with an arm around his waist. "Go to sleep," he said, slipping his knee between Stiles' legs. "If God loves me, then you won't remember any of this in the morning."
"Derek?"
"Fuck," Derek cursed, letting his breath out explosively. He pushed his face into Stiles' short hair, hiding from the happy flip his stomach made. "Yes. Okay? We'll be boyfriends. Happy?"
"Yes," Stiles burrowed back into Derek's body, and laced his fingers over Derek's.
"Then go the fuck to sleep."
A/N: Right, I don't even know why this amused me so much, but this fic totally did. One of my favorites (and quickest, sorry for any mistakes) to write. I used a random word generator to get Derek's place in the dictionary, and I seriously laughed out loud at the word, which I had never heard of before. I know blathering on is one of my weaknesses as a writer, but I also loved it in terms of Derek/Stiles.
tl;dr -> The internet won today. : )
Also? Title stolen from the awesome book of the same name. Here's Sam L Jackson reading it with bonus pictures.
Fandom –Pairing: Teen Wolf – Derek/Stiles
Rating: Teen
Word Count: ~2,300
Warnings: unsexy bodily fluids
Notes: See the end!
Summary: Stiles is sick and Derek takes care of him. Kinda. And mostly despite himself. Who am I kidding? Derek plays nursemaid better than that chick from Animaniacs.
He never knew the human body could contain so much puke. It just kept gushing into the toilet bowl, and then there was the stench and the moaning. Derek backed away, only restraining himself from covering his ears because it would leave his nose unguarded. He made it down the hallway and into the kitchen, knocking over a picture frame that bounced on the carpet without breaking.
Derek picked up his phone and hit speed-dial one. "Scott you have to help me," he said the second the line clicked open, knowing Scott would hear him. "Stiles won't stop puking."
"How should I know what to do?" Scott asked, whispering into his phone.
"What are you doing for your girlfriend?"
"Refilling her water cup mostly," Scott said. Derek could hear springs shift and guessed he was speaking so quietly because they were in bed together. "Allison is cute and clean even when she's sick."
Stiles wretched even louder, and from the sound of the splash, missed the bowl entirely. Derek rubbed his nose. "I hate you so much right now," he said, meaning all three of them. Over the phone he heard Allison ask who Scott was talking to and growled at the answer she got. "I am not his boyfriend!"
"Calm down," Scott said, sighing. "I dunno. Why don't you call my mom and ask? She's a nurse."
"Fine," Derek snarled and hung up. He went to the refrigerator and looked through the Sheriff's list of emergency numbers. Melissa McCall – work was fourth from the top. He quickly dialed and waited impatiently.
"McCall."
"Mrs. McCall, I'm one of Scott's friends," Derek lied, rolling his eyes while trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Stiles has that flu that's going around, and I hoped you could give me an idea what to do for him."
"Well, has he been eating?"
Derek winced at a new thump from the bathroom and answered, "He was hungry when I got here, so I cooked a pizza and he added jalapenos. He seemed tired so I gave him a couple of energy drinks."
"Are you stupid? Don't answer that," Mrs. McCall said, easily matching his irritation. "Let me guess, now he's puking his guts up in the bathroom?"
"Yes," he growled.
She sighed and spoke to someone on the other end on the line before she got back to him. "Where's his dad?" she asked. "I told him after the last time Stiles got sick that he had to be more careful. Now, I'll bet he's off God knows where doing-"
"I'm here. Tell me what did you did when Scott got sick," Derek demanded, cutting off her tirade. He listened to her with one ear while he kept track of Stiles' heartbeat with the other. Werewolves didn't get sick, which was why Scott volunteered to take care of Allison and Derek was guilted into looking after Stiles. It also meant he didn't have the first idea how to take care of a sick teenager. He listened carefully, "That doesn't sound so hard.'
"But that was when-"
"Derek?" Stiles' sounded absolutely miserable.
"I have to go, thanks Mrs. McCall."
"Wait!"
Derek clicked his phone shut and tossed it on the table. He pulled out a few supplies and followed Mrs. McCall's directions. Stiles called again, and Derek hurried, slamming the freezer door behind him. The closer he went to the bathroom the more his nose wrinkled. Sweat, bile, half-digested jalapenos and the sour smell of sickness itself made him want to gag.
This was way above his pay grade.
He blanked his face and peeked into the bathroom. Stiles slumped against the bathtub, eyes bruised and skin paler than the porcelain behind him. A dark stain colored his t-shirt starting under his chin and curling under his armpit. A small puddle of yellow bile told Derek he'd guessed right about Stiles missing the toilet.
"Please," Stiles moaned, clutching his stomach and the back of his head. "Kill me now and put me out of my misery."
Heaving a sigh, Derek bent over and picked Stiles up more gently than usual. He pulled the sticky shirt over Stiles' head and tossed it into the hamper. Stiles moved like a giant ragdoll, his head lolling back on Derek's shoulder as Derek propped him up by the sink. He carefully washed away the stink of sweat and slick of vomit, rinsing the washrag repeatedly in the warm water until Stiles sighed and tightened his grip on Derek's forearm.
Once he was sure Stiles was as clean as Derek could make him, Derek ignored Stiles indignant squawk and picked him up. As tempting as it was to 'accidentally' knock Stiles' head into something hard while carrying him to his room, Derek got them there in one piece. He pulled the covers down and settled Stiles in the bed.
"I'm cold," Stiles said, stretching and pulling his blankets up to his chin.
Derek went to the closet and yanked down an extra quilt he thought would be heavy enough to keep Stiles' body heat in. He snapped the blanket out and tucked the edges down under Stiles' body. He was out in the hallway when he heard Stiles cough and say, "Now I think I'm hot."
His knuckles creaked as he fisted his hands by his sides, but Derek kept the snarl behind his teeth. "I'll fix it," he said. "Don't move."
He jumped down the stairs, landing lightly on his feet. He followed his nose and common sense to search through the storage space. However, if the Stilinskis had a system to their madness, Derek couldn't figure it out in ten short minutes. The avalanche that fell out of the hallway closet would have buried a lesser wolf. With a sigh, he gave up, collected his ice from the kitchen and trudged back up the stairs.
The quilt wrapped tightly around Stiles' body, locking his arms to his sides like a Stiles-burrito. Somehow he'd rolled sideways on the bed, and his head dropped over the side. "Derek," he whined, "I'm stuck."
"How are you even still alive?" Derek asked, resisting the urge to rub his temples. He set his glass on the nightstand and untangled Stiles from his deathtrap and propped him back in bed. Before Stiles could do anything else annoying, disgusting, or dangerous, Derek shimmied out of his shoes and jeans, and slid into bed.
Stiles blinked blearily at him, instantly melting himself to Derek's side. "You want to cuddle me?" he asked.
"We're not cuddling, you need help with temperature regulation," Derek answered, picking up Stiles' head so he could slide his arm behind it. "I couldn't find a heating blanket or water bottle."
"So, we're going to snuggle," Stiles said, tucking his cheek into Derek's armpit.
Derek's eye twitched, but he did tug the blanket up to cover Stiles' bare shoulder, "I do not snuggle."
"There's nothing wrong with you wanting to be my nap buddy."
"I want to eat your face off," Derek answered, sucking in a breath when Stiles' fingers trailed across his abs and tucked just barely under the elastic of his boxers. He handed Stiles the glass he brought from the kitchen. "Here, suck on some of these."
Stiles popped an ice chip in his mouth and immediately pulled a face. "Is that frozen pickle juice?" he asked, trying to balance the ice on his tongue, outside his mouth while he spoke.
"Yes, and if you drop it on me, I will shove it somewhere much worse," Derek said, glaring until Stiles took it back in his mouth and started sucking it. "It's good for you."
"Really?"
"Yes, now shut up and keep sucking," he said, groping down beside the bed until he pulled up the first book he found. Opening it to a random page, he started reading, "'Pleonasm. Noun. The use of more words than are necessary to express an idea. An instance or example of pleonasm. A superfluous word or expression.'"
Stiles picked up his head, squinting at Derek. "Are you reading the dictionary?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter what I read, it's the tone of my voice," Derek said calmly, and continued reading the 'p's until Stiles snored softly against his chest.
#
Derek woke up, groggy for a second before he remembered the new state of his existence. The left side of his shirt was moist with what he hoped was drool, but dreaded it was more than half snot. Stiles' breathing sounded like wind whistling through a wet and twisty tunnel. Every once in a while, he hit a block, and Derek would hold his own breath waiting for Stiles to hitch back into rhythm.
He'd almost drifted back to sleep when he felt Stiles roll his hips against Derek's thigh. Stiles sucked a kiss on his collarbone, shifting restlessly as he rubbed against Derek's body. Heat flared off him in waves, and clean sweat pooled around him.
"Love you," Stiles mumbled, smacking his lips and tangling his fingers in Derek's shirt. "Gonna make you feel so good. Love fucking you."
Derek heard his teeth grind before he felt the flash of pain in his jaw. He couldn't help the spike of sex that jolted through his belly to his dick, but jealousy heated him as a close second. He wondered who Stiles was dreaming about, who he was fucking while Derek put up with his fever dream molestation.
"Love you, Derek," Stiles hooked his leg over Derek's and humped faster. "Let me. Just let me."
Ice and lava both flowed through his veins when he realized Stiles was dreaming about fucking him. In reality, Stiles had never asked and he'd never offered. He wondered how it had happened in Stiles dream, if Stiles bent him over or crawled up his body begging. His dick was hard, straining against the tight cotton boxers and aching for Stiles to touch him.
As suddenly as it started, Stiles flopped over the other way, curling into a pillow. "No, Coach, I don't want to go on the cupcake ride," he whispered right before falling back into a deeper sleep.
It was much longer before Derek found any peace.
#
The next day passed better with less puke but more snot. Derek fed him light soup and crackers, and made sure he balanced juice, milk, and water to keep him hydrated. In between feedings, Stiles slept a lot and Derek curled around him on top of the covers listening to him breathe and counting heartbeats.
He woke up late that afternoon with Stiles combing a hand through his hair. Stiles mopped his nose with a kleenex in the other hand, and Derek prayed he wouldn't mix them up. He didn't need a fistful of mucus to gel his hair up. Weak winter sunlight slanted through the window and bathed them in a dying pool of light.
"How are you so good at this?" Stiles asked, though Derek had to translate through Stiles' sore through and plugged nose.
"I called Scott's mom yesterday," Derek answered, bending his head down for Stiles to scratch the short hair at the base of his skull. "I just did what she told me to."
Stiles grinned, but he knew Derek well enough to scratch with his blunted fingernails. "No wonder you've been shoving pickle chips down my throat," he said, tossing the soggy kleenex to the floor. "She used to do that for me and Scott, but Scott was seven the last time he was this bad sick."
"Oh," Derek hated feeling embarrassed, the pricks of shame on the edge of his skin. Possibly, he should have listened more to what she had been trying to tell him.
"No, it's good," Stiles said, cupping his hand around the back of Derek's neck so he couldn't easily pull away. "Thank you. I know you, this isn't your idea of a good time."
Derek snorted. "No shit," he said, wincing when a blob of snot dripped down onto Stiles' mouth.
#
Getting Stiles to bed again that night turned out to be not so easy. Derek trudged back and forth between Stiles' bedroom and the kitchen, carrying juice, cold milk, warm chocolate milk, cold chocolate milk, more ice chips, a bag of animal crackers, and a glass of flat 7-Up. On his tenth trip back, he slammed the door behind him and turned off the overhead light, interrupting Stiles from reading his comic book.
"Dude," Stiles complained, waving the thin paper book in the air. The single lamp from his desk didn't cast enough light for him to see the pictures.
Derek stomped over and yanked it away, replacing it with a cough drop. He growled low in his chest, watching as Stiles flicked his eyes down to the side and meekly unwrapped the cherry flavored lozenge, popping it into his mouth. He felt Stiles forehead and frowned at the heat Stiles generated. Pulling his shirt off, Derek shoved Stiles over and climbed into bed again. After a few minutes, he felt Stiles struggling to stay awake.
"Did you mean what you said to Scott yesterday?"
"What did I say to Scott yesterday?" Derek asked, closing his eyes determined not to open them again until morning.
Stiles wiggled closer, spreading his hand out on Derek's chest. "You said you weren't my boyfriend," he said softly. "But you have sex with me, and you watch movies with me. I let you eat my food, and here you are taking care of me. I really like you, but maybe you don't feel the same way."
Derek groaned, and thought longingly of either curling the pillow around his ears or over Stiles' mouth. He rolled over and roughly manhandled Stiles until Derek spooned behind him, caging him in with an arm around his waist. "Go to sleep," he said, slipping his knee between Stiles' legs. "If God loves me, then you won't remember any of this in the morning."
"Derek?"
"Fuck," Derek cursed, letting his breath out explosively. He pushed his face into Stiles' short hair, hiding from the happy flip his stomach made. "Yes. Okay? We'll be boyfriends. Happy?"
"Yes," Stiles burrowed back into Derek's body, and laced his fingers over Derek's.
"Then go the fuck to sleep."
A/N: Right, I don't even know why this amused me so much, but this fic totally did. One of my favorites (and quickest, sorry for any mistakes) to write. I used a random word generator to get Derek's place in the dictionary, and I seriously laughed out loud at the word, which I had never heard of before. I know blathering on is one of my weaknesses as a writer, but I also loved it in terms of Derek/Stiles.
tl;dr -> The internet won today. : )
Also? Title stolen from the awesome book of the same name. Here's Sam L Jackson reading it with bonus pictures.