Work Header

Faetal Attraction

Chapter Text

Stiles didn’t look like a fairy. Not even if you asked any of the Drag Queens that hung around Jungle, who looked more unearthly with every color the strobe lights danced across their painted faces. They were beautiful, they could belt out Madonna like nobodies’ business, and they were the few rare creatures that thought Stiles was cute. But they weren’t called ‘Drag’ Queens for no reason. On a good day he might get ‘twinkie’, because Coco suspected, correctly, that if you bit him you got a creamy center, but no one, not a single solitary soul, thought Stiles Stilinski looked like a fairy. It was insulting really, seeing as that’s exactly what he was.

Admit it. The first thing you think of when you think fairy is Tinkerbell. And all you remember about her are the delicate gossamer wings and the way she looks in flight, trailing pixie dust like every Kindergartener in the world that went wrong playing with glitter. No one remembers the fiery temper. How jealous she was of Wendy. How that jealously nearly led to homicide via defenestration. That’s what fairies really are. Tempestuous, clever, and wrathful. Stiles’ claim to fame.

Now, Stiles didn’t know he was a fairy yet. That came a little bit later. Right now, all he knew was that if this guy didn’t get out of his face, he was going to go full on Babe Ruth on his ass. Which, to be fair, was a fantastic ass that did not deserve being flattened by the business end of Stiles’ bat. And, lucky for him, would not be flattened by Stiles’ bat. Because he did not have it.

This was a remarkable lack of foresight, considering he got attacked like the creature of the week circled, underlined, and highlighted ‘Attack Stiles day’ on their murder calendar. Attack Stiles day might as well be the eighth day of the week, as far as the Big Bads of Beacon Hills were concerned. And yet, here he was, not a weapon in sight, with one of those Big Bads all up in his personal space.

To be fair to the guy, he might not be one of your run of the mill evildoers. After all, how many Supervillains came to the Jungle to unwind? Not as many as all that brightly colored spandex they wore in comics had indicated to Stiles. No, usually the Jungle was a safe haven where Stiles could come and dance (flail) and drink (Rum and coke- sans rum) in peace. After all, the sheer radius of all that limb spinning everywhere gave him something akin to a force field on the dancefloor. No one wanted, nor dared, to approach.

Not in all the years he’d been coming here, had any guy so much as blinked an eye his way. The girls had, of course. Mama Coco had more than once offered to beat his face –which had him lurching away in fear before he realized that was slang for decking him out in makeup and that Coco wasn’t about to come after him using a stiletto as a stabbing implement- and adopt him as her drag daughter, but, sadly, Stiles could hardly walk in normal shoes, let alone the deathtraps that were heels. No one looked his way, danced with him, bought him a drink- he was invisible. Might as well be Susan Storm.

Therefore it was understandably suspicious, that he was pinned back against a wall that smelled of booze and barf, caged in by the arms of a man so attractive he could give Brad Pitt a run for his money. But the wrong incredibly handsome man. The 'Not Derek' brand of awe inspiring man meat. And therefore, the wrong brand. His hair was dark and wavy, just long enough that a long strand could dip over his eyes, which were the kind of cerulean one only got in blue raspberry jolly ranchers, and therefore must be fake. His face was oval, his chin and jaw a smooth, continuous curve. A Ken doll would be jealous.

A certifiable hottie with a body. Stiles should be used to this, seeing as he was surrounded night and day by the pack. Who just happened to be prime specimens of male beauty who were allergic to shirts. If Stiles wanted to, he could probably make his own Calendar made up of candid shots. It would sell like hotcakes. He would too, if a certain Derek Hale AKA ‘Mr. July’ AKA ‘Hottest season of the month’ wouldn’t rip him into tiny bite sized pieces and feed him to the pack in a stew.

As it was, Stiles had yet to be desensitized to hot people. No, they could still illicit the same response that he’d had all those years ago to being pushed up against a wall by Derek Hale. Instant Boner, cheeks red as his cherry, primed to be popped, and a very embarrassing gasping sound whenever he drew in breath. He was pretty sure that, whoever this guy was, he could tell that Stiles was two seconds away from begging him to go all praying mantis on him. He wouldn’t mind the whole getting his head ripped off thing as long as this guy just took off his pants.

Wait, what the hell was he saying? Of course he’d mind getting his head ripped off! He had so much to live for! Taco Tuesday. Season six of Game Of Thrones. Being best man at Scott’s wedding. And for Christ’s sake, at some point, if he stayed alive long enough, the universe had to take pity on him and get him laid, right?

So instead of leaning back into the wall, batting his eyes, and moaning ‘Take me, I’m yours.’ Stiles did the only logical thing to do in this situation. He made a really big scene.

“Get the hell off me, dicksneeze! No means no! Consent matters! If you want to keep your balls, dude, you’d better back up about fifteen feet, cause buddy, I’m a black belt in-“

“Be quiet. They can’t hear you.”

Damn, even his voice was beautiful. Sonorous and strong, and it slid into Stiles’ senses like silk and the rustling of scales. Stiles took vindictive pleasure in imagining this guy with a voice like Mickey Mouse. Better. Goofy.

Sadly, Goofy was right, even if he sounded totally ridiculous. Stiles had been screaming at the top of his lungs, and not a single person had turned towards them, trying to pinpoint where the commotion was coming from. He’d been counting on the interest a fight would generate, but- nothing. In fact, now that he was looking at everyone else, instead of his captor, it was like their gazes seemed to slide over their patch of wall. Like they weren’t even there. Every time someone looked their way, their eyes went unfocused and hazy and, inevitably, turned away to find something that could actually capture their attention. If Stiles had been invisible before, now, he was downright nonexistent. Not even a blip on their radar.

In other words, trapped, helpless, and probably about to be devoured in the not fun way. The next logical step was, of course, to try and knee the guy where it would hurt a man most. Stiles’ foot got two inches off the ground before it was stomped back down. The string of cursing Stiles let out in reply would have impressed a sailor.

A sailor, and, apparently, the Creepy Crawly of the week. He looked suitably admiring of Stiles’ coarse language. Come to think of it, they’d been standing here for a good couple minutes while Stiles grappled with the fact that he’d been targeted, instead of Scott, or someone actually valuable to the pack, and the guy hadn’t done anything but tell him to shut up, and stopped him from doing any damage to his valuables. Not as bad as it could have been.

“Would appreciate some indication of what’s going on here. Got a FAQ? Introductory pamphlet? Hi, my name is Creeperpants Mc. Freakazoid, and I am a: Insert whatever creature of the night you are, and how you came to be in possession of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.”

Stiles’ mouth was going a mile a minute, now that his adrenaline was up, and his interest was piqued. He actually raised an eyebrow at the guy, too curious for his own good.

“Seriously. How can they not see us?”

If this was a comic book, there could have been a million and one answers. They were in a whole other dimension. This was all in Stiles’ head. Actual invisibility cloak. The possibilities were endless. But, because this was the real world, there was only answer that would ever be given. And this asshole had to give it in the most smug possible way, smirk and all. “Magic.”

Stiles hoped the long, slow, roll of his eyes displayed just how unimpressed he was. “Yippee.” He drawled. “So, what are you? Witch? Druid? Something new and exciting? The thing from the Black Lagoon?”

Surprise flickered across the man’s face, before it settled back into it’s mask of superiority, and supreme attractiveness. “I’ve been called a witch. And a druid.” A wink that was so much hotter and less corny than any wink had any right to be. “You may call me Morgan. Morgan Le Fay.”

“Yeah, yeah, Bond, James Bond- Wait. Your parents actually named you after Morgana Le Fay? Man, that’s kind of twisted. Or did you chose your own name because you feel oh so connected to your witchy ancestor and-“

Once again Stiles was cut off, although he had a sneaking suspicion that this time, there was a lot more irritation in Morgan’s reprisal. As illustrated by the hand clamped over his mouth. Which he licked. Because he could. The man even tasted sweet. How was that even possible.

“I was told you were smart.” Definitely annoyed. Stiles’ infectious personality strikes again. “I was misinformed. I am Morgan Le Fay. The one, and the only Morgan Le Fay. Guardian of Avalon. Brother to Arthur Pendragon. Father of- Stop that. You’re worse than a child. You’re only humiliating yourself, you know. Fine. Fine! If you have something to say, say it!”

Stiles ceased blowing raspberries into Morgan’s hand the moment it was removed from his mouth. But there was a final, triumphant raspberry blown into the air, before he opened his mouth to talk again.

“So you’re telling me, that you’re Morgana Le Fay. The priestess. Emphasis on priestess. You know. A job for those of the feminine persuasion” If Stiles’ hands weren’t trapped against his sides, he’d be curving them to illustrate his point. But by the disgusted look on Morgan’s face, he was clear enough.

“I was female in the days of Camelot. Now I am male.” He shrugged lightly. “Changes by the day, changes by the decade. It’s of no consequence. I did not come here to discuss gender constructs. I came here to discuss your future.”

Loud snickering was enough to tell everyone what Stiles thought of that. “The Great Morgan Le Fey. Glorified fortune teller. Gotta say, dude, I kind of expected more.”

The expression that got out of Morgan was familiar enough to be comforting. The face that said ‘You’d better call a dentist, because one more word out of you and I am going to knock those pearly whites right out of your skull’. It reminded him of Derek. Man, he missed Derek right now. He could use some of that brute strength and rip you to shreds mentality. But because Stiles believed that this was, actually, the Morgan Le Fey of legend, and therefore the person responsible for the downfall of the Legendary Camelot, and not some delusional nut job escaped from the mental ward, like him, he shut up. After all. Weirder things had happened.

“You are an incredibly lucky boy. And an incredibly infuriating one.” If only Stiles could bow and wait for applause. Sadly, still against the wall. “You’ve been claimed by the Winter Court, The Unseelie Fae folk, and those that made you. You will come of age in a week and then- you may come home.”

He was smiling like he’d just granted Stiles the scholarship of a lifetime, or done something else, equally as charitable and generous. Stiles just gaped at him. Gaped a little while longer. Reevaluated his stance on if this guy was a nut job. Looked for any stray hospital bands. Finally brought his eyes back up, and his mouth to a close.

“Look, dude, I don’t know what magic mushrooms you are on, but, one, pretty sure my mom and dad made me, and two, got a home. Very comfortable. Got a pretty solid butt indent in my couch.”

Disdain had never been so gloriously attractive. Morgan looked like a Supermodel, even as he regarded Stiles like he was scum of the earth, stuck to his shoe. “Haven’t you ever wondered, why your name feels so wrong? Michael. Not as hard to pronounce as you tell everyone. But it just doesn’t feel like yours, does it? That’s why you needed to go by your nickname. Because you’re not Michael Stilinski, no matter how hard you try to be.” His voice was a purr. Stiles’ back had straightened, and chills were dipping up and down his spine. “Or why you settled in so very easily, to the rhythm of a Supernatural world? It would drive most humans mad. Have you ever wondered about your propensity for trouble? The way mischief follows you. Your affinity for the woods, how you know your way around as though you belong there.”

Stop it. It’s not true. The words didn’t make it out of Stiles’ mouth. Morgan just kept going, his voice hypnotic. Horrifying. “Humans don’t belong in the woods, Michael. Humans don’t have a spark like yours. Humans, don’t belong in the Faery Courts. But you do. Like all Changelings do.”

It was all in a rush, too fast. One blink to another, and then Stiles was on the ground, crumpled up, like his legs wouldn’t support his body even if he tried to get back on his feet. Morgan wiped his hands on his jeans as if to brush off the disgusting feel of Stiles’ skin. “I’ll return for you when you turn eighteen. Happy Birthday, Stiles.” Another blink, another heartbeat, and he was gone.

The floor was sticky. And colder than he’d thought it would be, because Stiles was shaking like it was twenty degrees, instead of balmy California weather, let alone the humid heat of a club packed tight with bodies. Someone offered him a hand, their voice piercing through the bubble around him that had been drowning out every sound but his own ragged breathing. “You okay buddy?” He slapped the hand away. Stood up on legs that shook like a newborn fawns.

Unlike the rest of him, his voice was steady. “I’m fine. I’m okay.” Like he could make himself believe it, if he said it with enough conviction. He pushed away. Through the crowd, bumping against sweaty shoulders, feet slipping on spilled drinks, weaving through to the door, to burst out of the club to draw in lungful after lungful of air, heady with smoke from cigarettes and vapes.

It was like his skin was too tight, like there was a heavy weight in his stomach, weighing him down. Inhale smoke and night air. Exhale everything else. Everything that was making him too full and buzzing with tension. It didn’t work.

Still, Stiles managed to stumble all the way over to his jeep. The way he was shuffling around, feet scuffing against the concrete must have made him look like Frankenstein, not quite recovered from the rigor mortis. Stiles didn’t care, as long as he could wedge himself into a familiar space, put his hands on a powder blue hood, wrench open a familiar squeaky door, bury his face in a dashboard that still smelled like the pepper spray he’d spilled all over it, that night at the drive in with a horror movie playing, when he edged over to the wrong side of paranoid and mistook a tree for a demon coming to suck his soul out through his eyeballs. His jeep, was like home.

He probably wasn’t alright to drive. Not with the way his breath stuttered. With how his lungs felt coated in lead, hard to move, hard to fill up. Not with the way his hands trembled so hard on the wheel they might as well be vibrating. But those same shaking fingers fit just right into the well worn grooves of the wheel. And he knew how to rev Roscoe up just right, so his car spluttered to life. He knew just how fast he could go without overheating the engine, knew every pothole in every road of this town. And most importantly, he knew all the potholes on the road to Derek Hale’s house like they were old friends.

Why Derek Hale, one might ask? Why go to the grumpiest of all werewolves, instead of driving home, burying himself in a nest of blankets and trying to convince himself that this was all a nightmare? Why Derek Hale, instead of Scott McCall, Alpha Extraordinaire, best friend that Stiles could ever ask for? Why Derek Hale, who was more likely to introduce Stiles to the wall and leave him with a tattoo in bruises, spelling ‘Go away’, than to actually sit down with him, help him keep calm, and offer sage advice? Simple. Because when Stiles was about to get into a fight, the first person he wanted on his side, was Derek.

Derek was tough. And not just in the way everyone knew. Sure, he was skilled at turning scary of the week into sashimi with his claws, and he was definitely harder to kill than a Terminator. But he was also just- tough. He rolled with the punches. And Stiles had to give it to him- the man took more punches than anyone else in the pack.

When he needed to be safe, he went to Derek. Because sure. Scott would ride in on a white horse, and take care of business. But the problem with Scott, was how good he was. If he could avoid it, he wouldn’t so much as snip a hair off the head of their enemies. Scott didn’t want to hurt anyone. He wanted to save the world. And that was good and all. It was great, actually. Everyone needed a moral compass, and Scott was there to point them due North. He was a shining example of a Leader. And Stiles didn’t feel safe, with just that. With just good. Not anymore.

Not since he’d become not good. He’d always dabbled a little, in the grey. Always sympathized with the bad guys in books and movies. Always thought that, if it was him, he’d do it too. He’d kill and he’d ruin, and he’d go evil, if it meant protecting what he cared about the most. And then it was him. And that was exactly what he did. He fought dirty, he fought to the death, and for the most part, he managed to keep his people alive. And if all it took to do that was blood on his hands- who cared? Scott did. Derek didn’t.

Derek would be on his side. He’d say that Stiles was right to be drawing up a plan of attack already. He’d plan with Stiles. Scott would smile that puppy dog smile, thank god that Stiles wasn’t hurt, and try to smooth things over. Try to talk it out. Stiles could hear it already. ‘He didn’t even hurt you Stiles. And he could have. So he can’t be all bad. No one’s all bad’. Scott was wrong. Some people were all bad. And maybe Morgan wasn’t some people. But Stiles wasn’t about to take his chances.

Stiles loved Scott for being Scott. But it wasn’t Scott he needed. It wasn’t good and right that he needed. It was Derek Hale, with his bull headed stubbornness, his determination to keep everyone alive, and his unflinching way of doing what needed to be done. So instead of Scott’s house, smelling of Melissa’s carnadas and Scott’s disgusting protein shake, Stiles’ knuckles were rapping against the door of the loft, so loud that a neighbor, one floor down, yowled at him to shut up, that some people had work tomorrow and needed their sleep. And when Derek opened the door, it looked like he wholeheartedly agreed.

Slouchy sweats hung low on Derek’s hips. His hair was sleep mussed, flatter on one side than the other. And he had telltale red lines on his face, probably from sleeping on the very edge of a pillow. His eyes weren’t quiet open, and it looked like his mouth would only open to take a bite out of Stiles’ carotid artery. Apparently Stiles would be doing the talking. Not so different from any other day. Except for the Morgan Le Fay, You’re a fairy Stiles, thing. No biggie.

“So I’m Harry Potter. I mean, they didn’t have the courtesy to send letters or anything, and it wasn’t Hagrid it was Morgan knocking my door down, or, y’know, shoving me up against a wall, you guys would get along great, by the way. And I’m a fairy and something about the Unseelie court and that can’t be real, maybe I’m going crazy, maybe I’m-“

It wasn’t even the dazed and confused look on Derek’s face that made Stiles shut up. It wasn’t the fact that he knew he was talking too fast, too much shooting off words like bullets, letting out everything in his head in rapid fire bursts of Stiles speak. It wasn’t even that he realized how insane he must sound. It was just- he was tired of thinking. He was tired of his head going a mile a minute. And he needed Derek to take it from here. “Do I smell human?”

Because Derek would know, wouldn’t he? He could tell a Kitsune from a Werewolf, he could smell emotions, for Christ’s sake, surely, surely he could tell if Stiles was human or not. Stiles almost flinched at the desperation in his voice, as he brushed into Derek’s space, shoving himself forward. “Come on, bloodhound. Take a good whiff and tell me I smell human.”