teen wolf/the 10th kingdom fusion/crossover
“You don’t trust nobody.”
“I don’t trust you, no.”
“Well, you may not get hurt, but huff puff, you won’t get loved either.”
Part 1 of 8
Of all the things Stiles was expecting when he poked his head into the kitchen, seeing his grandmother perched on a baking sheet, tied up and surrounded by potatoes was not one of them.
His jaw fell open and his mouth managed to form the question, “Grandmother?”
The scene began to make an inkling of sense to his sleep-addled brain when a man whose looks were dancing along the fine live of ‘serial killer’ and ‘warning: eye contact will cause creaming sensation in pants’ stalked out of the walk-in pantry and began to grind pepper over the old woman’s head.
The gears in Stiles’ brain immediately began to whirl into action, his first cohesive thought being there was no way his grandmother was going to fit in the oven. This was closely trailed by, ‘Holy shit, I’m witnessing cannibalism in a New York City highrise!’
The creaming pants look was firmly knocked out of place by the serial killer label.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing to my grandmother?!”
The man froze, clearly not expecting anyone to barge in on his breakfast preparations. His head turned slightly and whoa. Alright, so maybe the creaming sensation still applied a little. And that in itself was pretty damn terrifying considering the psycho didn’t look nearly remorseful enough for being caught red-handed in his actions.
“…You’re beautiful.”
Stiles frowned, confusion flooding his indignation. “Excuse me?”
“You — Stiles, right?” The cannibal did a double-take at the pepper grinder in his hand and quickly put it down. He even went as far as to give his elderly victim a friendly pat on the head while stepping around the large table. “I saw a picture of you at your father’s place and caught whiffs of your scent, but in person you’re…” pale eyes roamed over Stiles’ face and down his form, “…overwhelming.”
Stiles’ hand shot out and felt blindly along the wall until he managed to grip the closest thing that could be construed as a weapon.
“Down boy! Stay back!” he ordered, brandishing the broom as if he know how to use it for more than its intended purpose of sweeping. And even that use was fairly iffy in his mind.
His attacker paused, staring passed the broom at Stiles as he cocked his head and smirked. “You really think something like that could stop me from getting what I want?”
“Maybe.” Stiles’ gaze flickered from the man to the broom. “I used to play T-ball when I was little; I could still have a decent swing. I guess it all depends on what you want.”
The man’s smile fell and he continued forward, not stopping until the broom’s bristles were pressed into his dark grey shirt. The smell of new leather from his jacket overwhelmed Stiles’ senses.
“You, Stiles.” The man’s stare dropped down to his lips. “I want you.”
Tongue running over his bottom lip, Stiles came to a quick conclusion and did the only sensible thing one could do in this scenario.
He turned tail and ran.
-
Reyn