Chapter Text
The Fae call him The Little Human Who Runs From His Own Name. Stiles thinks it’s a little dramatic and that they should at least shorten it to Little Human. According to the Faerie guards, however, they’re as dedicated to the mouthful of his newly bestowed name as he is dedicated to running. Whatever the fuck that means. Stiles’ days of running for his life are long behind him.
All the bestiaries Stiles has stumbled across have conflicting information on dealing with faeries or fairies or Fae—none of them even agreeing on an official title for the supernatural folk. The one common agreement from dozens of first-hand accounts is to never, ever, ever refuse a gift from the Fae-faeries-fairies.
No one mentioned anything about being dished a curse and the proper etiquette of dealing with such a situation. Unless you counted Sleeping Beauty and the needle-curse-thing. Stiles had only seen the movie version of the tale, the live-action one with Angelina Jolie, and all he remembers is having an uncomfortable boner for the bird dude. So, Stiles takes the lack of bestiary warning as a green light to complain to his heart’s content. It may be important to note that he’s also a little drunk still and running on near-death-experience adrenaline. Besides, he is already being cursed, how much worse can it get? (Probably a lot worse, but hey, Stiles may be intelligent but he’s never claimed to not be an idiot).
He hasn’t been killed yet, which he takes as a good sign. That might be due to Stiles having saved Fae royalty, as you do, while trying to get laid at a gay bar. It’s not Stiles’ fault that the very pretty man turned out to be the Fae Queen’s long-lost great-great-great-grandson. He never would have followed the guy outside if he’d known.
It started out with delicious neck kissing which turned into Stiles nearly having his throat ripped out. Assuming the guy was a variation of an incubus species, Stiles stabbed him (thank you paranoia for the knife in his boot even when looking for a good fuck). Once Stiles’ bad luck gets going, it keeps coming, so of course he ended up with an ambush of creatures coming for the guy who tried snacking on Stiles’ neck. Stiles then killed what turned out to be the Fae Prince’s captors—five nasty creatures with teeth in their eyes. Teeth. In their eyes. TEETH.
Stiles should be drowning in Fae favors.
Except the whole stabbing the Queen’s favorite grandchild turned out to be a big no-no. Thus, favor: not being killed for the stabbing and back-talking. Curse: to be determined.
“Stiles,” the Queen states. A tug pulls sharply in Stiles’ chest and he gasps like the handful of other times she’d said his name. Predictably, she says his birth name next, “Mieczysław.”
Another tug pulls from his sternum, the force almost identical to his nickname, maybe a little stronger. The Fae Court flittering behind the Queen tutts at his reactions.
“You are a runner, indeed,” the Queen says. Her eyes twinkle with dark amusement, flashing from honey-brown to black. Her wings flutter lazily behind her as she circles him. “How does one hold power over someone with two names split in equal measure of truth? You are clever even when you do not know it.” She flits back to her original placement in front of him. “I am quite taken with you, my Little Human Who Runs From His Own Name.”
Stiles tries not to think about The Human being changed to my Human. He latches onto a glimmer of hope. “If you’re quite taken with me, maybe we can pull back on this whole curse thing? Because that would be, you know, really great. Very, uh…generous of you.”
That backfires immediately. The previously amused guards stiffen. Good work, Stiles.
The Queen’s wings flutter rapidly until her feet are a few feet off the floor. “Are you saying I am not a generous Queen?”
Stiles cringes. “No! No, I mean, yes, I mean—you’re a very generous Queen!”
The Queen’s wings relax from their flurry and her tiptoes brush back down against the floor. She hums. “My grandson should have taken you as a consort. Ah, well, it is what it is. Unfortunate as it seems, I tire of this dilly-dallying. A curse and off you go.”
“But—”
The Queen huffs. Stiles’ mouth closes with the wave of her dainty hand. The doors to the side of the court room burst open and six minuscule faeries carry in a large golden pot.
“Oh my god, I’m going to be human soup,” Stiles says. Giggles surround the court—guards once again at ease—as if Stiles hadn’t nearly had his throat ripped out a few hours ago from their beloved Prince. How silly of him to assume they’d want more of his delicious flesh! Clearly, they do have a taste for human, so could they stop fronting, please.
The tiny faeries lie the pot behind Stiles. He twists his neck for a glimpse. It’s filled to the brim with a thick, milky substance. The rippling liquid has squiggles of what looks like clock hands twirling nonsensically under the surface.
“Pip, pip, my Little Human Who Runs From His Own Name. You cannot run from time if you are Time. Or a bit of it, to be precise. I will even be generous and place you in a dimension where you can still save your little friends.” The Queen’s pleased smile twists into a toothy grin as she grips Stiles’ shirt and yanks him forward. Her black eyes glow honey-brown. “You will not strip your name of its power in half again. You are Mieczysław.”
With that final command, the Queen pushes Stiles. He falls, flailing into the thick, sticky substance of the Clock Pot.
⇤ ⇤ ⇤
Stiles throws up cogs and clock hands for a good half-hour on an abandoned dirt road. The contents of his vomit sink and disappear into the soil without a trace, along with the silvery substance that dribbles past Stiles’ lips. He’s always loved Ron Weasley to an obsessive degree but he feels an especially strong kinship to the redhead right now. At least Stiles isn’t hacking up slugs.
A long stream of gears pour out his throat, clanking against his teeth, and for a few moments Stiles is positive he’s going to choke and die.
When it comes to an end, the last clock hand dissolving into the road, Stiles slumps onto the ground, moaning, “Magic sucks balls.” It’s not fair—the ball-sucking was supposed to happen at the bar and in a very satisfying context with sexy consent and absolute distraction from the fuckery of the supernatural world.
“Never trust a pretty face,” Stiles tells the dirt as darkness grasps at the edges of his vision and pulls him under.
➠ ➠ ➠
Stiles wakes up to something nudging his foot. He groans and refuses to open his eyes and face the day. Fuck, what had he done last night? He remembers scrolling through Scott’s Instagram and wondering if he was willing to risk dipping his toes back in the supernatural world. Based on the spectacular hangover drilling through his skull, he’s assuming his decision had been an enthusiastic no. Man, he’s getting too old to drink his problems away. Is twenty-five old? It feels old. In high school, Stiles had thought it would be a miracle if he made it to the ripe age of eighteen.
Ugh, there goes the thing nudging Stiles’ foot. It feels like someone’s shoe. Vague memories of the local gay bar swim to the front of his mind. Did he take someone home? No, he’s definitely not lying on a bed. Or on wood floors. Or on a carpet. Oh, god, is he lying on dirt? Did he black out on a road?
“Kid?”
That has Stiles opening his eyes and springing forward. Looming above Stiles in the harsh morning light is his very much alive father—dressed in rumpled clothes and looking decades younger. He frowns at Stiles without a hint of recognition in his eyes.
“Oh, fuck, time,” Stiles remembers and promptly curls over to throw up.