Work Text:
I live for the applause, applause, applause
I live for the applause-plause, live for the applause-plause
Live for the way that you cheer and scream for me
The applause, applause, applause
- “Applause” by Lady Gaga / [02]
*
Life was oftentimes funny and went in unexpected ways.
When Stiles’ mom died, neither he nor his dad expected that the resulting trauma would trigger latent magical abilities—nor that it would lead to him needing to go off to be trained by the premier magical expert on the West Coast. Didn’t expect, either, that Derek Hale would become his best friend as Stiles took classes at the adjacent high school that the ‘wolf attended university at as a resident freshman.
Didn’t expect, either, that a rogue supernatural hunter would decide to target the Hale pack because of their various connections to the world at large, nor did either he or Derek expect that both Talia and Laura had left the family business to him. Didn’t expect that Derek would be surprisingly good at economics and business management, and no one certainly expected that the magazine would actually thrive, let alone Derek himself.
(And Stiles himself never let go of the irony that Derek’s mother and older sister had left a softcore porn magazine to him as part of his inheritance.)
But life was oftentimes funny and went in unexpected ways and though Stiles still desperately missed his mom and Derek felt the loss of his pack like an open-gaping wound that wouldn’t ever heal… the newly-turned nineteen year-old was glad that the dominoes had fallen in such a way to bring the hazel-eyed older man into his life. Despite how prickly Derek could sometimes be, Stiles knew that his life would be that much poorer without the Sourwolf in it.
“Hey, so, I brought take-out from that one Phở place you wanted to try across town—because you never actually take the lunch breaks you’re supposed to, Derek, and I, being your amazingly thoughtful best friend, decided to see to your basic needs because you are unable to do so yourself,” Stiles announced as he breezed through Derek’s office doorway, closing the door behind himself.
(Just before it shut, Derek could see the long-suffering expression of his secretary, Maevis. She’d given up trying to stop Stiles from gaining entrance after his fourth visit to the building and had since labeled his visits on Derek’s calendar as the older man being occupied with handling the resident Force of Nature. The ‘wolf very deliberately did not mention this to Stiles because the teen would most likely be flattered by it all.)
Shifting his attention from his vaguely murderous secretary to his best friend, Derek raised an eyebrow and tried to ignore the fact that his nose flared in definite interest at the smells coming from Stiles’ carry-out bag. “You know, your overly invested interest in other people’s health is the real reason why your dad conveniently forgets to let you know when he has a doctor’s appointment coming up.”
“Which doesn’t really matter because I already have a mole set up in the sheriff’s department,” the teen answered glibly with a careless wave of a hand as he set the heavy bag on the edge of Derek’s desk, almost immediately pulling out various delicious-smelling containers.
“Please don’t ever turn to a life of crime. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you actually did, but no government in the world will ever be able to catch you and that’s a headache I don’t want to deal with as your best friend,” Derek sighed with a slight shake of his head, scooting his office chair closer to watch as Stiles began the final prep work necessary on the several dishes he’d ordered for the both of them.
“Oh, please. Like you aren’t already vaguely aware of my not-always-legal—legal adjacent?—business practices with the shop.”
“Shut up before I become an accessory to a crime,” the ‘wolf ordered with an amused snort (again, not like it was actually a surprise being told this) and broke apart the chopsticks that Stiles had previously handed over to him.
The teen flashed the older man a quicksilver bright grin, too sharp and mischief-laden to ever really be something safe, and promptly dug into his own bowl of soup. “So,” Stiles began as he slurped up a messy mouthful of noodles. “What’s gotten you all tied up in knots and grumpier than usual, anyway? You’re typically able to drag yourself away from your desk to meet me for lunch at least once a week and Maevis has been muttering dire consequences if a potential photoshoot ends up falling through every time I call to check up on you.”
(Which was not often despite how Derek’s dubious expression claimed otherwise.)
Instead, the CEO sighed in irritation and brought up a hand to rub at the point of pressure that had abruptly started throbbing on his forehead. “Don’t worry about it, Stiles—it’s nothing. It’s company-related and I’m… handling it.”
“Lie,” the whiskey-eyed boy stated as he slurped up another mouthful of noodles, and Derek was abruptly reminded of how irritated humans usually found it when weres and other supernaturals did the same exact thing to them. He sighed again and gave Stiles a resigned look, knowing that the teen could be like a dog with a bone and had no intention of dropping things so long as it was obvious that Derek was dealing with some sort of problem.
“The model dropped out of the upcoming photoshoot after finding out that he’d be pairing with my uncle,” the ‘wolf muttered bitterly and bit viciously at piece of meat to release some of the pent-up frustration.
Stiles’ eyebrows lifted in surprise and he quickly chewed his current mouthful of food to ask, “Your uncle? Uncle Peter? The one that’s usually in New York at the East Coast offices with Cora?”
Derek shrugged a shoulder and moved the chopsticks through the broth. “Cora’s decided that she wants to transfer out to Berkley, and Uncle Peter has decided to relocate here again. Unfortunately, his reputation is preceding him and not even the three grand we’re offering for the photoshoot is enough to get a model to stay.”
At hearing the amount of money that Derek was actually offering to pay someone for one temporary job, Stiles choked on his noodles and began wheezing for breath as he went into a coughing fit. “Three? Three grand? Three thousand dollars??”
Three thousand dollars would be enough to pay for his rent for the next few months. Or—pay for the upcoming month and give Stiles a chance to buy some of the more advanced books on magical theory that Elder Potter was willing to let Stiles borrow but not keep. Being able to buy his own copies… Stiles’ fingers twitched in almost immediate booklust.
“I’ll do it,” Stiles announced.
Derek immediately began to look alarmed and went into damage control, knowing how this conversation would likely end and wanting to do anything to avoid it. “Stiles—no—it’s fine. We still have time to find a model, things are still manageable, you do not want to deal with the frustration of Uncle Peter during a shoot, you don’t need to sacrifice yourself to help fix one of my problems—“
“Nessa has been bugging you to get me to agree to a contract, anyway, and has been since I turned eighteen,” Stiles interrupted before Derek could gear himself up and transition into more concrete arguments. “Don’t try to deny it; I know everything. So it’ll be killing a couple of birds with one stone: Nessa will get off your back about it and will stop bringing it up to you every staff meeting, you’ll have a guaranteed model for the photoshoot with your uncle, I’ll have a way to supplement my income to be able to afford school, rent, and the books I need for my training, and you already know that I don’t scare easy, Sourwolf. Win-win-win, all around.”
The ‘wolf stared at his best friend, already know that he was going to cave to both his own sense of desperation and the decimation that Stiles always left behind whenever he approached a problem, but—
“I’m going to regret this,” Derek muttered as his headache increased.
Stiles’ answering grin just went razor-blade fine, and the CEO foretold his own doom within its curve.
*
It wasn’t always his fault, but Stiles… tended to make an entrance. It tended to be accompanied with him tripping over air as he stepped into a room, but he and Derek had had their fair share of adventures while Stiles was training under Elder Potter, and Derek had the suspicion that some of the more dramatic entrances had been fully intentional and deliberately done.
(“Ride of the Valkyries” suddenly blaring from a hunter’s cell phone before Stiles—literally—kicked down the door of the room that Derek was being held in? Not subtle.)
So when Stiles tripped over nothing and went tumbling into the room that the photoshoot was being held in, Derek wasn’t exactly surprised--especially since Stiles was in yet another growth spurt and he’d been complaining several days before that his teacher had him working on rituals that left him feeling woozy and off for at least a week. So, no: Derek wasn’t surprised, but it unfortunately meant that Peter was given a less than impressive impression of his would-be modelling partner.
“Really, nephew?” the glacier-eyed man drawled, glancing from the newcomer to Derek and gifting his packmate a Look. “Out of all of the potential models you could have tracked down for me, you had to go with the gangly-limbed twelve year-old?”
Stiles’ eyes narrowed as he stepped up to the small group and, at seeing his best friend’s expression, Derek realized that anything that followed was what he had done to himself: the ‘wolf really should have known better.
“And you must be the Uncle Douchecanoe,” Stiles shot back, grin wide and friendly and purposefully baring his teeth as he met Peter’s rapidly sharpening gaze. “I mean, your reputation speaks for itself but, even then, I wasn’t expecting to literally meet Satan in a V-neck.”
“You must be Stiles,” the older ‘wolf murmured, gaze flaring predatory interest.
“If I must be, then I suppose I am,” the teen chirped in answer, smile broadening into nothing less than a threat, a gauntlet thrown.
Peter’s eyes burned that much brighter.
*
“Tell me a little bit about yourself, Stiles. We’re going to become intimately close over the course of the next several hours; we should get to know each other during the passing time,” Peter murmured as he leaned in closer, pressing pointedly into Stiles’ personal bubble, as nimble fingers carefully began to work the teen’s buttons from their holes.
Stiles smiled up sweetly at Peter, ignoring the rapidfire clicking of the photographer’s camera, and shifted just enough to hook a foot behind the ‘wolf’s ankle, throwing Peter off balance just enough to give the amber-eyed boy leverage for the push that sent Peter sprawling over the photoshoot’s mock bedroom.
“Well,” the teen began and pulled himself up atop the comforter, knees bracketing the outside of the ‘wolf’s thighs. “I suppose that I should start off by letting you know that this is my first modeling job. I figure that you’ll like knowing that you—hmm—popped this particular cherry.” Peter suddenly grinned at Stiles’ words, sharp and bright and appreciative, and the older man reached over to slid the palms of his hands over surprisingly muscled thighs.
Stiles began knee-walking up the length of Peter’s body, and the other eventually shifted his hold to hook possessive fingers in the teen’s beltloops, tugging to encourage Stiles closer still. The whiskey-eyed boy paused his movements then, purposefully contrary, and continued with his almost absentminded introduction as he began working at Peter’s shirt’s row of tiny buttons.
“Derek is my best friend and has been since I was fourteen. We met at a supernatural mixer that the university held between the college and the high school, and there he was—huddled up in the corner of the room, trying to be one with the wallpaper, brooding and glaring like nobody’s business at anyone who even thought of coming closer. Of course, I took one look at the Sourwolf and thought That dude could use a friend—and you know what? You are an excellent friend, Stiles Stilinski. This guy won’t know what hit him.”
The last button came undone, shirt sides falling tantalizingly open, and Stiles offered the ‘wolf a sly smile as he slowly traced the faint line of hair from the top of Peter’s pants to just beneath the other’s navel.
“Of course,” Stiles murmured, continuing and pretending to not notice how Peter’s eyes were slowly beginning to flare neon blue with every teasing touch, “it took a while to wear Derek down, but I am nothing if not persistent. Elder Potter disagrees, though, and says that my self-preservation instincts are criss-crossed and potentially short-circuiting.”
Peter’s eyes suddenly widened at Stiles’ words, and the older man reached down to clamp his fingers around the teen’s wrists, keeping Stiles from any further teasing touches. “Elder Potter? From San Francisco? You mean—“
Stiles’ own smile was wolfish, hungry and sharp and with teeth gleaming white, and he twisted in Peter’s hold to pin the older man’s arms above his head while his own gaze—finally—flared Ammolite-bright. His nose nudged Peter’s chin upwards, and Stiles dipped down to scrape his teeth over the solid mass of the ‘wolf’s Adam’s apple.
“Oh, did I forget to mention? I’m also a Spark.”
Peter’s body shuddered beneath Stiles’ slighter weight, almost belatedly processing the boy’s words, and the teen shifted the tilt of his head just enough to smirk smugly up at the lens of the camera that was still pointed their way but suspiciously silent.
The staff members watched the seduction unfold with wide, shocked eyes: Neckz ‘n’ Throats had always been known to have the ‘wolf part of the pair in control, fangs scraping teasingly against bared throats, the vulnerable line of a body—but here, now, Peter lay surprisingly complacent beneath Stiles’ weight, and he arched up as the teen lightly dug his blunt human teeth into the thick line of the older man’s throat.
Peter snarled low in his chest at the feeling of Stiles pressing in so close to the vulnerable line of his neck, but he did nothing to dislodge the teen: instead claw-tipped fingers dug into the winged arches of the other’s hipbones, dragging Stiles closer and down as his own hips slowly rolled upwards.
The ‘wolf had always been a master of manipulating photoshoots to get the best outcome—for himself—from his partners and the photographer and crew. There was nothing vulnerable in his body language in any of his previous spreads, no matter the particular mood they were supposed to invoke. But here, with Stiles—he let himself remain sprawled beneath the teen’s slighter weight, let Stiles run his teeth teasingly along the arch of his Adam’s apple between catching it hungrily and digging in, biting down, hard enough to actually feel, let the boy’s scent—the heady ozone of magic—crash over him until Peter felt glutted on it and still wanted to do nothing more than rub himself in it.
There was a heady sort of high that came with surrounding himself in the boy, and no other previous modeling partner had managed to garner such a reaction from the ‘wolf—and so quickly, too, attention caught the moment that Stiles refused to be intimidated and pretty much called Peter an asshole to his face: unrepentant and almost careless in his insults, and it had been so long since Peter had met someone who was willing to bite back.
--Stiles dug his teeth deeper around the curve of Peter’s Adam’s apple, flash of pearl-white against the pink of his lips and the tan of the ‘wolf’s throat—
And the teen certainly didn’t shy away from biting.
*
Derek stared down at the initial sales numbers for the issue that Stiles and Peter appeared in, fingers curling in over the arm rests of his chair as he realized that he honestly couldn’t count that high and had no idea how to even say it—there were that many commas between the numbers. The CEO huffed a laugh and flopped his head backwards to rest along the chair’s top.
Stiles was going to be absolutely insufferably smug now.
*
“Come have dinner with me, sweet boy,” Peter murmured against the elegant line of the curve of Stiles’ calf; the ‘wolf knelt before the younger man, hands curling possessively around the seemingly delicate curve of Stiles’ ankles, and he looked up to meet the magic user’s half-lidded gaze as Peter shifted in closer to rub a cheek along the inside of Stiles’ thigh, scent-marking and claiming and soaking in the warmth of skin radiating from the thin material of their costumes.
“I don’t know, Peter. What’s in it for me?” the teen asked in turn, offering up a trickster’s smile even as he shifted back in this photoset’s throne: he propped a bare foot along the heavy line of the ‘wolf’s collarbone and the golden crown perched atop his head fell just enough to obscure one whiskey-colored eye.
The ‘wolf snorted in amusement and reached out to grab the undersides of the teen’s thighs, dragging Stiles in closer to press an open mouth to the juncture of hip and thigh. “Isn’t the offer of my company enough of a temptation for you?” he crooned teasingly and rubbed a cheek over the bulge tenting the front of Stiles’ leather pants, goatee rasping loudly in the space that separated them both.
Stiles laughed at that, breath hitching at the pressure as Peter continued his pointed teasing. He reached out, burying pale fingers deep in the thick mess of the ‘wolf’s hair, and coaxed Peter in closer—dipping the older man’s head down as the pale arch of a sharp hipbone was revealed to the camera’s eye; eventually, legs languidly spread to make room for Peter’s bulk, Stiles affectionately commented, “You’re such a narcissistic asshole, Creeper Wolf.”
Peter pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the skin just beneath Stiles’ navel. “That’s not a no.”
“Get us a reservation at Benu, and I’ll say yes.”
The ‘wolf hid his triumphant grin against the crease of Stiles’ thigh.
*
“Lunchtime, Sourwolf!” Stiles caroled as he yet again barreled right past Maevis, more take-out bags juggled between his arms. Derek glanced up at his best friend’s call, glancing at the clock on the wall and jerking back at how late he saw it was—the morning had absolutely flown by and, now that he wasn’t as deeply invested in his paperwork, the ‘wolf finally noticed just how loudly his stomach was protesting its current state.
“Thanks,” Derek started as he reached out to take one of the bags from Stiles’ arms—
And paused when he saw the deep purple bruise that bloomed along the edge of the teen’s collarbone.
“Stiles. Tell me you didn’t.”
Stiles’ answering smile was fox-like, sly and predatory and oh-so pleased with himself. “I absolutely, totally, one hundred percent did.” Pointedly ignoring Derek’s answering groan of horror, the whiskey-eyed magic user blithely continued: “Just think of it this way, Derek: the magazine is thriving, you won’t have to go looking for a modelling partner for the asshole any time soon, and I don’t have to worry about rent, school, or buying more supplies for my journeyman studies. It’s yet again win-win-win all around.”
*
Neckz ‘n’ Throats’ most successful issue came nearly a year and a half later:
Caught & Collared scrawled messily across the cover in a font that was surprisingly similar to Stiles’ own handwriting. The teen stood pressed to Peter’s back, fingers hooked possessively over the thick band of a collar that wrapped around the ‘wolf’s equally thick neck. Stiles’ teeth gleamed at the curved tip of the older man’s ear, lips curled upwards in a trickster’s smug smile, and Peter’s stared the reader down with neon-blue eyes—daring them to actually open the cover to see what spread they had in store this round.
Gold bands shone from both Peter and Stiles’ ring fingers.
::end::