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Toss A Coin To Your Alpha

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Toss A Coin To Your Alpha

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Stiles walks through the forest, high on post-battle adrenaline, having a grand old time strumming his stolen lute in a series of tragically out-of-tune powder chords, belting out parody lyrics to a familiar melody Derek recognizes from a tv show he recently watched, replacing all instances of Geralt with Derek and white wolf with sourwolf.

He's halfway through a lengthy list of all the snacks he's planning on bringing to their Witcher marathon, when a positively wolfish smirk curls across his face, and he turns to face Derek, voice lowered to a sultry murmur, and teases, "So tell me, Sourwolf, do I also get the pleasure of running you a bath and rubbing chamomile onto your lovely bottom, or—" Derek lets out a snort of laughter and pushes Stiles into a pile of leaves.

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Of all the ways Stiles imagined his day going, getting caught up in an impromptu turf war with an army of fae and becoming the owner of a slightly dented, hand-carved elven lute hadn't exactly been top of his list. Though, given the way his life has kind of become a supernatural clusterfuck over the past couple of years, he really shouldn't be all that surprised. 

The battle had been intense, but quick. The fae were powerful, but in the end, they were no match for seven sets of werewolf claws, hellhound fire, a banshee's scream, an expert archer, a katana-wielding kitsune, and a spark with a baseball bat, walking away with a minimal amount of magical maladies and injuries (Erica traipses through the forest sporting a magnificent, glittering, opalescent unicorn horn that she doesn't seem to be in any hurry to have Deaton remove, while Jackson the kanima-turned-occamy curls protectively around Isaac's shoulders like an extravagant scarf.)

Derek, of course, had been nothing short of majestic, turning fighting into an art form as he slashed through the ranks with graceful precision, taking down the fae queen with a single swipe of his claws. In the midst of battle, one of the fae had seemingly run out of weapons and tried to use a lute to whack Stiles over the head — luckily, his bat had gotten there first.

He walks through the forest, high on post-battle adrenaline, having a grand old time strumming his stolen lute in a series of tragically out-of-tune powder chords, belting out parody lyrics to a familiar melody Derek recognizes from a tv show he recently watched, replacing all instances of Geralt with Derek and white wolf with sourwolf.

"Toss a coin to your alpha, oh beacon of plenty!" he sings, hitting the strings in a jarring clang that have the more aurally sensitive of his packmates glaring in his direction. Stiles lets out a sheepish chuckle, wincing in apology, and hastily slings the lute over the shoulder not currently occupied by the handle of his bat.

"Hey Derek," he calls out, jogging a few paces ahead to walk in his stride. "How'd you like my song? I'm thinking of calling it the ballad of sourwolf, ode to the world's okayest alpha."

Derek rolls his eyes, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he turns to look at Stiles, and without missing a beat, replies, "It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling."

Stiles stops dead in his tracks, a huge, beatific grin spreading across his face as he realizes that not only had Derek gotten the reference, he's also playing along. He settles back into character and gasps, with all the mock offense he can muster, "OH! YOU NEED A NAP!"

Derek barks out a laugh, nudging Stiles playfully in the ribs with one of his elbows, and answers the question before he can even ask, "Yes, of course you can come over and binge-watch the second season with me when it comes out."

Stiles gives a triumphant first pump, launching into a detailed explanation of all of his theories and headcanons for the upcoming season, while Derek walks alongside him, shaking his head and sighing in fond amusement.

He's halfway through a lengthy list of all the snacks he's planning on bringing to their Witcher marathon, when a positively wolfish smirk curls across his face, and he turns to face Derek, voice lowered to a sultry murmur, and teases, "So tell me, Sourwolf, do I also get the pleasure of running you a bath and rubbing chamomile onto your lovely bottom, or—"

Derek lets out a snort of laughter and pushes Stiles into a pile of leaves.

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