The tale of Little Red Riding Hood and the Terrible Wolf. ❤️‍🔥😍🍎

(sneak preview)

It’s Saturday. Derek’s tired. He’s been working hard, non-stop for the past month. Competitions aren't easy and he knows if he wants to win he has to keep at it until the very end. There's only one more day left. After tomorrow he can relax again for a bit, before another event comes up. And yes he's in high demand. He knows people count on him a lot, to help them get through the day, to help them feel better, to unite the masses. And he's cool with that, he understands how much he means to people, but sometimes he wishes he didn't have to work so hard to be recognized and accepted. He wishes everyone would just accept him for who and what he is because then things would be so much easier. Life would flow easily, but again it's gonna take a lot of work to get there, which is why he's always tired lately. And therefore the minute he reaches his apartment the first thing he's gonna do is collapse on his bed and sleep for as many hours as he can manage while the world rages on around him.

Except that when he gets into the elevator of his building a scent hits him, strong and somewhat familiar, and he wonders why the heck it's all over the elevator like it's trying to claw its way under his skin. But he's too exhausted to pinpoint exactly who it belongs to. He knows he recognises it but he really can't be bothered to match smells to faces right now when at least five hours of pure uninterrupted sleep await him. The elevator dings signalling his floor, the doors ping open and he steps out, making his way silently to the door of his studio.

His senses immediately alert him to another presence in the vicinity. The fact that his door opens without him using the keys confirms that whoever it is is in his apartment. God, can't he ever just catch a break? He's totally not in the mood to deal with a burglar or burglars if the guy brought friends. His bag drops on the floor in the hallway next to the console table in the foyer before he shuts the door behind him, pulling the chain and bolting the deadlock. He doesn't even want to think about how they managed to open the door without smashing the deadbolt to get in because it's still perfectly in tact.

As he walks into the living room area two things catch his attention: the smell of freshly made, steaming hot curly fries wafting from the kitchen to his right and an obnoxious red hoodie draped over the back of his couch. Derek growls lowly as Stiles Stilinski walks out from the direction of his den with one of the old Hale family journals in his hand. He feels his claws extend on reflex.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Stiles jumps like it's the Devil himself standing there in a neon yellow bustier and fierce pink hula skirt twirling rainbow pom poms. Like he didn't realise Derek's been standing there glaring daggers at his head.

"Nice to see you too Stale," Stiles replies in that annoying blase tone of his that makes Derek want to rush over and slap him in the face.

Derek's not amused by Stiles's unwelcome presence on his territory or by the childish and rather stupid nickname. He's never been amused by Stiles's "clever" brainchild of StupidSourHale: Stale, not even when curly fries are less than a few feet away from him and calling to his blood. The smell is doing ridiculous things to him and he wants nothing more than to throw the guy out on his ass so he can stuff himself full of the hot, salty goodness.

Realizing a greeting in return isn't forthcoming from Derek, Stiles shrugs and walks off into the kitchen. Derek stares in stunned amazement as the man heads to his refrigerator and starts taking stuff out to make a sandwich? What the hell? Which alternate dimension did he step into on exiting the elevator?

"I'm gonna make a sandwich, you want one?" like breaking into people's houses to raid their food supplies and help himself is a usual occurrence.

"No I don't want a fucking sandwich! I want to know what the fuck you're doing here and why the hell you broke into my apartment?!" Derek snarls with as much restraint as he can muster which isn't much really.

Stiles perks one eyebrow from the counter where he's slicing tomatoes with disturbing precision and surprising finesse, and spreading mayo over a slice of bread.

"I don't have a key and did you see any signs of forceful entry? Also, you seem to have a penchant for that word 'fuck'. Anything you wanna tell me Der?" and he stresses that last part teasingly like he's talking to an errant child who just told a lie.

The growl that escapes him isn't lost on Stiles who's always had a death wish anyways but still raises his hands in surrender.