
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13338501.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive
      Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      외모지상주의_|_Lookism
  Relationship:
      Hong_Jae_Yeol_|_Jay/Park_Hyung_Suk_|_Daniel
  Character:
      Hong_Jae_Yeol_|_Jay, Park_Hyung_Suk_|_Daniel, Lee_Eun_Tae_|_Vasco, Lee
      Jin_Sung_|_Zack, Kim_Mi_Jin_|_Mira, Park_Bum_Jae_|_Jace
  Additional Tags:
      Angst_and_Hurt/Comfort, Angst_and_Fluff_and_Smut, Pining, Past_Rape/Non-
      con, Rape, Gang_Rape, Age_Difference, I'm_Sorry, Poor_baby_Daniel, Don't
      worry_he_has_Jay, Please_become_canon, I'll_go_now, bye, I'm_Bad_At
      Tagging
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-11 Updated: 2018-01-14 Chapters: 3/? Words: 4374
****** Stardust ******
by eavchuan
Summary
     Jay is completely head over heels for Daniel and can't possibly
     imagine the world without him. But Daniel isn't as perfect as Jay
     thinks he is.(also Daniel doesn't have two bodies here)
Notes
     First fanfic for this fandom.Enjoy. Also I'm a mess.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Jay had fallen, and he had fallen really hard. He knew that Daniel probably
didn't even notice his affectionate glances, or his subtle movements to catch a
small touch of his creamy, smooth, porcelain skin. Every time he smiled, his
heart would leap, and his stomach would churn in anxiety and the cursed
butterflies that never seemed to leave when Daniel was around. He couldn't ever
imagine Daniel as being someone evil, or having any sort of hate towards
anyone. To him, he was the purest form of an angel on this cursed planet. He
smiled at himself as the said angel had just walked through the door. But there
was something off about Daniel that morning. Jay pursed his lips out and
furrowed his brows in concern. Daniel was sort of "on edge" and seemed to be
closed in on himself. He was staring at the floor the whole way to his spot
next to Zak. Zak merely grunted at his arrival and continued his swooning over
Mira. Daniel then proceeded to lay his head on his desk and covered his head
with his arms. Jay leaned over and before he could tap Daniel on the shoulder
to ask him what was wrong, Yui had already beaten him to it.
"Hey, Danny! Are you okay baby?" He ignored the high pitched ‘baby’ and glanced
at Daniel to hear his response. Daniel looked up from his desk, hiding his face
with his hand.
“I’m okay Yui! Thanks for asking.” he replied then laid back down. Yui looked
at him skeptically but said nothing.
“If you say so..” she answered back and walked to her own group of friends,
chatting away about boys or something. Jay looked back at Daniel with concern,
but before he was able to say anything the teacher walked in and started the
class.
The lecture was boring, as usual, but Jay couldn’t stop giving short worried
glances towards Daniel. During the entire class, Daniel had sat there quietly,
his head in his left hand and his other right hand quickly writing down notes.
Finally when it was over, Jay decided to ask Daniel himself what had been
keeping him from being the cute bubbly boy that he usually was. Jay stood up
and walked to Daniel’s desk waving at him to initiate the conversation. As if
on cue, the butterflies began to flutter with excitement in his stomach making
Jay even more nervous than he already was. Daniel looked up, his hand away from
his face for the first time since he entered the classroom. Jay’s smile slowly
faded when he noticed why he had kept it there. Daniel had a large gash on his
right cheek and a busted lip. His eye was badly bruised and his left hand was
full of minor cuts. Jay gasped and stepped back in shock. Daniel quickly
realized his mistake and placed his hands over his face again. He muttered a
quip ‘sorry’ and vanished from the now empty classroom, toppling his desk on
his way out. Jay stood there in shock but finally came to his senses and chased
after his precious Hyung, his pulse beating rapidly in his neck and his blood
boiling with anger. If he ever found out who did that to Daniel, he would beat
them half to death. He felt butterflies swarm in his stomach again, but for an
entirely different reason.
He ran until he felt his legs would give out when he finally noticed Daniel in
the distance, sitting under a tree. Jay sighed in relief and slowly walked
towards him. He then stopped when he noticed Daniel holding his head, his
shoulders shaking and his body spasming uncontrollably. He then heard his tear
jerking sobs, his throat sounding raw and cracked. Jay felt his heart clench
and almost began bawling himself. Daniel continued to cry out, grabbing at his
disheveled clothes and proceeding to almost tear out his hair. Jay winced at
the scene and crept closer to him..5..4…3 more feet. Daniel suddenly looked up,
his face flushed with tears staining his cheeks and eyes. He looked utterly
surprised to see Jay and hurriedly covered his face once again.
“D-don’t L-L-Look-!” he hiccupped out, before coughing wildly. Jay could only
look in despair as his Angel shattered into pieces, right before his eyes. He
felt like embracing him, and before he knew it, he was hugging the poor male.
“J-jay! D-Don’t! I’m D-dirty! M-my body-” the boy wailed out, clutching onto
Jay’s back, defying his words. Jay’s face flushed, feeling Daniel’s chest
against his but he quickly became angered at himself. How could he be thinking
like this when Daniel was sobbing in his arms?? Jay shook his head violently
and held Daniel tighter. They stayed like that until Daniel finally had relaxed
and had fallen asleep in Jay’s arms. Jay smiled against the sleeping boy’s
ruffled hair, feeling his face grow warm. He was Daniel’s savior, and was not
going to let anyone or anything harm him again. Daniel’s arms tightened around
Jay’s waist and Jay returned the favor.
***** Urges *****
Chapter Summary
     {{Maybe you're the missing piece Iv'e been looking for}
Chapter Notes
     New chapter, as promised.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Jae didn’t know what to do. He had mindlessly decided to carry the sleeping boy
to his house, planning on asking him why he had such a bad breakdown. But now
that the gorgeous male was here, in his home, sleeping on HIS bed he couldn't
even think correctly. How was he going to ask him a question? Jae sighed for
almost the hundredth time that day and sat down on the floor. He pondered over
the recent events. What had Daniel meant when he said that he was ‘dirty’? His
clothes was completely clean and he didn't really smell “odd”. While thinking,
he didn’t hear the rustling of the bedsheets as Daniel stirred awake.
 
“Jae?” he jumped at the angelic voice and looked at Daniel. His hair was
ruffled and his eyes were swollen from all the crying he had done earlier.
Daniel reached up to touch his now bandaged face and stared at Jae in shock.
 
“Did you do this for me? You know you don't have to-"
Jae interrupted him with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand.
“It’s no problem?”
He nodded.
“But I'm in your house..”
He shook his head and smiled.
“You don't mind? Okay if you say so..” Daniel finished his one sided dialogue
with Jae and looked down at his hands. Jay gulped and stared at him from the
floor. It always amazed him how Daniel could understand him so well, even if he
never even spoke a word to him. He was completely worried for Daniel and he
still had no idea how he was going to bring up that disaster from a few hours
ago. He scratched his head, glancing down at his marble floor. Daniel removed
the blankets from his body and sat at the edge of the bed staring blankly at
the wall. Jae watched his moves carefully, wanting to read every bit of his
body language. Daniel let out a long sigh, than looked at Jae. Jae’s heart
ached at the completely shattered look on his face. Daniel opened and closed
his mouth, deciding whether to talk or not.
 
“I…” he began to say, than bit his lip. Jay, meanwhile, was observing
everything from his criss cross applesauce position on the floor. He stared at
Daniel anxiously, waiting for him to speak again. Daniel huffed in annoyance
and pouted at his inability to say what he wanted to.
 
so..cute.  Jay covered his mouth with his hand and tried his best to hide his
growing blush. Daniel opened his mouth but then closed it again when he heard a
knock at the door. Jay looked back in annoyance as the door opened up to reveal
his butler.
 
“I have lunch- oh excuse me, did I interrupt something?” the elder man asked.
Jae nodded his head but was ignored as Daniel welcomed the butler in.
 
“It’s okay mister! I’m actually pretty hungry right now. Jay is it okay for me
to have something to eat?” there was a momentary silence in the room, until Jay
finally nodded. Daniel smiled at him and grabbed one of the sandwiches from the
tray the butler was holding. He slowly bit into the sandwich, his eyes
brightening at the taste. Jay watched him gobble up the sandwich and reach for
another one, offering it to him. Jay simply declined kindly and ogled in
amazement as Daniel gulped the second sandwich down in one bite. After he was
done eating, Jay dismissed the butler. The room was back to just Daniel and
him. Jay stood up from the floor and took a seat next to Daniel on the bed.
Daniel glanced up at him and tried to smile, but it came out more like a
grimace. Jay cringed at his attempt and looked at his hands. What should he
say?
 
“Jay..I have something to tell you..it’s important..” Jay perked up and looked
at Daniel, all his attention simply on the boy in front of him. Daniel looked
away in nervousness, his hands beginning to tremble slightly.
 
“I..I..” Jay sat quietly. He looked down at Daniel’s shaking hands playing with
the ends of the bedsheet. Jay reached over and placed his hand over his
trembling fingers with a calm smile.
It’s okay. I’m here.
Daniel seemed to get the message and smiled back. He furrowed his brows and
decided to speak again.
 
“I...I was raped..when I was younger..” Jay’s breath hitched but he kept his
composure. He couldn’t stop his left hand from gripping the sheets in anger
though. Daniel looked down in shame but continued speaking.
 
“It’s.. a group of people d-doing it..” his voice trembled and cracked. Jay
tightened his hold on Daniel’s hand, and looked up at the now saddened look on
the male’s face. Daniel averted his gaze and smiled bitterly at his arms.
 
“It happened again..yesterday..I was completely overwhelmed-” Jay gulped at the
confession. Without even thinking about it, he pulled Daniel by the arm and
brought him to his chest, hugging him tightly. Daniel’s arms fell to his side
in defeat, beginning to sob into Jay’s shoulder.
 
“I’m..s-so useless..!” he clutched onto Jay for dear life, shaking all over.
Jay simply held him down, his eyes tearing up at the sound of Daniel’s hopeless
voice. His hugs seemed fruitless as Daniel continued to sob for nearly two
hours straight. Jay couldn't even begin to imagine the amount of pain that he
felt opening up about something so sensitive. He actually felt a bit honored
that Daniel decided to tell him of all people. Daniel finally shifted in his
arms, his loud sobs now just sniffles. Jay had finally realized just how close
the dark haired boy was to him. He could smell his shampoo from the proximity:
a mixture of soft lavender and a slight whiff of cherry blossoms. Jay leaned
into him placing his arms on Daniel’s broad slender back. If only they could
stay like this forever.
 
“I’m..so tired..” Daniel slowly lifted his head from Jay’s now stiff shoulder
and looked up at the blond boy, his eyes puffy and bright red. Jay flushed at
daniel’s adorable face, and looked away in despair.  Why must you torture me
like this, o sweet angel.
 
“Jay..” Daniel leaned his face close to his, his full pink lips shining from
the light emitting from the lamp set on Jay’s worktable. Jay’s heart was
throbbing underneath his school uniform, the butterflies in his stomach now
climbing up to his esophagus. His palms began to sweat as Daniel continued to
lean closer to his face.
 
“Thank you,” he had barely heard the hushed whisper that left Daniel’s lips as
he collapsed on Jay’s chest. Jay just sat on his bed, his heartbeat pulsating,
his mind a blank slate. After a few minutes, Jay sighed out, placing his
shaking hands on Daniel’s still body. He slowly pushed the boy off his chest
and laid him on the bed. He looked at Daniel’s peaceful (and adorable) sleeping
face. He had to protect him at all costs. Jay hummed at the thought and swiped
a stray hair away from the sleeping boy's face. In all honesty, he really
didn’t know how to deal with the new information that Daniel had laid on him.
But one thing was for sure. He was going to find out who those bastards were,
and he was going to make sure they never placed another finger on Daniel’s
body. His teeth clenched at the thought of someone else touching Daniel in his
most intimate places. He always dreamed of being his first. Of making love to
the beautiful man until he couldn't utter a sentence and could only mumble
Jay's name in pants and moans. His breath would hitch in his throat, and his
whole body would spasm in pleasure when he reached his climax. Daniel, Daniel,
Daniel...
Jay's body shivered at his lustful thoughts and he nearly came right then and
there. He had begun to sweat and now he had a problem to deal with. He looked
over at Daniel. if only he could touch him like in his fantasies. His face
became bright red at the sudden urge. He shook his head in shame and slowly got
up from the bed, walking towards the bathroom. Maybe one day you'll realize how
much I love you Daniel.He quietly shut the door behind him, making sure he
locked it before taking care of his business.
Chapter End Notes
     i'll try to update it as soon as possible (and maybe make the
     chapters longer). Also thank you for all the comments I received on
     the previous chapter! I'm glad you guys like the story so far >//<
***** Memories *****
Chapter Summary
     "O Rose, thou art sick!
     The invisible worm,
     That flies in the night
     In the howling storm:
     Has found out thy bed
     Of crimson joy:
     And his dark secret love
     Does thy life destroy." -William Blake
Chapter Notes
     WARNING! WARNING!
     *if you're sensitive to rape or any sort of thing affiliated with
     rape/violence please don't read!
     (also yes I have returned)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“So damn tight!” the man above Daniel groaned and pushed deeper into him,
almost making Daniel scream. Daniel shut his eyes at the pain and bit his lip
until it began to bleed. His knees were aching and he felt like he was being
ripped from the inside out.
 
“Hey! Why don’t you put that pretty mouth to work and suck this for me?”
another man reached towards Daniel’s face and lifted his chin up. Daniel
protested and scoffed at the man, turning his face away from the throbbing
member in front of him. The man furrowed his brows in anger and smacked Daniel
in the face.
 
“Did you not hear me you dirty whore? Suck my dick.” the man thrusted into
Daniel’s mouth, reaching the back of his throat, almost making the young boy
gag in reply.
 
“Ah fuck. Your lips are perfect for sucking cock I’ll give you that,” Daniel
ignored the comment and closed his eyes in defeat. His hole felt like it was
burning up everytime he was penetrated and now his throat was being screwed
too. How long had it been? Would he even be able to go to school? Or even walk?
 
“Shit, I’m cumming,” the man in front of Daniel shivered then to prove his
statement, came into Daniel’s mouth not a moment later.
 
“Swallow it,” he said, closing Daniel’s mouth. Daniel scrunched up his face at
the command and nearly threw up at the taste of the vile liquid in his throat.
He hesitated then swallowed. The man smirked, then let go of Daniel’s face.
 
“Yo, I’m almost finished too,” the man above Daniel thrusted into him, hitting
Daniel’s prostate. Daniel couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped his
quivering lips.
 
“Seems like you're enjoying yourself too you little  slut ,” the man continued
to thrust into Daniel’s sweet spot, making sure to go extra deeper on the word
‘slut’.
 
“Ahn ahhh, please-” Daniel nearly cried at the unwanted pleasure, bringing his
hand up to his face.
 
“Ha, I’m cumming brat,” Daniel clenched his teeth as the man came in him.
 
“NOooo noo stop! Please! I’m breaking-STOP!”






===============================================================================


 
“STOP!” Daniel thrashed around on the bed, throwing the sheets off of his body.
He shot up from the bed, tears staining his cheeks and eyes. Jay came running
into the room a few moments later, now wearing a bathroom robe, his hair damp
and dripping with water. His heart had nearly stopped at Daniel's cry causing
him to almost slip on the floor. He quickly rushed from the shower and ran into
his room, throwing his robe on before entering. Daniel was bellowing on his bed
when he came in. He was curled in on himself not bothering to look up at Jay’s
dramatic entrance. Jay rushed towards Daniel, sitting on his bed and stretching
his arm out to pat the boy on his shoulder. Daniel’s body was trembling
violently and Jay noticed his breathing was coming out ragged and quickly.
Daniel seemed to be having a panic attack.
 
“I- they won’t stop!” Daniel looked up at Jay, his mouth gaping open to take in
gulps of air every few moments. Jay had never dealt with a panic attack before,
but he did know that holding Daniel made the boy feel better instantly. He
silently cursed at himself for not thinking ahead of time. He glanced at the
glowing numbers on his digital clock marking 2:00 AM, then he gently wrapped
his arms around Daniel making sure to not scare him.
 
“J-Jay..I’m sorry-” Daniel leaned into the embrace, burying his face into Jay’s
warm body. The blond boy merely smiled and patted Daniel on the back as an
acknowledgment of the apology. Daniel cried until 2:45 AM, and Jay held him in
his arms throughout the whole episode. Daniel steadily sighed out, his
breathing now fully under his control. He felt like a nuisance to Jay,
constantly crying and not explaining anything to him. How could Jay be so kind
to someone like him? There was a tap on Daniel’s shoulder which caused him to
look up. Jay was looking at him with a look of concern on his face. Daniel
couldn't help the smile from forming on his face. He was still worried over
him. Jay’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion causing Daniel to giggle. He looked
so cute.
Wait cute?  Jay nodded his head towards the night stand, giving Daniel an
opportunity to dissipate the growing blush from his cheeks. He then noticed the
digital clock on the small wooden desk. It was already 3:25 AM? Daniel
hurriedly looked back at Jay guilt written all over his face.
 
“I’m keeping you up so late. Gosh, I’m so sorry Jay..” Daniel slowly inched
away from his spot on Jay’s chest, placing his hands awkwardly on the mattress.
Jay shook his head in denial, indicating that it was no big deal.
 
“But still, you've been so caring towards me and all I do in return is drag you
into my uncontrollable crying fits,” Daniel had been looking down at the floor
the entire time, not daring to look at Jay. He felt like a child, unable to
fend for himself and merely leach off of Jay’s affection. Jay could only stare
at the boy in front of him. He was breathtakingly beautiful. Every movement he
made would render Jay into a useless puddle of lust. Someone as alluring as him
should not suffer like this. And it wasn't just his physical appearance. Daniel
had, what they call, a heart of gold. He hung out with kids who had been left
out and brought them back from the darkness they had been lost in for so long.
His smile was so bright that it made the sun jealous, and maybe a few of the
girls in his class too. He couldn't bear to see Daniel so deplete of his light
and hope. Without Daniel’s purity, Jay felt astray from himself. A few moments
passed as a comfortable silence enveloped the two boys. Daniel looked up at Jay
feeling the other’s stare. He began to feel nervous, his palms beginning to
sweat from the attention. Jay was a really kind person, and he was also
pleasing to the eyes.. wait what am I thinking??  Daniel shook his head at the
unwanted thought of his friend. His ears felt hot and his face was now bright
pink. Meanwhile, Jay stared at the boy in amusement, not taking his attention
from him for a second. Without thinking, he reached out and caressed Daniel’s
cheek. The dark haired boy looked up in surprise his eyes sparkling in
puzzlement. Jay leaned closer to him, his breath tickling Daniel's forehead.
 
“J-Jay..” his breath hitched as a scene popped up in his head.
 
‘Come on, put those lips to work! Lazy whore doesn’t know how to do his job
properly.’
 
Daniel shivered at the hazy memory quickly moving his face away from Jay’s. His
breathing had become labored his hands squeezing the peach colored bed sheets.
He felt Jay shift in front of him, causing him to feel guilty again.  Oh no he
might get the wrong idea.  He snapped his head towards Jay, his eyes dilated
with worry. Jay was looking away, his ears bright red and his lips quivering.
He was twirling his fingers in anxiousness seeming to want to tell Daniel
something.
 
“Jay..” the boy quickly looked at him, his hands shaking and his head bobbing
up and down in a messy bow.
 
“Uh..Jay it's okay! You don't have to apologize! I'm alright!” Daniel attempted
to smile at his remark, but failed. Jay had stopped bowing and was staring
intently at him, his gaze unwavering. Daniel blinked awkwardly looking at Jay.
 
“Uh..I'm kinda tired..is it okay if I sleep?” Jay slowly nodded but then
pointed to Daniel’s uniform.
 
“Oh yeah..I can sleep in these it’s okay!” Jay shook his head, getting up from
the bed. He walked towards a dresser, pulling out a pair of grey sweatpants and
a plain white T-shirt. He walked back to Daniel handing him the clothes.
 
“O-oh for me?” Daniel reached for the clothes holding them in his arms.
 
“Um you don't have to! Really, I’m okay!” Jay smiled slowly shaking his head
again.
 
“Is it really alright?!” Daniel looked down nervously.
 
“Okay then, where can I change?” he asked the blond boy. Jay flushed at the
question telling Daniel that he would gladly step out of the room. Daniel
smiled at him as Jay crept out quietly closing the door behind him. Once he was
outside, Daniel began by removing the uncomfortable vest, slowly taking off the
rest of the cloth on his body. He stood up from the bed, glancing at the
reflection of himself in one of the mirrors in the room. He frowned back. His
chest was full of hickeys and bruises, his collarbone lined up with teeth marks
and love bites. His nipples were still red and his right side had a growing
bruise the size of his fist. He looked away, ashamed of himself. He quickly
grabbed the clothes Jay had lent him and threw them on, hiding his shameful
body. He walked back to the bed and sat down. The clothes fit him perfectly. He
smiled thinking about Jay.  oh right, he must still be waiting.
 
“ Jay! I'm finished changing!” he said loudly. The door knob slowly turned as
Jay walked in now wearing a silk red robe. Daniel breathed in at the sight. He
looked like a prince.  There I go again with these weird thoughts!  Daniel
looked away, his eyes trained to the mattress.
 
“Um..are you gonna sleep here? With me?” he asked, his finger pointed to his
chest. Jay flushed and then looked down, explaining to Daniel that he was
planning on sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms instead.
 
“Oh..okay..” Daniel looked down in disappointment. He hated having to sleep
alone, so when he had left to live on his own in Seoul, it took him nearly
three months to get accustomed to sleeping in a vacant house. Jay frowned at
Daniel’s disappointment.  So adorable.  He smiled then walked over to him.
Daniel looked up at him, his face full of surprise.
 
“Oh! So are you sleeping here after all?!” Daniel smiled when Jay nodded
confirming the boy’s question.
 
“Yay!” Daniel raised his arms in joy, suddenly wrapping them around Jay’s
torso.
 
“Thank you so much Jay,” his lips brushed against his stomach, causing shivers
to go down Jay’s spine. He was going be in trouble tonight. Daniel finally
released his hold giving jay a closed eye smile. Jay felt his heart flutter,
his cheeks feeling the familiar tingle of an oncoming blush. He returned the
gesture giving Daniel one of his smiles. He then stood up heading towards the
wooden desk with his lamp on it. He  turned it off, the room now covered in
darkness. He walked steadily towards the bed, trying not to bump into anything
on his way back. Once he reached his destination, he climbed onto the soft
mattress slowly keeping his movements as restricted as possible.
 
“Here, let me help,” he heard Daniel’s sweet voice splice through the still
dark, and then felt a pull on his arm. He was dragged to the left side of the
bed and was now comfortably under the bed sheets. He turned to his right,
trying to find the shape of the boy laying beside him.
 
“Jay..” his stomach twitched at the sound of his name. Daniel’s voice was
eerily close to him.
 
“Can I..hold you?” he heard the boy ask, his voice sounding unsure. Jay reached
out trying to find his arm. Once he did he gently pulled Daniel close to him,
wrapping his legs around the other boy’s legs and cushioning his head with his
other arm. Daniel let out a quiet squeal from the sudden movement but didn't
protest. Jay could feel the warmth radiating from the other boy. His arm snaked
around Daniel’s waist. He felt the boy flinch a little causing him to halt his
movements. Daniel soon relaxed again causing Jay to wrap his arm fully around
him. He heard Daniel sigh and then felt him snuggle against his chest.
 
“Good night Jay,” Daniel pulled them closer together and then remained still.
Jay listened to his breathing, his chest evenly rising against his. He closed
his eyes and slowly drifted to sleep the lull of Daniel’s breath and the
crickets aiding him into his dreams.
Chapter End Notes
     hiii~ Yeah um first of all I apologize for taking so long to upload
     this chapter! I was just having a really hard time writing this
     certain chapter(the beginning mainly) and I'm just really scared that
     the fandom will feel uncomfortable with this sort of dark story for a
     WebToon like Lookism. I also wasn't sure if I was going to continue
     on with this story. Honestly I think I might just end it here so I
     tried to make this chapter a bit longer than the others, but then I
     got a bit of writer's block and then school.. and stress and
     just..ugh.. well I don't know what I'm gonna do now. Please leave a
     comment and tell me how you guys feel. Should I continue this or not?
End Notes
     ya um I'm planning to do more chapters so don't worry. Might take
     years though..
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
 like acceptance. “Say goodbye to the days of your
reign.”
Stiles sniffs, “Well, at least I still got Scott on beat down.”
Derek thinks maybe, just maybe, that the worst has passed.
-
“And this!” Stiles chimes heartily, waving his arms around maniacally that
Derek has to duck to the other side. “This is my room. Scott helped pick out
the paint. We went with Moss Green because it sounded cool.”
Derek sweeps his gaze around the room, bobs his head in acknowledgement towards
Stiles. It looks like any ten year old boy’s room. There’s a pile of worn socks
and underwear collecting at the corner, comic books lying haphazardly on the
desk and under his pillow while action figures strewn across the floor.
“Mm,” Derek hums, lightly checking his hip against Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re a
messy one, aren’t you?”
Stiles pinches him at the thigh even though the denim’s too thick to actually
feel the bite of pain it comes with.
Derek also realizes it may be a thing for Stiles. The pinching. He just sat
through an entire car ride, not entirely tooawkward he might add, with John and
Stiles while being abused with tiny fingers against his waist as Stiles tries
to urge a yelp out of him.
“It’s the very best kind of mess.” Stiles says, almost practiced, like he’s
been telling it over and over again to his dad. “Thereis a system to this
madness, I promise you.”
Derek hides a snort behind his hand. “Yeah. I can see that.” His bed isn’t even
made, covers still crumpled. “Well, if my house ever needs organizing, you’re
definitely on my to-call list.”
Stiles chuckles, “If only my dad could hear you now, he’d be so proud of you.
His favourite pastime is witnessing child labour. You’ll be such best friends.
Just like me and Scott!” He flops on his bed, hand curling onto sheets. “That
would be totally awesome. We could go camping together during this summer.”
Derek could be a better man and deny that he’s not thinking of fucking Stiles’
pale thighs in the quiet of their tent. Their breaths mingled, heady and
probably tasting like long melted marshmallows while his palms are moulding,
gripping at the fleshy parts of Stiles’ inner thighs. It’d probably be musky
heated with boy sweat and probably baby power.
Or, just spend the entire nightfall being allowed totouch all the soft areas of
Stiles’ body, his arms, and the little chub collecting around his waist before
puberty kick starts and manipulates sinew and muscle into lean, gangly limbs.
But he’s not. A better man, that is. Well, at least it was a good thirty
minutes where his mind was vaguely parental acceptable.
Derek clears his throat; mouth gone dry and matting at the top of his palate.
“That’d be an idea.” No, it really isn’t. “I haven’t gone camping in years. Not
since Laura and I left to New York.”
“Who’s Laura?” Stiles pries, pushing himself up on elbows to get a better look
at Derek. “And, isn’t New York really, really far away? Like, on the other side
of America, isn’t it? Why’d you move there in the first place?” Then scrunches
his nose like he caught a waft of rank. “I don’t think I’d ever want to leave
here. I’d miss the curly fries too much.”
A laugh bubbles out of Derek’s chest, curls into fingertips like warmth from a
campfire. “There are curly fries almost everywhere you go, Stiles. I’m pretty
sure Asia has some decent fries, too. New York has great pizza, though.”
Stiles blows a raspberry through his lips, shaking his head. “Nu-upe. They’ll
never be as good as the ones old Uncle Sam makes. I actually made a shrine,
like, two years ago? Yeah, for those fries. So, don’t argue with me, Derek.”
“Alright, alright.” Derek nudges at Stiles’ knee so that he gets an allowance
of space to plop himself down at the edge of the bed. It should be odd that
it’s only been less than an hour since the cereal incident but he’s already
so—comfortable with lingering fingertips on Stiles.
“You should bring me there sometime to try it. The fries.” Derek suggests,
hooking an ankle under his thigh so he manages to angle his body in a way that
he’s looking at Stiles. “Probably persuade me with its goodness.”
Stiles’ eyes light up, curving his fingers onto Derek’s forearm again. “Dude,
definitely. Their milkshakes are pretty awesome too but nothing beats their
curly fries.”
“Well, yeah.” Derek says, maintaining a stoic face. “I hear that some kid built
a shrine for ‘em. Insane.”
Stiles completely loses it, curling into himself as he guffaws. His cheeks are
plump and rosy as he chokes out the garbles of laughter and the sound of it
bounces off the walls, swallowing a tiny bit of Derek’s sanity with it.
“Smart andfunny. I like you already.” He tells in an earnest manner, like he
hasn’t discovered the typical verbal filter that usually gets stripped away
after one reaches a certain age. “I demand that you to be my dad. Yep, my mind
is set. You’re way cooler, and! You have a beard. That’s like the
ultimatecool.”
Fucking hell. This kid really wants him dead.
Derek cringes out a forced smile; goose pimples creeping down the length of his
arms because all he got fromthat is Stiles wants to call him daddy. That image
spurs a heady throb at the core of his cock, heat pulsing in his veins as he
tries to disperse the sudden flashes of Stiles panting under him, pleading
between wet breaths, ‘Please, I need—I don’t know, but daddy, please.’
“Don’t think it works like that.” Derek chokes out.
He’s glad that there’s nobody around to witness this conversation unfold, or
that he’s absolutely losing his fucking mind over this kid that he’s only known
for about an hour or so. A ten year old that Derek wants to destroy repeatedly
and endlessly until night and light meshes into blurs of innocence being
diffused into come and sweat.
“Also, your dad has a gun.”
“Nah,” Stiles waves it off, a small smile still lurking at the corner of his
lips. “He’s got a baton. Not a gun. Trust me, I’ve asked him many times about
it. Scott even held pancakes above his head to force an answer out. It was all
very funny.”
“Pancakes are very intimidating, yes.” Derek says flatly, earning another soft
laugh.
There’s a short pull of silence between them, a shared quietness that
palpitates in Stiles’ bedroom. He’s slightly hard in his jeans and just—this
entire situation is making him feel out of depth. No, that would be an
understatement. It feels like he just took a leap into the ocean, never knowing
when his feet are going to graze the sea bed.
It’s free fucking falling and Derek’s slightly breathless.
“Laura’s my sister,” Derek finally says, shattering the silence. Talking is
good—it’s safe. “She’s two years older than me. Left her alone in New York,
though. And, yeah, to your question. It’s on the other side from California.”
Stiles sits up a little, digs his toes under Derek’s thigh. “Won’t she get
lonely?” He sounds a little sad, features crumpling a little. “Sometimes I feel
like that whenever dad’s doing a long shift at the station and I’m stuck at
Scott’s house. I mean, he’s my best friend but, y’know... it’s not the same.
Not really.”
Derek lulls over the question, considers it. Is Laura lonely? It’s just been
the two of them for the last seven years, no other halves—not exactly. There
are quick fucks and sometimes Laura dates but her schedule never allows for it
in the long term. In a city so filled with heart and mirth, does anyone truly
get lonely?
“Maybe,” Derek shrugs noncommittally. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve always
liked being lonely, though.”
“But—it just getsso boring.”
The smile that creeps at his mouth is sudden because he almost forgot that he’s
actually holding a conversation with a ten year old kid and not one of those
teenagers that babble about their nonsensical musings that are quite depressing
sometimes. Stilesis mature for his age though, at certain aspects but
nonetheless, he’s still a child.
A pre-teen.
But that doesn’t stop Derek when he reaches out to push back the few wispy
strands of Stiles’ fringe against his forehead. He’s a fucking risk-taker since
John is just downstairs and the door is wide open. “Well, that’s where I teach
you the wonders of movie marathons.” Then adds on, “Also, junk food. Heaps,
even, to the point where guilt is nothing but a passing emotion.”
His hand lingers, thumb tracing patterns against the moles against Stiles’ face
that he wishes to track with his tongue. Stiles looks slightly amused and he
blows against Derek’s fingers, warm breath coating like a layer of mist on his
skin.
“Ticklish,” He tells softly when Derek hovers near his bottom lip. “And, I
could do McDonald’s. Their nuggets are something.”
Derek only stumbles off Stiles’ bed, hands by his sides when he hears the loud
thudding of footsteps climbing up the stairs. He manages to awkwardly position
himself at the foot of Stiles’ bed, limbs not coordinating rightly when John
pokes his head through the threshold, asks if he wants to stay for dinner.
He obliges since well, he’s going to hell anyway, might as well get a home
cooked meal out of it.
 -
It’s nearing ten and the plates have long been dried and stacked back into the
cabinets. The television flickers with some football match that John had put on
after dinner and two coasters sitting on the coffee table that’s holding both
of their unfinished beer bottles.
“Alright, kid.” John finally quips, pushing himself off the couch and groaning
when his back pops a few knots. “Time for bed. It’s an hour past your bed time
and don’t think it’s summer that I’m letting you off. Derek has to leave too,
I’m sure that he’s got things to do in the morning.”
“Fun sucker,” Stiles pouts then turns to Derek, “Do you want to have a
sleepover with me, Dur-ek?”
Derek scoffs out a soft laugh and John shares one with him too. “I think I’m a
little too old for sleepovers.”
“Pshhh, nonsense.” Stiles tells vehemently like the consideration of Derek
being old is nothing. “You’re just too old for tea parties. Boys only. No
adults ordads. Though I think dad looks quite handsome with a tiara. ” Then
giggles into his palm.
“Yeah,” John flushes a little. “Kid’s probably sleep talking. Go to bed, Stiles
and I’ll send Derek out.”
Stiles nudges his toes against the carpet before he looks up at Derek, “Will
you come play with me tomorrow again? You promised movie marathons! And, you
could meet Scott too! We’ll have so much fun. We could even build a fort and
pretend we’re power rangers!”
Derek wants to because yeah, Stiles’ doing that face and it’s so tempting to
just roll out a yes instead but he knows he needs to back to doing adult
things—errands. Like, finally listening to all of Laura’s voicemails and
returning all of her messages, or how he needs to sort shit out with his work
since he never actually properly resigned from his job.
Atop of that, he actually still need to finish his grocery shopping and
probably get to finally buying new electrical stuff since most of the light
bulbs have fused after not being used for the last couple of years.
“Uh,” Derek stutters and John cuts in. “Derek, itsfine. You don’t need to
appease my kid especially after all he’s put you through today. He’ll get over
it. And, you’re no stranger to our family, okay? You’re always welcomed back.”
“I’ve got some errands to run tomorrow but,” Derek stoops down to Stiles’
height. “Maybe the next day? You promised curly fries too and Scott could join
us. I don’t mind.”
“Deal,” Stiles nods, holding his little finger out. “Pinkie swear it!”
Derek snorts, “What, are we five now?”
“Pinkie swear or no deal!” Stiles stomps his feet. “Just think, you’ll never be
able to ever take a bite out of the awesomeness that is curly fries because you
don’t want to—”
Derek hooks his own finger around Stiles’, successfully shutting him up with a
roll of his eyes.
“Deal,” He grinds out. “Do we need to spit in our hands too?”
The difference of size between their hands is jarring.  It amuses and terrifies
him at the same time—makes him want to either curl his entire body around
Stiles, never letting him up or a constant reminder that he’s ten, and naïve,
and fucking forbidden.
“That’s definitely the bro way to do it.” Stiles grins cheekily and throatily
collects saliva and mucus before spits into his palm. “There.”
John groans revoltingly, grimaces as he says, “It’s like I’ve suddenly got
myself another ten year old on my hands. That’s truly disgusting, Stiles. I’m
almost ashamed to say that we share the same blood.” Then points up the stairs,
shaking his head. “Now, bed time and don’t forget to wash your hands.”
Derek feels his cheeks aching and sore with a smile long after he’s in bed.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     P/S: There's probably a ton of spelling mistakes near the end.
     P/P/S: Thank you for all your amazing comments. It has really
     motivated me in the last few days and honestly, I have no idea how
     many chapters this might take. I could draw it out (ha! nah, I'm not
     that horrible) or probably end it next chapter. We'll see ;) But,
     there is definitive explicit context the next chapter. So... comment
     more and tell me to bust my ass in getting the writing done. I've
     already got the smut scene planned out and dang, boi. You filthy
     animals would love it.
(19:32)
You’re fucking shit for a brother, did you know that? Fuck you. No, seriously.
Who the fuck even does that? What the hell was going through your head? Call
me. Now.
(06:51)
It’s a brand new day. There’s still a deep-seated, putrid hatred for you. When
will you be coming back?
(18:13)
At least answer your goddamn phone, douchebag.
(21:49)
I told mom, by the way. Have fun with that.
(09:27)
It’s been a week, Dee. The very least you could do is let me know that you’re
not lying in some ditch, dying or dead. I swear, if you are, I’ll come find you
and then murder your sorry ass again. Text me, or wait, here’s an idea! Fucking
*call* me.
(11:03)
Shit. I haven’t switched my phone on since I boarded the plane and… fuck. I
messed up, okay? I just, I couldn’t do NYC for one more day, Lou. I’m sorry.
(11:04)
How are you, anyway?
 (11:21)
How am I?! You’ve got some real fucking nerve, Derek Hale. I am your *sister*
and I detest you more than I do than with Walter Jones. And Jones was a real
shithead. You are beneath shithead. You are sewage waste, you asshole.
(11:34)
I… deserved that. Lou, I’m sorry, okay? I really am. I’ll call you tonight, I
promise.
(11:37)
Yeah, I’ll take your promise as word when I see your name on my screen later.
Where have you fucked off to?
(11:42)
Home. California.
(11:51)
What the ever loving fuck for? We wanted to get away from there, remember? It
was the plan. *Our* plan. To be miles away from dad’s bullshit and mom’s …
everything. What were you thinking?
Derek tightens his grip around his phone.
(11:53)
I wasn’t. We’ll talk later, alright, Lou? I’ve got errands to run.
-
“Well there, dipshit.” Derek winces at the brute, snappish tone in Laura’s
voice through his phone’s earpieces. “It’s nice to know that you’re actually
alive and your phone wasn’t mysteriously mugged off by some hobo in the last
week.”
“Hello to you too, sis. Are we back to you being patronizing?”
“Oh,” Laura scoffs. “I’ll patronize the loving heck until I deem fitting, ass
wipe. What fucking gives, Derek?”
“I—” Derek starts, taking a deep breath before he plunges. “Would you take my
word if I said that this is just some much needed self-actualization journey?”
“What are you on about?” Laura cackles and it sounds shrill, too sharp and
hollow. “This isn’t Kramer and you aren’t Meryl Streep, Dee. Self-
actualization.” She laughs again. “Yeah, too fucking right. If you’re really
trying to pull Maslow on me, I’m pretty certain you haven’t gotten to the
middle of the pyramid to even care about self-actualization.”
Derek tugs at his hair, the beginning pricks of annoyance biting at his
fingertips.
“Jesus. Have you ever thought that I’m trying to work towards it?” Derek grits.
“I’ve done the gig of New York forsevenyears, Lou and it wasn’t—it was neverour
plan. You know it isn’t. It was a fucking escape route! We chose the furthest
college just so we could be rid of the shit that sixteen year old us couldn’t
deal because we’re absolute fuckers. So, don’t you dare belittle this, Laura.”
A heavy loom of silence carries through both ends of the phone line with just
the barest hint of static that tells Derek that Laura hasn’t ended the call.
She’s probably taking in Derek’s little outburst. He’s never been prone to get
mad—sure, he scowls a lot but he doesn’t throw a temper and hey, everyone has
their off days.
But Derek would usually feed that off by reading Jody Picoult in his pyjamas
until he feels completely detached from whatever that was weighing in his mind.
“Fine. I’ll take that.” Laura acquiesces. “You could have at least told me that
you wanted to go… back. You know I would’ve understood, right? I’m not…” She
wheezes out a noise.  “Fuckin’ hell, Dee. I know New York is shit. I know, but
it’smyhome now. It was yours too; at least until you fucked off without even
telling me.”
“It’s not mine.” Derek tells vehemently. “It’s never—” He stutters, trying to
find the right words. “I don’t want to be a stranger, Lou. Not anymore.”
Laura snorts, “And you’renot in Beacon Hills?”
Derek shrugs his shoulders even though he knows Laura can’t see. It’s a habit.
Well, used to be one of her pet peeves. (Still is.) It always pissed her right
off the bat whenever he does it, like it eggs at her that he could literally
shrug situations away with the casual nonchalance he carries—like it doesn’t
matter.
It does, though. Derek just doesn’t carry it with him.
Yeah, he’s not your stereotypical leather jackets bad boy with the brood and
gloom.
“People remember me, yeah.” Derek murmurs lightly. “Susan remembers my
breakfast order and gives me free black.  And, uh, Deputy Stilinski? He knew
mom. Invited me for dinner last night, actually.” He doesn’t mean to elaborate
on it, rather leaves it at that but then his tongue slips. “His son’s a big fan
of mom’s old bookstore.”
Laura gives an insufferable sigh, the sound biting over the receiver. Derek
knows his sister, the in’s and out’s, and he knows for a fact that she’s done
talking. At least for now.
“Fuck. Fine. Whatever.” She laments, blowing out a breath. “California or New
York, you’re still my baby brother and—could you at least update me about your
whereabouts the next time you decide to regress into a teenage rebel again,
would you? Spare me the balding of pulling my hair out. Also,” She exclaims.
“Texting is also a thing, too.”
“I know the inner workings of my phone just fine, Lou.” Derek sniffs.
“Yeah, yeah. Just—let me in the loop of whatever’s going on there with your
‘journey’.”
Derek can almost taste the air quotation marks in her tone. “I will. I
promised. Still, I’m sorry for the past week. I was—”
“You were chicken shit.” She cuts in.
Derek chuckles. “I was chicken shit.” Then he paws at his face, rubbing at the
prickly stubble at his chin. “Does this mean I’m still beneath Jones? Because,
really Lou? That man is a sorry excuse for a human being.”
“Eh,” Laura hums. “Give it another two more weeks and we’ll see if I’ve changed
my mind about that. You’re still not entirely forgiven, mind you.”
Derek gives into the grin creeping up to his lips. It’s barely half past nine
at night but he already feel weary, bones weighing with exhaustion. “I missed
you too, Lou. I’ll call soon.”
“Weekly,” Laura reminds. “And, if you pull this shit again. I swear to Satan’s
ass crack that I’ll fly down to California myself and gun you down.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Jesus,” Laura moans, repulsed and Derek faintly hears over the line face-
palming. “One week back in a small town and you’re already spouting military.
God knows what type of water they’re forcing you with.”
“I’ll have you know we only drink water from the valley.” Derek tells
plaintively, edging on snobbish. Laura finally cracks up, genuine laughter
pulling through the line and none of that cynical ones she’s been giving
through the entire phone call.
Derek feels infinitesimally lighter.
-
When Derek gets introduced to Scott, it’s through Stiles’ electric enthusiasm.
They’ve just said their farewells to John, who is heading down to the station,
and Mrs McCall (God, no, hon. Call me Melissa. I’m still young in my thirties
to be a missus) who dropped Scott off at Stiles’ place before she starts her
shift at the local hospital. She’s a nurse. It’s quite interesting. They made
small talk since Derek always was fascinated by the medical line.
When they’re finally left alone on the pavement with Derek the only remaining
adult figure in this outing, Stiles takes his cue in efficiently removing the
awkward silence. He speaks in a whole other language with his arms, eyes alight
with excitement that Derek feels a surge of fondness for the child.
“Dur-ek,” Stiles exclaims with a start. “This is my boy. Position filled for
B.F.F.” He checks his hips against Scott good-naturedly which Scott returns the
favour with a weak nudge. It’s cute. “He’s the bubbles to my buttercup. The
Shrek to my donkey. The pepperoni to my pizza.”
Derek nods, giving a small smile and goes for a fist bump because those
are—relatively cool. Yeah, all the kids are going it these days. He’s totally
updated in the trends.
Scott looks at it oddly for a second though, cocks his head in a way that
reminds Derek of little pups at the pet store behind the display case.
“I’m Derek.” Derek says lamely, retrieving his hand back. There’s nothing worse
than being left hanging. Actually, there is, but considering that it was by a
ten year old—yeah. Humiliation abound.
“C’mon now, Scottie boy.” Stiles teases, pinching Scott at the cheeks until the
boy petulantly bats his hands away with a squawk. “Don’t go all shy on Derek.
He’s really cool, and smart! And! Really funny. Like, he’s probably the coolest
old person. Ever. Not including Melissa, of course. She’s number wah.”
Scott is still by Stiles’ side though, probably slightly intimidated or simply
nervous at meeting someone for the first time. Derek doesn’t fault him. He was
a shy child too, hated whenever he was in a room with more heads that aren’t
blood relatives.
Stiles elbows him at the ribs, hissing low under his breath, “Say hi. Don’t be
rude to Dur-ek.”
“Hi,” Scott finally squeaks out, shuffling closer to Stiles.
Derek laughs softly when Stiles gives an exasperated groan. “Hello.” Then he
bends down, one knee on the ground so that they’re all at eye level. “Are you
of the same age as Stiles? Classmates, perhaps?”
Scott doesn’t reply, twists his hands into Stiles’ shirt in an attempt to
dissipate nerves.
“Yeah, he’s ten too!” Stiles answers for him instead, beaming like being ten
years old is thebest thing to ever happen to them. It probably is anyway, since
they’re finally surpassing the single digit stage. More candles to blow out and
what’s not. “We’ve been classmates since first grade. Met him at the sandbox
where this guy over here was trying to eat glue on one hand and making sand
balls on the other.”
“Stiles.” Scott grits, ducking his head as his cheeks flush. “You promised
never to tell that to anyone.”
It should be a knee jerk reaction for Derek; maybe getting him a little turned
on since apparently kids do it for him nowadays. Well, two days ago, if we’re
being technical. Yet, it’s not. Scott isn’t as—petite as Stiles is. He has an
advantage of being a few inches taller, limbs elongated with the slightest of
faint muscle tone while his hair is trimmed short and spiky at the top instead
of it being darkly, tousled locks.
The pink of his blush doesn’t dot against pale skin either, doesn’t flow
prettily down the column of his neck that is littered with freckles and
darkened beauty marks.
He’s not… Stiles.
That—thatshould be worrying because, fuckbut yet, it feels right. It shouldn’t
though, since Derek just met the kid like forty-eight hours ago or somewhat
less.
“Derek’s not just anyone.” Stiles gasps, flummoxed. “He has a beard and
promised me movie marathons! Also, did you know that bears don’t eat people’s
faces? Yeah, we were totally wrong about that, Scottie. They eat… guess!”
“Um,” Scott hums, frowning a little. “Mac ‘n cheese?”
“No, silly. That’s people food.” Stiles chuckles. “Fish! They eat fishes and
Derek knew that!” He continues in an awed tone. Derek does not duck his head
trying to hide his grin. “So, he’s not just anyone. He’s Derek and he’s our
friend! We shall be the three musketeers!”
Scott snuffles, rubbing his nose. “Does he go to our school?”
“Nah,” Stiles chirps. “Dur-ek’s a big boy and does big boy stuff. Like, work.”
He scrunches his face. “Like what my dad and your mom do. Gross old people
stuff. That’s why he couldn’t meet us yesterday.”
“Hey. I’m not that old.” Derek adds defensively because he’s not. What was that
saying? Young at heart? Yeah, that. “I actually finished University three years
ago.”
“Nah,” Stiles says cheekily, winking at him. “You’re old because you can drive
us to places.”
Derek slumps his shoulders, definitelynot pushing his bottom lip out in mock
offense.  “Well, if that then I guess I’m just too old to drive you two over to
get curly fries, then. Also, I actually considered on a movie after thatbut,”
He gives a weary sigh. “My bones are aching and tired. Old age does it to you,
y’know? I’m just—so, so old.”
Scott looks alarmed now at the prospect of not having greasy finger food and a
movie atop of that which he then promptly smack Stiles on the shoulder. “Dude!
Look at what you did! You made him sad and now we’re not going to have curly
fries and it’s all your fault!”
Stiles whines at the back of his throat, apologetic then goes to out to grab
Derek’s hand, shaking it for good measure. “Don’t be sad, Dur-ek. I was just
joking. You’re not old! You’re like… Batman! The Dark Knight! That makes you
totally awesome and to bring goodness in the world, you need bring the hungry
children of Beacon Hills to have curly fries and then movies!”
“Mm,” Derek considers as he pulls a stoic face, wanting to milk this for a
little longer since Stilesis holdinghis hand. “I don’t know. Does that make you
the Robin to my Batman, though?”
Stiles grins at him, eyes scrunching up with such carefree happiness that Derek
wants to bottle it up and take it out whenever the world seems a little too
gray and heavy. “You betcha I am. Sidekick at the ready for your disposal!”
Scott tugs at Stiles’ shirt, trying to garner his attention. “Then what about
me? I don’t want to be left out.” He hesitantly looks over at Derek. “Could I
be Batman, too?”
Derek chuckles, “We could definitely share the spot. I don’t mind.”
“Cool,” Scott smiles, finally and sidles a few centimetres away from Stiles.
“You’re nice.”
Stiles makes a triumphant noise and finally lets go of Derek’s hand which Derek
absolutely does not mope about. Even if he does, it’s all internally. “That’s
what I’ve been telling you, Scottie! Alright, I’m up for some curly fries. Are
you ready to have your world changed, Dur-ek?”
Derek nods and it could be a double standard answer since his world has already
tilted off axis two days ago when he first met Stiles.
-
This kid will be the death of me, Derek thinks.
He struggles for a few minutes but then gives in with another furtive glance
over to Stiles because—becauseStiles is making these sweet, psychedelic moans
that twists silken heat to the low of his gut, spiralling up his spin and then
embeds it in the shallow gasps of his existence.
Derek is only human. He is, and his control is piss poor since he’s an able-
bodied male with a working penis that suddenly retracted itself to the good old
days where he was a hormonal teenage boy—getting hard at even the slightest
breeze, then the floodgates of arousal just swims, like a taunt, like an echo
in a distance, under his skin.
He can’t be blamed.
If there is blame, it should be on Stiles.
In the past two days, Derek has come to terms that Stiles is a walking,
breathing embodiment of virginal vibrancy—of life. Fuck’s sake, the kid even
apologizedto a stray dog when he accidentally tripped over it and then cooed
over it for twenty minutes because “I hurt him, Derek and everyone needs a
little kissing on their boo-boos. Even little puppies that don’t have a home.”
But this?This takes it to a whole new level. It’s an otherworldly level.
Derek’s probably in fucking Pluto right now. Yeah. The planet of no
return—level. The well, you’re pretty much fucked, Hale and you better be
getting ready to have your name listed as a sex offender around this town in
the next six months—level.
Derek wants Stiles—he’s come to terms with it. He does. And god, fuck, does he
want him.
Stiles, on the other hand, is completely obtuse to it though. He’s so
delightfully, and wonderfully oblivious because he’s ten and the only way to
actually garner the attention span from a pre-fucking-teen is with an iPad, or
any means of technology really, but it doesn’t stop Stiles from being the worst
(and Derek means theworst) cock tease of all in history.
You’d think that greasy fingers and distasteful chewing noises would deter
Derek off, or get that semi chub in his jeans (that are way too fucking
constricting to even consider popping a boner) to go away but, nah. His cock
apparently doesn’t get the memo, regardless, because point: Stiles is a fucking
cock tease.
He’s never bringing Stiles for curly fries in the future anymore.
(Liar. He would—for science. And by science, he means for his spank bank
material.)
Stiles stops munching all of sudden, dark eyelashes fluttering as he looks
quizzically at Derek. “Don’t you like them, Derek?” Then point at his untouched
serving of fries sitting in the basket. “You haven’t started on yours, and I’m
starting to feel like a little pig since I’m almost done with mine.” He adds
sheepishly. “Scott, too.”
Derek coughs, flattens a palm over the inseam of his jeans to will his erection
away. It doesn’t. If anything, his cock welcomes the pressure.
“Just… enjoying the view.” Christ. He wheezes, correcting himself. “I meant the
fries! They’re—they look very golden. Yeah.” Derek’s pretty sure that he is the
text book definition of flustered at the moment. “Right. Don’t talk with your
mouth full.”
He’s so embarrassing. Derek kind of wants to dig a hole, sit in it and then
pour meltingly hot cement inside so he could stop feeling like he wants the
world to swallow him up, chew him and then spit him out again.
Stiles doesn’t seem to notice his internal struggle (or that his cock still
isn’t wilting to get enough blood for common sense and logic to return back to
his head), though. He seems quite placated with his almost done basket of
fries, beaming at Scott as he continues to stuff a handful of fries back into
his mouth, cheeks pushed out comically while he chews around it.
Then—then because life is justso freaking fantastic, Stiles gets barbecue sauce
at the corner of his mouth.
It’s not even about hygiene’s sake. Derek could care less since he’s probably
taken a shower twice or something since he got here. It’s just so…
distracting.If his control was bad before, it’s mostly gone to shit now.
Derek can’t stop staring at it, eyes tracking on that little taunting smidge
that favours so wonderfully against an oily pair of lips. He wonders if this is
how Stiles would look having Derek’s load dribble out from his mouth, thick and
goopy, because he can’t contain it all the back of his tongue due to the taste,
or the amount.
How sinful if would be if Derek decides to smudge it all over his lips, paints
the last weakened blurts of his orgasm across the rosy hue of them.
Fucking—
 “You’ve got something,” Derek spills with a harsh exhale, fingers digging down
to his denim clad thighs. “On your face.”
 “Whazat?” Stiles mumbles around his last mouthful of fries.
“I said,” Derek repeats, trying to shallow his laboured breathing because he
wants, wants it so much that an ache is pulling low at his groin, behind his
balls—throbbing. “That you’ve got something. There. At your mouth. Sauce.”
He’s been reduced to speaking in caveman language. If only Laura’s here, she’d
be laughing about his sorry ass all the way back to New York while judging him
about his life choices.
“Oops,” Stiles giggles, a high and dainty sound that Derek tucks away in the
remaining adequate parts of his brain, and then darts his wetted tongue out to
try and lick it away. He misses by miles. (Derek thinks all appropriated logic
has gone to fatten up his cock since he can’t even comprehend the basic
imperial system anymore.)
Stiles is eyeing him, a brow raised questioningly as he continues to poke his
tongue out at the edges of his lips, trying with all his might to swipe away
that little dab of sauce at the corner while Derek shakes his head whenever he
misses.
He’s only human.
Derek’s hand starts to move on its own accord, like in one of those cheesy slow
motion ideals in movies or books where he can’t send the right signals to the
nerve endings in his arm to stop.
He wipes it off with this thumb, lingers to swipe a little of moist residue
left from Stiles’ tongue and it drums up this heady, peculiar familiarity that
somersaults and rattles at the core of his bones. He’s done this once in the
quiet of Stiles’ bedroom. Tender fingers ghosting over Stiles’ bottom lip,
exploring and carefully memorizing the patterns of freckles and moles against
the smooth texture of prepubescent skin.
“Got it.” Derek murmurs, raspy and low that doesn’t sound like him at all.
Then, he goes to do a terrible thing. Yeah, he’s definitely digging his own
grave when John finally shanks him with the blunt tip of his baton. (That
sounds extremely wrong and sexual but that’s just because his brain and dick is
connected to each other at the moment.)
Derek pops his thumb into his mouth, suckles around it until the faint taste of
barbecue sauce, sweet and a smidge of salty after bite and a thin layer of
finger food grease mould under his tongue. His eyes definitely do not
flutter—they don’t.
They… blinked at a pretty rapid pace.
Stiles is staring at him, though, jaw unhinged and innocent dark eyes tracking
as Derek finally retracts his thumb out from his mouth. He probably doesn’t
even recognize it as a sexual gesture—just something a parent usually would do
when they’re trying to give some finishing sprucing for their kid during family
gatherings or something.
Scott finally breaks the quiet pull of almost suffocating silence between them
with a mutter of disgust, “Eww, that’s so gross, Derek. Why would you do that?”
Then continues on with a scrunch of his nose. “It’s like eating out of his
mouth! Like, when a mother bird feeds their young chuckling. Is it called
chuckling, Stiles? I forgot.”
“Ducklings?” Stiles tries, finally tearing his gaze away from Scott, wiping his
hands against his t-shirt.
“Nah,” Scott quips. “Those are baby ducks. I was thinking of baby birds. Bird-
lings? Yeah.” He says, content. “You were being Stiles’ mother bird, Derek,
which, gross. Because Stiles’ saliva tastes so—so…” He struggles to find the
word. “—gross.”
Derek dubiously narrows his eyes at him then at Stiles.
“And you would know that because…?”
“We dared each other,” Scott answers brightly and Stiles cackles beside him,
snuffling his nose at the back of his hand. “To lick each other’s tongue. It
was… not very nice. Stiles’ tongue tasted weird. I still don’t understand
kissing because if that was kissing with Stiles, it wasn’t that cool for me to
want to do it with girls.”
Derek gapes, a litany of words stuttering at the back of his throat as he
searches for something to say but can’t. His mind is racing with Scott and
Stiles at the backyard of Stiles’ house, sitting on their knees as they reach
out to graze tongues against each other, laughter hiccupping in between bouts
of breaths.
He’s not actually arousedby that image even though his cock is twitching
weakly—just, holy shitbecause Stiles has done something with a boy.Yeah, sure,
even though it’s Scott and shouldn’t matter because best friends are by default
not validation in any situations but it doesn’tmatter. Stiles’ swapped spit,
even though innocently, with a boy.
Because Derek wants to swap spit with Stiles, and not innocently, he might add.
The type where it’s filthy and bad wrong until strings of saliva are dribbling
down their chin while lewd, wet smacks of lips hovers between the heaviness of
their breathy pants—type of not innocently.
“I—” Derek fumbles, cheeks tinting with a shade of heat. “What—you two?”
“Yep,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p’ at the end. “We were bored and we had
mashed potatoes for lunch that made our tongues all fuzzy and weird. So, we
were actually boredand curious.” He explains. “We didn’t have you back then,
Dur-ek. Life was dull and gray but now you’re letting us live the fabulous life
of curly fries and movies. Aces, man.”
“Well,” Derek exclaims, letting a loose chuckle slip out. “I am Batman for a
reason, y’know.”
Scott then decides to change the topic because apparently the word ‘fabulous’
reminded him of Barbie and then he’s off on a tangent of several Barbie movies
his mom made him watch, without him protesting much either.
Derek feels more warmed up to Scott as they leave the diner (update: his dick
also finally got the message to deflate the fuck down, thank god) and realizes
that Stiles really is mature for a ten year old since he didn’t make fun of
Scott for liking ‘girly’ things. He even encouraged Scott to talk about the
nutcracker, or something, in great detail.
He’s so,so truly fucked. Derek can almost hear the heinous cackles that would
come from Laura.
-
Stiles props his chin under his palm with a considering expression as he views
at the tidbits over the counter stack then turns to Derek, asking, “What do you
think I should get, Dur-ek? Dad never lets me get candy whenever we come to the
movies but allowed us! Coolest. Adult. Ever. But! Now I’m spoilt for choices.”
He pouts. “Should I go for the liquorice, popcorn… or ice-cream?”
“Um,” Derek ponders for a second then decides with a shake of his head, a tad
too aggressive. “Definitely, uh, not the ice-cream.” He really doesn’t need to
pop a boner because Stiles can’t properly figure where his mouth is in the dark
while they watch the new Avengers movie.
It’s one thing to get a hard-on while Derek’s at a diner because people can
always wave it off as a food boner (it’s totally normal, dudes always get them.
He had a classmate in college who popped one whenever they had brownies at the
school café) but, having one while the actors on screen are dressed in spandex?
Yeah, too shady. Even for Derek.
Stiles sticks his tongue out, “Why not? They have Ben & Jerry’s!”
“Because…” Derek drawls, wracking his brain for a reasonable white lie.
“…because it’s cold in the theatre? And, like, you’re quite small in size.
You’d probably get hyperthermia after you finish eating it and Scott probably
won’t be able to save you as he wants to finish the movie. You’d be all
frozen.”
Stiles makes an alarmed face that Derek feels quite smug about. That, and from
the corner of his peripheral, he can see the counter girl stifling a giggle
into her palm. “I don’t want to get he-pe-to-nyeah! Okay, ice-cream is
definitely out.”
Derek makes a quiet, triumph noise.
Stiles elbow nudges Scott at the ribs, “What’re you going to get, Scottie?”
“Ehm…” Scott drones, mouth slightly ajar as he paws against the glass counter
of where all the candies are stacked. “Probably M&M’s? I like the peanut butter
ones. Those are the nicest.”
“Then I’ll get liquorice! So we can be candy buddies!” Stiles cheers and then
tugs on the sleeve of Derek’s jacket. He foregone the leather because that’s
just… a little too much when you’re out with kids, so he’s gone for a maroon
zip-up that Laura got for him on sale. “Scott wants the M&M’s and I want
liquorice!”
Derek nods, “Do you want soda with it? Or are you guys okay with sharing?”
Scott chimes in, “Sharing is cool.” He smiles, small.
“Alright,” Derek answers, mirroring a grin of his own and then looks over to
Stiles who is staring at one of the overhead screens that’s showing a preview
of a trailer for some upcoming terrifying gore movie. “Don’t think your dad
would like you watching that.” He nudges him softly at the shoulder to hold his
attention. “Any favourites for a drink? Coke? Or, do you want another
milkshake?”
Stiles groans, patting his stomach. “That vanilla milkshake still isn’t sitting
nicely with the fries.”
“You drank it too fast, Stiles-y.” Scott tells, smacking his tongue at him. “My
mom always says to pace what we’re eating so that we don’t get, uh, a bloaty
tummy.”
Stiles pulls a face at him, “And my dad says that to heal a bloaty tummy is
tobeflatulent. So, I’ll be farting. All up this business.” He points to his
behind then glances over at Derek with an amused huff. “You don’t mind that, do
you, Dur-ek?”
This is the kid that he wants to ultimately ruin—this is Derek’slife now.
Talking about farts in the Cineplex with two prepubescent boys.
“Nah, totally cool with me.” Derek shrugs noncommittally and the counter girl
doesn’t even have the decency to hide her laughter this time, cooing at the two
boys as she asks what they would like to get.
-
Derek takes the seat at the far corner so that he’s not separating the both of
them by wedging himself in the middle but Stiles ushers to the seat beside him
anyway, so. He doesn’t sulk for too long, anyway. Probably for a quick second
when he watches the awkward shuffle Scott and Stiles does when they try to take
the middle seat at the same time until Stiles pulls out the pouting card,
whining that he hates the stairs seat.
“Afraid that the bogeyman’s going to find you if you take corner seats,
Stiles?” Derek teases, watching the dim casting shadows play out on the rounded
planes of Stiles’ face.
Stiles punches him on the shoulder, too light for the impact to seep under
skin. “Go away, you’re being mean.”
“Aw,” Derek coos. “Little baby boy.”
“I’m a big boy, not little.” Stiles huffs then uses his teeth to pronouncedly
tear away the wrapper off his liquorice candy with a grunt. “See, I’m like a
bear and this is my fishy food. Rawrrr, nom nom nom.” Then swings the long
piece of liquorice in his mouth, mock growling as he chews.
Derek wishes that the theatre lights aren’t already pulling dark because he
really wants to whip his phone out to take a picture and save it. Maybe set it
as his wallpaper. Or, send it to Laura as a memento, oras physical evidence for
his tribulations to self-actualization. What? It’s—something. At least it’s not
completely bullshit.
Stiles has spurred a lot of deep self-issues that he has been ignoring thus
far, so it’s notthat far off. Derek is a layered man, with many issues that
needs working. Like, how he hates changing toothbrushes every three months. He
doesn’t get it either because if the bristles aren’t completely ruined, why
change?
So, yes. Self-actualization.
 Derek’s come to terms that he likes a kid, that he wants to do horrible,
horrible things to one (one that is chewing his liquorice obscenely loud beside
him and moves like he’s performing the rain dance) and that he hates changing
toothbrushes thus will not succumb to society’s measly requirements to it.
He’ll fucking use his toothbrush until it grows mouldy and could probably make
fungi soup or something.
See, there’s progress.
-
The movie is about half an hour in and Derek’s not even beingsubtle anymore.
His arm is taking up more space than the basic etiquette of armrest sharing
have implemented. It reminds him of one of those few first dates he had taken
to the movies and the stirring urge to hold their hand until their palms become
cold and clammy.
Stiles obviously doesn’t get it. Instead, he whispers in low voices to Scott
whenever Ironman (Stiles’ favourite) or Captain America (who is Scott’s
favourite) appears on the screen. So Derek sips on the soda he’s sharing with
Stiles and pushes his arm out another inch.
The other thing that Derek notices about Stiles is that he fidgets a lot, even
when he’s seating down. He twists in his chair, props his legs up onto the
front seat but then makes a reluctant, chafed noise when they keep slipping off
since his legs are too short to actually garner comfort in that position.
It’s like his entire body thrums with nervous energy until it buzzes off his
skin, crackling in the still air of the theatre. It’s making Derek restless
from how twitchy Stiles is andreally, he’s just being a good patron by doing
this.
Also, somewhere between a minute ago and now, he found some balls under his
seat.
Derek hooks his little finger around Stiles’ pinkie and just—holdsit there.
Doesn’t let go but doesn’t put too much pressure around it either. Just lets
the comfort of having Stiles’ small, fattened finger around his build inside
him.
Stiles makes a confused hitch of breath, looking up at him through his
eyelashes. He slides closer; murmurs into Derek’s ear that he manages to catch
the faint wafts of cranberries and barbecue sauce under his breath. “You okay,
Dur-ek?”
Derek looks at their fingers entwined with each other and is resigned to the
fact that if he gets caught in this theatre by a busker, well—at least he got
to semi-hold Stiles’ hand. He’s just doing a good deed, really. Derek could
definitely plead that when he’s at the stand being prosecuted.
“I’m good,” Derek answers, tightening his little finger around Stiles. “You?”
Stiles beams and Derek thinks something inside of him shatters, “Just
fabulous.” Then shakes the packet of liquorice on his other hand. “Want one?”
Derek mayhave nodded his head and then allowed Stiles to slide one into his
mouth because he’s slyly holding onto the soda cup with his supposedly free
hand. He alsomay have purposely grazed the tip of his tongue against the bottom
of Stiles’ finger, tasting flesh salts and the sweet bite of artificial
flavouring on it.
He’d deny all of it if he had to go up on the stand, though. 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     P/s: Heavily un-edited at the end.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It’s been two weeks and a little since Derek left New York and headed back over
to sunny side California. It’s still a little baffling that he gets to wake up
to birds chirping away at the window ledge instead of patrol sirens screeching
bloody murder from four blocks away.
The change of environment is very much welcomed, though. Not only does he feel
safe, without flashing blue and red lights overcasting in his bedroom but he
also gets to have a good night’s rest.
The adjustment, or lack thereof home sickness, is also very becoming.
Laura starts calling him on every alternate day, or texts him at weird hours of
the day about meander things about the city. There was one hilarious incident
dated a few days back where her messages were a slur of cap locks.
(08:21)
I HYST SAW A HOBO’S PENIS?
Twenty seconds later.
(08:21)
NOPE. IT’S A URINATING PENIS. OH GOD, WHY. DEE.
A minute later.
(08:22)
Oh god. My eyes. My *nose hairs* I need bleach. Stat. The industrial type.
Derek returned her texts with something simple, but still snide.
(08:34)
Well. It’s your fault that you were staring in the first place. Maybe he felt
cornered? Homeless people have feelings too, Lou.
He’s the best brother one can have, if he say so himself.
Laura returns with a classic,
(08:35)
Fuck off.
Derek is also decidedly against calling his mother up. He’d rather let Laura
deal with her. It was her fault that Talia was even dragged into such petty
matters. Yeah, filiality is not his middle name.
It’s not that he doesn’t miss her, or not have a care towards her. He does.
There’s still a faint scent of her perfume lingering on the walls of their
family home, almost burrowed into the shallow creases like sharpie fumes during
arts and crafts class.
They just… have an unconventional relationship.
By unconventional, Derek means that he still holds a little bitterness when his
mother closed herself off from Laura and him after his dad left when he turned
fourteen. It was as though looking at the both of them (maybe more of Derek,
but that’s mostly the animosity speaking), or being in an enclosed space with
them for long period of time reminded her too much of Charles that she just…
couldn’t deal.
Hence, escape route. New York—until two weeks ago, of course.
So, yes, Derek would rather Laura deal with her.
He’s finally feeling well adjusted in Beacon Hills, in their family home (he’s
not going to say it’s a mansion, even though it is, because that makes it seem
a lot larger than it already is) and he has a good daily system going on for
him.
In the mornings, he takes a good hour hike or run around the preserve with an
updated iPod. He even has Beyoncé’s new album on it too. Derek is totally with
the in-crowd now. He’d probably even go against the status quo of what’s cool
and actually purchase One Direction’s album off iTunes, too. That’s howin he
is.
If only Laura could see him now.
For breakfast, he either settles down with a simple bacon and toast, or he
drives down to Susan’s diner for his usual. He doesn’t even care if Susan is on
first name terms with him now. Derek prefers it, actually, likes it even. He
even greets her husband, Michael, whenever he’s lounging around in the back,
flipping through the daily paper.
They even spoke about NBA for a little the other day.
After that, Derek either hangs out with Stiles and Scott until it’s time for
dinner, or he has to go do grown up thingies. (Stiles’ words.)
Today’s a Thursday and Derek’s awake a lot earlier than the alarm that he
usually set to go off at six in the morning. He’s lying on the flat of his bed,
foam bed already moulded to the warm dip of his sleep wasted body, and he’s
pitching some suggestive morning wood under the thin of his boxers.
To think of it, Derek hasn’t rubbed one out since he moved out here. He’s been
overwhelmed by feeling acquainted to this town again, finding out his old
favourite stores have been replaced by new ones, or purchasing the necessities
he needs since he decided to up and leave on an irrational head (clothes,
groceries, and not forgetting, paying the damn backed up electricity bills.
He’s also been pretty busy with Stiles, but that’s not really a chore. It’s
more like the slowest of torture that he wills on himself.
Derek’s pretty certain that he’s been dealing with a stiffy more times than he
can count with both hands and it’s beginning to feel like he has a permanent
hard on for the past fortnight. So, when he finally trails a hand down under
the duvet, ghosting past warm skin at the edge of the waistband to palm at the
head of his cock, his hip arches off the bed and into the fleeting touch.
His mind is scarily silent, bare of any fantasies to actually start pulling one
off. Derek usually has go-to materials whenever he jerks off, but—that’s before
Stiles.
Before he knows how long and thick Stiles’ eyelashes are when they are batting
at him, a litany of whining pleads for one last cookie. (“It’ll be the last
one. I promise, Derek. It can be out little secret. No telling dad, okay?”) Or
when Stiles makes this soft, whispery sigh and his chest collapses in content
whenever Derek scratches blunt nails into his scalp. Sometimes he tugs a small
handful of hair just for Stiles to groan into the touch, body sidling closer.
Now, inside the blacks of his eyelids, all Derek pictures is Stiles. And, it’s
wrong because Stilesistangible. He’s realwhile before—before Stiles, they were
just faceless teenagers. A flesh dusted asshole with little to no pubic hair
that belongs to a shadow overcast face, or high, keening noises that Derek re-
uses from hurried fucks at dinky bars.
However, his cock is a far lesser entity than his conscience is.
It twitches, throbs, when Derek is being reminded that Stiles has adolescent
fattened limbs and even thicker, stunted fingers that look absolutely miniscule
in Derek’s palm. It’s the constant, blatant reminder that Stiles is the epitome
of youth. Of achild. With his small bulging stomach that probably would stretch
out to lean muscles when puberty starts while his grown out shirts does nothing
to conceal the soft curves clinging to his hips.
Fuck—and that, that makes his dick blurts pre-come at the crease of his thigh.
Derek clenches his eyes tighter, wills the hazy images behind the darkness of
his eyes to fuck off.
To say it’s unsuccessful would be an understatement.
Derek’s breaths begin to labour, pulling like raspy groans in the still of
early dawn. His knuckles tightens, whitens, as he grips onto the sheets, all
the while fighting the urge to thrust up into the tight confines of his boxers.
It’s one thing to be attracted to a kid (yeah, Derek’s sailed past denial), to
know that he wants to wet his cock in between those pale, meaty thighs but it’s
a whole other thing to actually go through with it.
There’s a line and Derek has beenso good to not cross it. He’s not goddamn
Robin Thicke. Derek understands that the blurring of said lines is not
acceptable—thereis one for a reason. But then those hot, vivid images of Stiles
at the diner pops up, the memory still leaving him taut and hot under his skin.
Derek’s tongue still tasted faintly of barbecue sauce and cranberries long
after he dropped the both of them back home.
He’s only fucking human.
Derek thrusts up and groans when the swollen cockhead catches against the small
slit of his boxers, feeling the way his foreskin retracts a little with each
heave of his hips. He’s already leaking profusely. There’s probably a wet spot
at the front mocking his entire existence, too.
It’s like after he consciously takes that first leap, his mind catches up and
it’s an instant descent to hell.
Derek thinks of how Stiles’ tiny, flaccid prick would fit in his hand. It’d
probably be soft and clammy with boy sweat, the way Derek remembers how his own
dick felt like when he was ten and curious, scraping at the beginning edges of
puberty. Maybe Stiles might be confused while Derek touches him intimately for
the first time, breath hitching as he slurs out question after question until
he’s absolutely breathless.
Such an inquisitive boy Stiles is—his little boy.
Derek muffles a groan into his pillow, the coils of arousal already heating
fiery warmth at the pool of his abdomen and behind his balls. Stiles’ testicles
would be small, too, (for such a petite boy) and it’d be tucked so prettily
under his pink dick with barely there wrinkle creases running at the middle.
He’d mouth at them, god—Derek would. Have them rolling against the flat of his
tongue as he licks away body wash and flesh salts until there’s only the pummel
of Stiles’ rapid heartbeat fluttering in the hollow of his mouth. He’s sure
that Stiles would taste like summer, like coy tinges of melted caramel, and
heat, and the ocean.
Stiles would also make the sweetest of noises, falling like grace, like sun,
and they’d be unlike the other teenage boys Derek has ever pulled—he would.
It’d be in a litany of rambles that cuts off with choked grunts of Derek’s
name. His tone a slurred mess of confusion but also heady curiosity and
undisguised need for more and Derek—he would give whatever Stiles wants.
Derek would, and he’d never willingly take a smidge back, because Stiles is the
worthiest of prizes. He’s the gift by itself, so sacred, and tender, and
breakable as he burgeons into unlearned intimacy. Derek would only guide him,
teach him of each sensuous stroke and carnal pleasure to be derived from his
small body—leaving him sweaty, and pliant, and sated.
It’s that image—the final one with Stiles fucked out, pulling breaths while his
cheeks are tinted with the pinkest of flush that do it for him.
Derek arches off the bed, cock hardening into a thick line of unyielding
pressure while his balls draw up and then he starts to spurt his orgasm into
his boxers, exhaling Stiles’ name hoarsely with a groan.
“Fuck, fuck—fuck, Stiles.”
Derek tugs at his shaft, riding out the final few throbs and easing the last
few dribbles of come as it soaks through the thin fabric of his boxers.
Yeah, Derek’s probably not a better man than Robin Thicke.
-
The next day, Derek drops by the Stilinski’s place for dinner because John
insisted the previous day.
(“C’mon, Hale. Ease up and let us feed you. Or, just take it as a thank you
meal since you’re keeping my menace of a son in order. God knows how much
therapy I’ve to foot for the deputies down at the station.”
 “Liar. Don’t listen to him, Derek. Dad loves me. He does, really, really.”
“Yeah, whatever makes you sleep, kid.”)
Derek isn’t able to meet Stiles’ eyes for the first hour because if he does,
all he’d see is that faint imagery of Stiles panting and sweaty, saliva cooling
and drying at his thighs and yeah, that’s definitely not high on the cool or
appropriate list. He doesn’t need to pop a boner while they’re seated at the
dining table with Stiles’ father sitting across him.
It’s only when they move over to the couch, dishes already dry and stacked,
that Stiles finally digs his toes painfully into Derek’s ribs to snatch his
attention away. Derek makes a mocked, pained noise, pressing a soothing hand
over the dull throb.
“Quit ignoring me, you—youpoop.” Stiles hisses and pinches the thin skin of
Derek’s elbow.
“I’m not—”
“Scott may not be a good liar but, right now? You’re much worse than him.”
Stiles snips haughtily, glaring at Derek.
“It wasn’t on purpose.” Derek murmurs, apologetic because yeah, hewas subtly
avoiding Stiles’ attention since he got here. But! On good reasoning—which he
can’t mention aloud because, see: Paedophile and a man of the law just ten feet
away from him. “I’m sorry. Just… got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
Stiles shuffles closer to him, jutting his legs off the couch but because he’s
so small, it dangles above the ground. These aren’t things Derek should be
aware of but, fuck, has he mentioned how tiny Stiles is?
“It’s—I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”
There’s a gentle quiver at the end of his note and it digs a lot like guilt in
Derek’s gut because it sounds so wrong on him and Derek’s the one that did
that. Stiles is the one that lifts everyone’s spirits with his chirpy mirth and
relentless charm but to hear that doubt in his tone, to know that he’s too much
for someone he cares about—that Derek can’t stomach it.
“No,” Derek says quickly and his hand itches like fire to snatch Stiles’ hand
into his, to translate how badly he feels. “It’s not—you didn’t do anything
wrong. I promise. It’s just me. I’m being weird, m’ sorry.”
Stiles looks at him calculatedly, “Is it because I forced you to give me one
more cookie yesterday and you feel bad about it? Because, I swear, Scott won’t
tell and I won’t, either.”
Derek huffs dryly, “That’s not it, Stiles.”
“Then, what is it?” He persists, almost whining.
“I just—” Derek sighs, scratching at his jaw. He doesn’t know how to put it
into words that a ten year old would understand and so that John wouldn’t get
the wrong idea if he accidentally overhears their conversation. Not that his
blasé assumptions would be incorrect.
He's fucking playing with fire, that’s what he is.
“Maybe…” Derek starts, weighing his words. “Maybe, I’m not cut out to be
Batman, after all.”
Stiles gapes at him, “But you make the perfect Batman!” and he sounds so
honest, so fierce, like the first time they met in the grocery store and Stiles
was puffing up, all ready to punch him in the shin to make him understand that
clouds aremore than alright.
“Batman doesn’t do bad things,” Derek offers kindly and pats him on the knee
because he can’t resist not ever touching Stiles. “He doesn’t think of doing
bad things, either. But, I do.”
Stiles blinks, “You want to do bad things, Dur-ek?”
Derek laughs softly since his nickname sounds so out of place in this
conversation. “Yes, Stiles. I want to do bad things.”
“Like… bad, as in, Joker-bad?”
“Yeah. Exactly like him.”
Stiles hums, thinks about it for a second before a smile creeps up at him,
“That’s alright. Joker’s pretty awesome, too. Oh!” He chimes loudly, “That way,
I could be Batman and try to save you.”
And how right Stiles is since he is Derek’s saving grace—oh, the fucking irony.
“Yeah?” Derek smiles down at him and pushes away the wispy hair covering
Stiles’ eyes before he recoils his hand like he’s been burnt when he hears John
yelling something muffled to change the channel.
 “Yeah,” Stiles breathes, eyes lighting up. “Man, if Scott knows that I’m
Batman now too, he’d be giving me his sad, puppy face all week! Can I tell
Scott that you’re the Joker now?”
Derek thinks about it, “Maybe just like the cookie, we could keep it as our
little secret for now?”
Stiles enthusiastically mimes zipping his lips, “It’s like this never
happened.”
“Aw, Stiles,” John groans pitifully as he walks into the living hall. “Not this
show again.”
“What!” Stiles argues, shoving the remote control under his butt so that John,
or Derek, can’t have access to it. Well, it’s not like it’d be much of an
effort to lift him up and steal it away, or sneaking a hand under and—yeah, no.
But, Derek is amused of how a ten year old’s mind works. “Nemo is a classic,
okay, dad? And, it makes me happy because if I ever get lost, like Nemo, I have
you and Derek to come find me! Like, you could be Dory while Derek is Nemo’s
dad.”
John quirks a brow at him, not appeased but not offended. “I’m your dad,
shouldn’t I play Nemo’s dad?”
“Nah,” Stiles grins cheekily, eyes squinting with delight. “Derek is so much
cooler than you. We are like, best friends.”
John shakes his head, not completely getting Stiles’ logic then looks over to
Derek, “Sometimes I wonder if I accidentally put too much crazy in his food.”
“Hey!” Stiles protests. “Son is still in the room and has ears to listen to
your insults.”
Derek presses a chuckle into his palm and then finally settles with ease beside
Stiles on the two seater couch, memory of the morning finally flitting away
with each new joke that Stiles conspires or random spout of commentary he
makes.
-
The one distinct difference that Derek notices between California and New York
in the last few weeks (no, not that Cali has Stiles, he’s notthat type of
creepy) is that time passes relatively slower, especially since he’s not caught
up in the buzz of the city.
Instead of spending time shuffling around the packed chaos of subway stations,
losing precious minutes of the day to rude strangers and idle buskers, Derek
manages to drive out Talia’s old Subaru that’s locked up in the garage without
much traffic hindrance.
Also, the afternoons are a lot longer even though the sun sets as early as six
in the evening, but it’s less humid than in New York. Derek’s pretty pleased
with that. It’s one thing to have plenty of photography porn of skyscrapers but
when you’re caged in with them, one at every direction—it gets pretty stifling
and hot.
It’s the first week of August, temperature making a slight dip from its usual
heat, and Derek can admit that he’s been spending most of last month with
Stiles and Scott. Yeah, after the whole jerk off thing, Derek tries not to
spend too much time alone with just Stiles—it’s better, safer. He has control,
okay?
Regardless, Derek already feels that pull of attachment towards the kid (and
maybe a little on Scott, hey, he grows on you) and hates that he’s rivalling
against time before summer break eventually ends, stealing his boy away with
mundane school activities.
It’s like a summer fling—without the fucking, or romance, oranything, really.
Fuck his life.
He tries to make the best of it whenever they meet, though, and not think of
the curfew that John set out after Derek accidentally let slip of the time and
brought both boys back at nine in the night with grass stained knees and plenty
of elbow bruises. Yeah, that was a funny situation to explain—with a lot of
um’s and ah’s before John said it was fine but next time, it’s seven on the
dot, yeah?
The reason he was late was because Derek brought them out to a small park,
located just right outside of town. He discovered it while he drove around
doing a couple of errands and realized that it was a great spot—deserted,
plenty of lush fields and not many over towering trees to get banged up in.
For the past few days, Scott has been spilling a lot of talk about the
skateboarding classes down at the beach. Apparently, it’s some new hype during
this summer for the kids their age. However, Melissa doesn’t agree with said
lessons because, well, mothers will be overprotective bears. Derek understands
his gruelling, pre-teen pain—Talia was a pesky mom until, uh, she wasn’t.
That and he lived with Laura for all his life and his sister chased bullies
away even when they were in University, mind you.
So, Derek buys two skateboards, doesn’t even flinch about the cost when it
piled on his credit card. He even went ahead and bought all the protective gear
along with it. The reaction that Stiles gives him made the two hundred bucks
spent seem almost painless.
“Oh my god! Scott, look!” Stiles then proceeded to fling his body around
Derek’s legs, mauling at his legs as he squealed. “You’re the best, Dur-ek.
Okay, this does it. From this day onwards, I will shareall curly fries with
you. Forever. We are now lifetime bros. Forget Scott. You are now on BFF
replacement duty.”
“But we made a pact!” Scott cries out and bats Stiles’ arms away from where
it’s wrapped around Derek’s torso like a fucking koala bear. “Shoo, you best
friend stealer!”
Derek clears his throat, bats his eyes innocently at Scott. “There are batman
designs on your skateboard deck.”
“Oh?” Scott says and then flips his skateboard over, eyes glazing over. He
makes a noise of acceptance. “Alright, fine. Good trade. But, just for a day!
Me and Stiles are still best bros.” Then returns his attention towards the
deck, running fingers over the customized logo. “This is so cool, though.
Jackson will be totally jealous of our boards, Stiles. Ha! Take that!”
“Do you like yours?” Derek asks softly, peering down at Stiles who still is
clinging onto him.
“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, pressing a cheek against the fabric of Derek’s shirt,
almost like he’s nuzzling him. He looks up, “Thanks for the skateboards.
You’re, like, the coolest. Dad’s gonna flip when he finds out, though. Melissa,
too.”
Derek grins, tucking the few stray strands of Stiles’ hair behind his ear.
“Life’s no fun unless you’re living dangerously. Heed my words, Batman.”
Stiles smiles up at him and a shiver runs up like pools of tender heat up his
spine. Derek feels momentarily blinded by it, like free fall, pretty certain
that the sun lives within, existing in Stiles’ very young soul.
Derek then spends almost the entire afternoon trying to teach them how to
properly balance on their boards, laments continuously at Stiles to put most of
his weight at the center instead of the back.
Stiles cross his arms in a maddened stance, annoyed by his poor attempts.
“Well, if you’re so good at it, why don’t you just show us, Mr. Put-Your-Leg-
Here-Not-There.”
Derek tilts his chin up, feeling the antsy bite of a challenge brewing at his
fingertips. “Sure. Hey, Scott?” Scott whips his head up at him from where he’s
adjusting his knee pads. “Pick Stiles’ jaw up later, yeah?”
“What?” Scott asks, confused. “Why?”
Derek doesn’t even bother to answer him. Just goes ahead to pick Stiles’ boards
where it’s lying pathetically haphazardly on the ground with a technique flip
he learned from the playground when he was thirteen, playing it aloof when the
board is right side up on the ground. Then, he plants his feet meekly,
adjusting his stance so that both of his oversized feet would fit on the length
of the board. It’s a lot smaller since Derek got the child sized skateboards,
but whatever. It does the trick anyway.
He kick starts the board and then proceeds to glide circles around Stiles, who
doesn’t seem all pleased at all, blowing a miffed breath out. Derek throws in a
few easy ollies and then tosses a smug as shit grin whenever he lands it.
Stiles pokes his tongue out, jabbing at Scott’s ribs, mouthing, “Show off.”
It’s dark out when Scott finally manages to go a few inches without falling off
and the both of them are sweaty, smidges of dirt evident at their temples where
they probably wiped the sweat off with their hands. The two hundred bucks
spent? Totally worth it since he spent the last few hours gripping onto Stiles’
hand as he wobbles around the board.
That and it’s also quite life changing to watch Stiles fall on his ass and then
witness him pat his behind with a tender grimace.
-
Derek is an adult. He is. The bags under his eyes, three day old scruff at the
jaw and a built body he’s honed throughout the years can attest to that. It
doesn’t explain why he follows through with Stiles’ brilliant, (brilliantly
stupid) idea for an eating contest.
He’s whipped, that’s what he is. Straight out from the can.
It goes a little like this:
Stiles: Deeeerek, (in a sickeningly, whiny tone), I’m bored. Entertain me.
Derek: Do I look like a clown to you? Move over, you’re taking up the entire
couch.
Stiles: Boo. You’re no fun. And, to think of it, you do have clown feet.
Derek: I do not. You just have baby feet. I’m sure if you were any tinier, I’d
have to feed you with a bottle.
Stiles: M’ not tiny! I’m a big boy and I’ve been growing, okay!
Derek: Says who?
Stiles: Says the wall. I’ve been measuring myself against it since I was five.
Scott has one too at his house, too. Right, Scott?
Scott: Right.
Stiles: See! And I’ve grown like by… this much since summer started. Ha!
Derek: Good for you. Still small to me, though.
Stiles: Go away. You clown feet old person. Scottie! My bestest best friend.
I’m bored and Derek’s being a big ol’ smelly poop.
Derek: I don’t smell.
Stiles: You stink of perfume.
Derek: I don’t wear perfume, Stiles.
Stiles: Well, you smell weird and I’m bored. So, go away. You’re being mean to
me today.
Derek: (aggressively rolls eyes while sighing) Fine. I’m sorry I was being mean
to you. What would you like to do today, Stiles?
Stiles: Um… Uh… Ah…
Scott: We could go skateboarding?
Stiles: My butt still hurts from yesterday and it was your idea to do a flip. I
was not ready at all.
Scott: Fine. I don’t know.
Derek: We could go have lunch? It’s almost one, anyway.
Stiles: Yes! You’re so smart! We could have a eating contest! A hotdog eating
contest! Or nuggets! Oh my god, Derek, could we have McDonald’s nuggets,
please? Please? We’ve been so good, please?
Derek: (moans internally)
That was an hour ago but now they’re back at the Stilinski’s place after they
made a quick trip to McDonald’s, returning with six boxes of twenty piece
nuggets, a kid’s happy meal because Scott wanted the damn toy and two chocolate
ice cream sundae.
There’s also a variety of condiments at the bottom of the paper bag that Derek
doesn’t even know existed before today.
Stiles hustles towards the living hall, crowding on his knees around the tea
table as he sets out the nuggets properly all while issuing orders around.
Scott moans that why can’t they just do it in the kitchen and with a glass of
apple juice at the side.
“It’s a contest, dummy.” Stiles answers with a bite of snide. He’s probably
been spending too much time with Derek that he’s picking up that little quirk.
Stiles starts to argue with Derek then, that they should have a time limit to
finish off all forty nuggets even though Derek objects to it.
“It’s just for fun.” Derek persists.
“But!” Stiles protests. “Still, there should be a winner. Where’s the fun of an
eating contest when there aren’t any winners?”
Derek begrudgingly sets a timer for fifteen minutes on his iPhone, muttering
under his breath about how he didn’t’ sign up for this. He didn’t sign up for
anything. All he wanted was to go get groceries—not be plummeted into a life of
light laughter, or toffee tousled hair that needs a haircut, and a boy’s
earnest vibrancy of everything alive.
Stiles is oblivious to his internal weeping and stares him down with a smug
look while counting them down.
Scott and Stiles start off strong. They pile as many nuggets as they can fit
into their mouths while chewing obnoxiously loud at Derek’s face that follows
with wet, muffled giggles escaping them with each bite. Kids, he thinks (with
some endearing fondness, damn it), they don’t even know how to play this
properly. Everyone knows that you don’t stuff your face in the first five
minutes.
It’s like the golden rule—the first commandment of eating contests.
‘Thou shall not stuff food quickly into thy mouth’ or something pretentious
like that.
It’s not even five minutes later when a pained groan springs up from Scott, a
revolting grimace clear on his face as he continues to look at his nuggets.
“I th’nk ‘m g’na explode.” Scott slurs, a thin sheen of sweat already
collecting at his forehead. Meat sweat, Derek thinks.
Stiles is still relentless in his process of chew, chew, chew, stuff mouth with
handful of nuggets, chew, chew, chew and then darting to look at Derek with a
shit eating grin. Repeat cycle. Although he’s slowing down quite a bit, he’s
not giving in yet like Scott and Derek is quite amazed by him while he
meticulously chews each individual nugget with several bites before he
swallows.
Heh, swallow.
Derek promptly chokes on a gulp and Stiles doesn’t miss a beat, quickly
laughing at his demise with a finger pointing at him. Scott, too. Idiots, the
both of them. He scowls and goes to pick up another nugget from the box,
chewing with all the loathing he can elicit.
“Give up, Dur-ek,” Stiles garbles in between mouthfuls, bits of food flying out
from his mouth. It should be disgusting—it should, but Derek is so far from
revulsion. Stiles is such aboy and Derek wants to coo about it or tease the
hell out of him about it. “Y’re never g’na win!”
Derek pops another curry sauce open, “Scott, do you hear something? Because I
can’t over the sounds of me winning.”
Scott waves a hand limpidly then moans pitifully with the jostle of movement,
“Go away. Don’t disturb me. I’m trying to not puke all over the carpet.”
When Derek’s phone finally rings, shrill and sharp, Stiles collapses face first
onto the tea table, body slumping forward while lets out a meek, low groan that
sounds two thirds pained and one third why-did-I-think-this-was-a-good-idea.
“This was not a good idea.” Stiles gripes, voice muffled against his arm.
Derek shrugs.
He’s feeling pretty okay even though he’s polished off almost all of the box
contents, only leaving a small handful of nuggets. Derek wins, of course,
considering that he has a bigger appetite than these boys and Stiles was only
starting on the second box of nuggets a minute before the timer went off.
At least he’s a gracious winner. Derek’s certain that if Stiles won, he’d be
doing cartwheels and then rubbing it in both his and Scott’s face for the
entire afternoon.
“Scottie,” Stiles mewls, lifting his head when Scott isn’t answering. He’s
actually asleep, mouth gaped open and drool collecting at the corner of his
mouth. “I think we’ve lost him.”
My boy’s tougher than you, Derek thinks proudly and then hastens to correct
himself because Stiles is not his boy—or anybody’sboy, really. Except John’s,
because, yeah.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpers heavily and tries to lift himself up onto the two
seater couch with him but fails horribly. Derek is a good samaritan so he helps
him, goes to tuck his hands under Stiles’ armpits to lift him up until Stiles
flops  limply against him. “Okay, all this moving around wasn’t a good idea
either. But, the couch is a lot comfier than the floor. My knees were starting
to hurt.”
Derek blows a weak noise through his nose. He’s been so distracted with the
idea of an eating contest that he didn’t even realize Stiles was on his knees
for the past fifteen minutes. That fuelling could have gone into his spank
bank—no. Samaritan. No jerking off to Stiles.
Ah, fuck it.
“And I’m the old one?”
“Quiet, you.” Stiles huffs and pushes away the hair that’s going into his eyes.
“Also, promise me that you’ll never agree to anything I suggest next time.
Derek chuckles at that. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Advice? Don’t eat
too fast next time.”
“Blah, you and your oldpeople nagging.” Stiles listlessly swats a hand at the
direction of his face. He groans, “Ugh, how can nuggets taste so good—like food
from the gods, but hurt so badly? Oh my god,Dur-ek, everywhere hurts.”
Derek is always aware of his surroundings whenever he and Stiles are in small
quarters. Either to not look at him for too long, or linger a touch, or even
sparse a quick-witted reply that may be leaning onto flirty because—because
thatwould get him into trouble. And, sure, he’s already teasing with the
wildest of forest fires but, he can’t—can’t fucking deny Stiles anything.
He’d probably climb up a tree and then do a back flip down if Stiles wanted him
to do it.
However, now that Scott’s quiet on the armchair, breath wheezing with his
inhaler clutched firmly in his hand that’s pressed against his chest, Derek
finally gets the opportunity to look at Stiles. And what a sight it truly is.
Stiles’ usually pale skin is flushed, pink all over until it dips, hidden under
the collar of his shirt, probably trailing all the way down to below his balls.
His stomach is bulging out, even more so than usual, extended from how full he
is—and god, Derek’s control is waning with each minuscule slip of a second.
“Is there—” Derek pauses, tongue heavy and fuzzy. He shouldn’t, hecan’t, but—
“Do you want me to make it a little better? Something my mom used to do
whenever I get a tummy ache?”
“Please,” Stiles blubbers, voice almost quivering as he goes to twine his arm
around Derek’s, closing the small gap between them on the couch.
Derek knows Stiles is a small kid—it’s that one thing that’s always at the
forefront of his mind but when they’re slotted like these, elbow to elbow, the
comparison is blatantly obvious. He’s so… tiny beside Derek. His thighs alone
are twice the size of Stiles and whereas his arms are crawling with deep set
veins from lifting weights, all faint blues and greens, Stiles has a collection
of chub at the wrist, littered with long scratched scabs and moles against the
daintiest of fair skin.
“C’mere,” Derek mutters, quietly, exacting.
He’s afraid that he gets too loud, it may shatter the moment. That John would
suddenly rush through the front door with deputies at his side and firearms
locked onto him—well, baton. Derek’s a risk taker when it comes to Stiles, but
not thatkind of risk.
Stiles sidles even closer until he has one thigh hitched against Derek’s own,
body warmth radiating through the fabric of his clothes. Maybe that’s why the
devil exists—to coyly dangle the sweetest of sin in front of Derek until he
absolutely loses his goddamn mind. And that’s what Stiles is—a sin, but yet
wrapped in the purest of morality.
Derek curls a hand around Stiles’ waist, not really hoisting him even nearer
(if that’s even possible) but just to have an anchor on him. To grapple at his
sanity because this—this is different. This isn’t just one of his mind’s
actively imagined scenarios; this is something that would completely change the
both of them.
He peeks a hand under his shirt, eyes seeking out to Stiles’ if he’s okay with
this—if not, he’ll stop. He’s not—he’snot one of the bad guys. Sure, he’s not
Batman but he’s not exactly the Joker either.
Derek just wants Stiles, in any way, but in the books of the law and in
society, it’s bad.Because touching a child like this is abuse—it’s the
unveiling of innocence, stripping them from their naivety but, that’s not what
Derek’s intends. He never could abuse a boy like Stiles—never.
Instead, he presses soothing touches, rubbing tender circles onto Stiles’ pudgy
belly until he feels the tension slowly leaving the boy. Derek palms at the low
of his stomach, massaging and hopes that if he does get caught—that the stains
of his fingerprints are seen as non-abusive, but caring—loving.
“Feels nice,” Stiles murmurs, chest rumbling. “You’ve got really big hands.”
“Yeah?” Derek breathes. He knows this situation doesn’t call for anything
sexual but yet his cock twitches in his jeans, chubs up like he’s mocking all
on what Derek believes. “Better?”
“A lot better,” Stiles answers softly and smiles up at him. Derek pulls him
closer, nuzzles into his hair. “You’ve got the magic touch.” Then, giggles like
he’s just made the best joke ever.
“Mm,” Derek agrees, heart doing silly flips and flops because Stiles scrunching
his nose and bright eyes crinkling is something that is not for the faint
hearted. “Didn’t you know? Harry Potter’s got nothing on me.”
Scott promptly breaks the moment with a muted groan, slurring as he awakens. “I
th’nk ‘m g’na be sick.” And then promptly throws up into one of the empty
McDonald’s paper bags, filling the room with gagging noises.
It’s good, though because if not, the semi that’s going on for him would have
grown into full blown chub and that’s just—that’s not appropriate with Stiles
sitting so closely to his crotch. Not now, at least. Or ever, when Derek is
reminded how young Stiles is when his shirt rides up a little and he sees
flushed skin, all soft and tender like how a child usually is.
Fuck it. He’s going to become celibate.
-
(That’s a lie because he fucks his cock dry and raw when he gets home.)
Chapter End Notes
     (coughs) Yes, I know! I promised, but didn't deliver. I wanted to
     write the smut scene but then it felt a little too rushes and all
     these plot bunnies started hurtling themselves at me. Hence, I'm
     going to push it back to the next chapter. I think this may be my
     longest story, yet. And I may end it probably around chapter 6~7? We
     just don't know. Let's see. Also, spot my valiant attempt at John
     Green.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     P/s: Heavily un-edited towards the end. I'll get back on it tomorrow!
     Warnings:
     - Slight dubious consent.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It’s a warm Saturday evening.
Derek’s lounging on the couch with a pair of his rattiest boxers, waistband
loose and slung low at the hips. The television is switched on as background
noise in the living hall, flickering dully with re-runs of The Big Bang Theory.
He’s waiting, feet tapping in rhythm to the lull of his heart.
Saturday nights are reserved for Laura. (“It’s called long distance sibling
bonding, idiot. Don’t question this, Derek. Just go with it. Shh, now, spill
about California. What’s changed?”)There is, however, that one exception of a
Saturday two weeks ago when Derek had to haul ass to home depot for a toilet
plunger.
Yeah… don’t ask.
The house has been relatively quiet, only filled with the deprecating murmur of
Sheldon’s voice (he relates) and the faint whisper of trees rustling around the
perimeter. It’s… different from what Derek’s quickly accustomed to at the
Stilinski’s, especially whenever Scott’s around too.
Stiles prefers to overwhelm short pulls of silence with his effervescent
personality, meanwhile Derek is more partial to letting the quiet linger. He’s
always been reserved, even as a kid. He likes the calming sanctity of being
able to hear the clarity of his thoughts pinging in his mind.
But, Stiles though, he lets his thoughts tremble out like lashes of notes. He
is a matinee performance, a cacophony of full bodied laughter and wild
gesturing hands. Never truly letting the quiet settle into the creases of
peeling wallpaper and Derek misses it, even though he’s never been one to
settle with rowdiness.
Despite it all, Derek’s mind seems to be on par with Stiles’ acute favour of
being loud. It’s been a ravenous chaos the entire day. Complete mayhem, really.
He hasn’t left the house since yesterday, decided against going round to the
Stilinski’s. Not after yesterday, he can’t.
Derek’s still regrouping himself, finding the core center of his slowly wasting
control. That and thinks that he can’t look Stiles straight in the eye,
guiltless, not after he fucked his cock into the mattress, humped orgasms out
like a dying man in a whore house.
He meddled with fire yesterday, furnace like heat pressing and etching into the
dips of Derek’s elbows, against his palms and spreading like wildfire at his
crotch. Now, he’s just soothing out the burns.
Derek can admit—he doesn’t know what he’s doing with Stiles. He really doesn’t.
Sure, he admits he wants the kid, wants Stiles until it aggravates and chafes
like hot, molten lava clawing like a vice at his chest because he can’t
actually have him. It shouldn’t come to surprise him that wanting someone
doesn’t mean he’d necessarily have them—have Stiles,but it does.
God, fuck, it does because Derek wants to have the boy. But he knows he could
never. Not in this life time because Stiles is a mere child while Derek is
fifteen years his senior and that’s all types of wrong, so fucking wrong. There
is no universe that would adhere or bend the rules of the law for that anomaly.
Maybe another life, another situation—another fucking reality whereas all they
have is a small age gap and when Stiles’ touch doesn’t burn like sin and Derek
doesn’t feel like the world is going to close up on him whenever he so much
looks at the boy.
Fuck—but, Stiles is worth fighting for.
Derek doesn’t know, fuck. He needs something, he needs—
His phone lights up then, halting his deafening thoughts as it vibrates under
his thigh with a familiarized ringtone that was set for Laura, mewling softly.
I’m blue, ba da dee da ba diii. (Laura customized it back when he was in New
York. Said it was ironically funny since she’s a classic babe. Whatever that
means. Laura is anything but classic.)
“Lou.” Derek greets and clears his throat from the low rasp lingering at the
edges as he hasn’t spoken once since the day started.
“Oh no,” Laura says, dismayed. “I know that tone. It’s your I-fucked-up voice.
What’s wrong, baby bro?”
“I—it’s nothing. There’s nothing to worry about. All’s good.” Derek brushes
off.
He really doesn’t want to talk about anything to do with Stiles to Laura. Sure,
his sister has always been supportive (even when she came to know about the
teenage fucks) but this is a new league. She’d probably fly down here to drag
him back to New York, in cuffs. By the ear.
“How’s work?” He asks instead, distracting.
“Nah-uh, no way. Nope.” Laura pops the ‘p’ in a smarmy tone. Derek’s willing to
bet fifty bucks that she has on a shit eating grin, too. “I’m not gonna let you
deflect this time. Now, c’mon. We’ve got three thousand miles between us, so,
tell me what’s wrong.”
If Laura had a middle name, it’d be persistent.
Derek considers, letting out a loud bothered sigh. “Fine. But— this is a judge
free zone. No ‘I told you so,ha ha ha, eat shit little bro’ and definitely no
advice. God knows you give the worst advice.”
“It was one time!” Laura protests, already breaking out into giggling hiccups.
Damn it. “It’s not my fault that you look absolutely horrible with red hair.
Like a goddamn smurf. Oh man, I still need to post that picture up on
Facebook.”
“No, you don’t.” Derek says brusquely, warning. “I have hacker friends back in
New York. I will end you, Laura. Also, don’t forget that I have blackmail
material too.”
“Oh, really?” She challenges. “Let’s have at it.”
Derek grins, “2008. Thai food. Explosive diarrhoea.” He pauses. “Right after
you sneezed.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that. You know what? Fuck off, you little dick. It was
food poisoning and we both knew it!”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell that weak excuse to the jacket I lent you to cover up your
ass.” He says bitingly. “I think I told the dry cleaners to stake it and then
burn it.”
“Whatever—smurf.” Laura always likes to have the last word, makes her feel
powerful or something. Derek shrugs it off most of the time and that makes her
throw out more biting last words before slamming the door. He misses her. “Stop
fucking deflecting now and tell me your woe is melife in California.”
Derek bristles, “And you wonder why they called you the insolent child between
us.”
“Ugh. Go drown in horse semen.”
“Original. Tacky, but original.”
“Fine,” Laura says, startling bitter. There’s something about how Laura says
it, filled with so much ominous distaste and distinct irritation that sends a
shiver under Derek’s skin. Always has.
“You don’t want to shoot, fine. Answer my questions then. I’ve been letting
this go on for more than a month, Derek. What the hellare you doing in
California? Hm?Do you even have a job down there? Give me something more
substantial than that fuckin’ self-actualization bullshit you fed me on that
first week then maybe I’ll stop being such a pain in your ass.”
Derek gulps thickly.
He never liked being on the receiving end of Laura’s anger. Sure, between the
both of them, helooks to be more prone with anger type issues. What with his
thick eyebrows and days old stubble while Laura is the definition of put
together but don’t be fooled—that woman has a temper that puts Gordon Ramsay to
shame.
“I—things.” He says meekly.
“Things?” Laura scoffs scathingly. “Do you even remember that I busted my ass
with several part time jobs just so you could do your degree in Uni? And then
suddenly you’ve just become a—a hippie? Is this what it is? You’ve basically
flown back to Cali to smoke weed and be one with the forest or ocean, or
whatever. Jesus Christ, Dee.”
What? She—what?
“What?” Derek says at a loss for words. He’s bewildered. “The fuck are you
going on about? Nobody’s smoking anything. I don’t do drugs, you know that.”
“Well,I thought that New York was our home but I was clearly wrong, wasn’t I?”
Laura snaps bitingly.
Derek sighs. He doesn’t want to argue with his sister. She’s really the only
blood relative that he keeps in contact with. Well, there’s Peter but he’s
always been creepy and lives in Utah with his wife. So, yeah, best not to.
“What do you want me to say that would please you, Lou?”
“I don’t wantyou to tell me things to satisfy my worries. You’re my baby
brother and I worry about you. Fuck mom. She basically pissed off when we were
teenagers and clearly doesn’t give a shit about any of us, but I do, Dee.
Theleastyou could do is give me a valid reasoning why you fucked off three
thousand miles away.”
The ‘from me’ is silent but Derek hears it clearly anyway.
Derek closes his eyes and tries to find a way to explain it to Laura without
actually mentioning anything about Stiles. He makes a frustrated noise through
his nose.
“I don’t know, okay? I just—I couldn’tdo New York anymore. I’ve tried for seven
years, Lou, I really did. For you, for us but Beacon Hills is my home—our home.
It always will be. And I wanted to gohome and not to our shitty apartment where
we can hear our neighbours having sex every alternate nights. But, home—here,
outside the preserve with a backyard, and a car that I can drive into town and
people who would start conversations with a goddamn stranger.”
Laura exhales loudly through the receiver. “Okay, so, you’ve been home for a
month already. Are you coming back, then?”
“I—” Derek pauses, debating.
He thinks of being back in the city once more, stifled by a dead beat job that
probably pays him horrible money (since he fucked off from a good paying one
and Derek’s certain that the upper-heads at his previous job aren’t too pleased
with his sudden departure to take him back), and routined Chinese take-away
with Laura every Thursdays.
It’s a despondent thought, morbid in a weary sense and it leaves his bones
heavy, aching. That, and Stiles wouldn’t even be in the city with him but here,
in California with his dad and Scott, miles away from Derek.
Stiles who has already filled the quiet corners of Derek’s life with such
painted vibrancy that New York could never achieve in the last seven years. The
idea that Derek would never be able to see Stiles’ washy hair spilling over his
eyes, to smell the wafts of bubble gum shampoo or the clammy touch of Stiles’
pinkie wrapped around his—fuck, he’d probably fade into a hazy childhood memory
of Stiles’.
That—thatmakes everything inside Derek churns and aches hollowly.
He musters out a soft, “I don’t think so, Lou.”
Derek hears a faint sniffle over the receiver. “So, you’re staying then?”
“Maybe?” Derek really needs to learn how to say a simple yes when the situation
arises. “Yeah. Yes, probably. I still have all my stuff back in New York,
though.”
Laura lets out a long, sufferable breath. She sounds defeated. “Fuck knows why
I’ve got myself a shitbag for a baby brother. It’s whatever. Ugh. I’d miss you,
but you’re still paying half of the rent until I’m able to find a roommate to
foot your half. God, what if I get a voyeur for a roomie, Dee? It’d be your
fault.”
Derek rolls his eyes. Laura likes pulling out the theatrics as a last minute
trick but Derek’s gotten long accustomed to it. He’s like Laura bullet-proof.
“You can always come visit, y’know? You keep saying that New York is home for
you, but how can it be when it’s made up with strangers?”
“Oh, shut your pie hole, you pretentious hippie. You have no right to speak
until I’ve forgiven you for ditching me alone. Which, oh, look at that? That’ll
take a long time.”
Derek laughs softly, “I love you too, Lou. By the way, have you heard of
Skype?”
-
It’s been three (long, hauntingly silent and wrenchingly empty) days since
Derek last saw Stiles. He’s only left the house on day two to go get milk. He’s
not avoiding Stiles—not really. Okay, fine, he is because he’s just being
careful.
Derek even looked over his shoulders as he walked around the grocery store,
ducked corners and double checked the outdoor car park before he stepped in and
out to make sure that John’s cruiser wasn’t idling there.
Derek knows that he really needs to get his act together and Laura really did
talk some sensible things during that conversation on Saturday. He’s been back
in California for a month and all he’s been doing is relatively spending his
days away with Stiles and Scott—with eating contests, and fart jokes, and
pulling in fort ideas.
He’s actually baffled that John hasn’t mentioned anything about it. Or Melissa.
Or any responsible adult who has crossed paths with him. Maybe he’s been away
at New York for too long that he’s already forgotten the simple ways of how a
small town works.
The past several days were spent semi-productively, though. Derek managed to
finally get caught up with Game of Thrones (fuck that show to hell and back, he
may also have to replenish Kleenexes) and sorted out all his work emails that
entailed with his previous job.
Then he sent out a couple of resumes to a few local firms outside of Beacon
Hills, applying as an interior designer but has heard nothing back so far.
Derek’s not exactly holding high hopes, either.
He knows that there isn’t much of a market need for his job criteria in small
towns (and even if they do, they’d most likely hire a local for it). Derek
probably would have better luck in the heart of California, but that’s almost a
two hour drive away and he’s just gotten away from one city, he doesn’t want to
be jumping into another quite so fast.
Even if it’s the City of Angels (of dashed dreams, and hopes, and maybe a
little of your sanity.)
Derek just doesn’t like the idea of cities, for now, and he doesn’t
necessarilymind doing meagre jobs just to get his hands busy. Like, walking
dogs at the park or doing construction labour around the neighbourhood, but
Laura would probably take his framed degree back in their apartment and murder
him in cold blood with it.
The sun is beginning to set on day four and the heat slowly being replaced with
an evening draft, skies meshing away in aurora pinks and navy. That’s when an
idea strikes him, and okay, fine. Maybe Derek’s thinking of Stiles when the
thought comes to him.
(What? He hasn’t seen the kid in fourdays. He went cold turkey, he’s allowed
some downtime to think of him, okay?)
It’s also the first time he willingly calls Talia in five years. The last being
when he graduated out from College and Laura made him call her. When he said
made, Derek meant that Laura physically forced it upon him. She sat on his back
and had a phone jammed right at his ear.
It was all very dramatic.
He manages to get her landline number off Laura quickly with an SOS text.
Derek’s still debating on what to say exactly when he goes to hell with it. (He
does that a lot, doesn’t he? It always seems to come back and bite him in the
ass, too.) The phone line suddenly cuts off after five rings and Talia’s voice
chirps happily into it.
“Hello Talia,” Derek greets, cringing at how awkward he sounds. No son should
ever feel this uncomfortable talking to their own mother. “Did I catch you at a
bad time?”
“Derek? Is that you, Derek?” Talia says, with tilting warmth in her voice that
Derek only remembers it as pre-divorce Talia. “Oh! I’ve heard so much about you
from Laura. Are you okay, sweetheart? How have you been? Silly me, bombarding
you with questions. It’s been such a long time, and no. I’m quite free. Just
doing some painting when you called.”
A tug of nostalgia creeps up Derek’s spine. Talia used to do that. She would
wear flowy summer dresses and have acrylics and charcoal lining at the sides of
her palms, face flushed with such contentment whenever she finishes a piece of
work.
When he was five, Derek used to quietly watch her work in the attic with stacks
of art supplies strewn everywhere. He used to think his mom was a fallen angel,
or some sorts, with an old Carpenter’s song humming under her breath and wisps
of dark auburn hair framing her face.
She was a mom,all in all,—until she wasn’t.
“It’s—I’m fine.” He answers lamely, instead.
“Are you, really?” She asks softly. Derek fiddles with the drawstrings of his
sweatpants. She continues, “Laura told me you’re in California. Updated me that
you’re actually in Beacon Hills. Are you staying in our—” Her breath catches a
little. “—inthe old family house? I didn’t sell it.”
“Yeah.” Derek answers airily. “Yeah, I am. The, uh, key’s still where we used
to hide it and I didn’t want to spend money on a motel room. It was a last
minute decision. I hope that’s okay? I paid off the electricity bills and
such.”
“Of course its fine, Derek. I kept the house for mostly that reason, too.” She
tells. “I just knew that one day either you or Laura may want to go home and,
well. I didn’t need the house, or the money that comes with it. I just—” She
pauses. “I’m just glad that you called, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.”
Derek clears his throat, feels the twinge of guilt snapping at his fingertips.
“Sorry. It’s inexcusable for me not to call, but—”
“I get it.” Talia cuts in, wistfully. “I was in a bad place and didn’t fulfil
my roles the way I should have. You two were still kids and I—” She stops
wetly. Derek thinks she hears her sniffling through the static. “Even as a kid,
you were never a big fan of drawing negativity into your life. I get it,
sweetheart. I don’t hold it upon your head.”
A silence hovers, pulls, until Derek says softly, almost whispers it. “I did
miss you, too, y’know?”
Talia laughs. It’s a gentle tinkle of sound that Derek remembers it being
painted against the walls of their house during his childhood. “I’m glad. I am.
Are you settling alright, away from Laura and the city? The house is quite big
for just one person, too.”
“It’s been quiet.” Derek tells. “Different from NYC but it’s been okay. More
than okay, actually.” He doesn’t mean to elaborate but apparently, his tongue
didn’t get the memo. “I’ve been spending most of the days back here with Deputy
Stilinski and his son. They’ve really been very welcoming.”
“Ah,” Talia coos fondly. “John. He’s a good man, and, yes. I remember his son,
too. Stiles, was it?”
“Yeah. Stiles. Uh. That’s his name.”
“He used to spend all his time around the bookstore, even helped out a few
times whenever new stocks came in. He’s a good kid. Are they doing well?”
“They are.” Derek answers, thinking back on that evening they spent gathered
around the living hall and John quoting Finding Nemo lowly under his breath and
Stiles pinching him at the thigh, with something akin to pride flushing at his
cheeks. A small smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Stiles definitely still
is a firecracker, and John is doing great.”
“And you? Are you doing well?” Talia asks, honestly and quickly adds. “And none
of that that you’ve been feeding to Laura. I want the truth. It’s all I ask.”
Derek pinches at the bridge of his nose, huffing. Sometimes he forgets that
Laura and Talia share the same persisting personality. It’s a real winner,
truly. “I am, really.” He assures. “California will always be home, y’know?
It’s… nice. The change. I’m even planning to stay, too.”
“You are?” She sounds surprised. “What about New York?”
He sighs heavily. “New York was…” Derek drawls off, thinking of a way to put
it. “It was an adventure. But, I think I’ve reached my quota for that. I like
it here, back in Beacon Hills. Maybe it won’t offer me great things like back
in the city will; I do think it was time.”
Talia hums accordingly, accepting. “I understand.” She says slowly. “Arizona’s
nice, but it’s definitely no Beacon Hills.”
Derek nods his head sagely, lets the pulling moment of quite settle in the
receiver.
“Alright,” Talia starts. “Not that I don’t like catching up with you, Derek,
but I know you. You called me for a reason, especially since I had no short
notice from Laura that you’d be calling. Did you need something?”
Derek coughs out an awkward laugh, “Yeah, um, kind of? I don’tneedsomething,
just permission? I don’t know about the legal affairs, though.”
“Oh? Legal affairs? What’s wrong?”
“No—” Derek says quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not in trouble or anything.
Laura would probably fly down to shoot me if I was.” He hems and haws for a
second, wondering how to go about it and decides to just let the words roll off
his tongue instead.
“Uh—it’s actually about the bookstore.”
“My bookstore?”
“Yeah, that.” Derek answers. His palm is getting clammy with the firm grip he
has on the phone. “I’ve, well, been back for a month and, uh, it’s difficult to
get a job down here. I’ve sent out resumes but small towns don’t really need
what I have to offer. It got me thinking a little. Might also have something to
do with Laura intimidating me quite a bit.”
Talia chuckles, “She definitely takes after me, then.” She pauses. “So, you
want to work at the bookstore?”
Derek makes a noise of agreement. “Yeah. I know it’s closed down and all, but I
really do want to have it up again.” Don’t say it’s for Stiles—don’t do it.
You’re tougher than that. “I, uh—I drove around the venue yesterday, checked it
out, and the place is still vacant. But, I don’t know if it’s still legally
attached under your name.”
He knows the nobody’s really interested in taking up that place, too even
though it’s in the heart of town, down an alley and beside a quaint café run by
community college goers. Beacon Hills is a small town, probably packed with
less than a thousand head and word spreads like forest fires around here.
Especially since Charles fucking (literally) off with a minor was the gossip of
the decade, making Talia the sad widow living in the big ol’ house up the
preserve with two unruly teenagers on her hands.
Nobody would want to situate themselves into Talia’s aura of shittiest luck,
and they had all the right reasoning too. Charles was a family man, hosted
monthly barbecue gatherings and all that, even did up some activities at the
annual Hills Fair.
Sure, they’re at the edge of California, land of the free and what’s not, but
some of the folks down here are pretty traditional. And quite superstitious
about bad omen.
Derek gets it, he doesn’t blame the locals and well, he’s got nothing to lose
anyway. Except John’s due respect if ever comes to know about his sick, twisted
ideas that he has with Stiles, of course. But other than that, not really.
“Of course it’s fine,” Talia finally mutters, breathily and it sounds like
she’s smiling. “It would be nice too. For the kids. Everything’s online
nowadays but nothing could ever beat the smell of old books. It’ll be good for
‘em.”
Derek hums in agreement, “Give some depth of culture to these California kids,
you mean?”
She laughs, “Yes. However, I don’t think it’s under my name anymore, though.
The bookstore. Not legally, that is.”
“Okay. I’ll just double check the contracts if it is. But, uh,” He stumbles.
“Is it alright if I kept the original name of the bookstore? Just—it’s nice,
y’know? Very… reminiscing. It’d be wrong if I changed it otherwise.”
Talia coughs out a wet chuckle, “That would make me extremely happy, Derek.”
And that is that.
Derek is being given the go-ahead. He stays on the phone for another five more
minutes with Talia, letting her voice coat like nostalgia and familiar warmth
as she exchanges information about Arizona’s heat and where she’s been living
in the last three years. It’s… nice.
Maybe a little of the bitterness he holds out on Talia burns out that evening.
-
It’s been a week and two days. (Who’s counting? Derek isn’t.)
John, however, calls on the third.
-
Derek is padding around restlessly in the study, heels dragging against the
carpet as he scratches at his now week old beard. He’s reviewing the first
drafted blueprint for the bookstore. He’s been working on integrating some of
Talia’s old designs of the place meanwhile also incorporating some of his own
touch on it.
He wants to draw in the hipsters since it’s his main target audience (beggars
can’t be choosers, especially since he’s opening up a bookstore. He needs to be
honest with the market demands). So, yes, he pens down vinyl records, maybe?on
a post-it.
That’s when his phone goes off, vibrating on the desk as it flashes with John’s
name on the caller id.
Derek frowns at it. John never calls, not since he exchanged numbers with him
and Melissa since when he brought Scott and Stiles out for a movie that first
time. Pale flashes of Stiles in trouble ping in his head and it goes too quick
for Derek to harness a solid thought on what John may actually be calling him
for but still, the guilt gnaws at his throat nonetheless.
He should’ve been there but he’s hiding out in this damn house.
Quickly, he picks up the phone and answers worriedly, stumbling over words.
“John. What’s… what’s wrong? Is Stiles—”
“Derek,” John cuts him off. “Stiles’ fine, nothing to worry about, except maybe
he’s being a little nosier than usual. But, well, that’s m’son for you.”
Derek releases an awkward, wheezing noise. He’s never made that sound before
but the faint embarrassment is quickly swept away by relief flooding back to
his fingertips because Stiles is fine—he’s not hurt or anything. That surge of
guilt from before and the impending adrenaline starts to settle from one breath
to the next.
“Also, Hale. I’m a cop.”
Uh oh. Derek’s busted. He’s going to jail, for sure. Probably getting a tenner
for giving Stiles that damn belly rub—fuck. It was nice while it lasted, life.
Hello orange coloured overalls.
“Don’t think I haven’t notice you’ve been going AWOL on us the last week. At
least give the poor boy some warning next time—he’s been attaching himself on
me now. Like a damn octopus.”
The sound he emits is close to the one before but less humiliating, more like a
gurgle of laughter that got stuck at the back of his tongue. He hears Stiles
yelling softly through the receiver, voice muffled. “Hey! M’ a koala bear! Not
an octopus. Get it right, dad.”
“Uh, sorry.” Derek finally says ruefully. He is apologetic, but it’s more parts
of shame than anything else. “I’ve, well, been getting some job stuff sorted
out. I also, uh, didn’t want to seem like I was intruding since I’ve taken
quite a bit of time from the both of you.” He adds. “Especially Stiles.”
“Aw hell,” John cries mockingly. “Quit giving me that rubbish. You know you’re
always welcomed over here.”
“Still—”
“Don’t argue with me, son.” John tells kindly, voice filled with warmth. He
reminds Derek a little of Charles, pre-minor. “I am the law, and the law says
you should get yourself down here because I need babysitting duty for this
monster.”
“Oh?”
“Scott had a really bad asthma attack.” He informs. “Melissa’s got him down at
the hospital so she’s got her hands full. I’ve got a night shift I can’t get
out and also, I’m pretty sure most of the deputies down at the station would
willingly pay me a grand to murder Stiles.”
“What is this? Insult your son day?” Stiles wails faintly in the background.
“Also, ugh, dad. I’m ten. I don’t need a babysitter, okay?” He whines
petulantly. “Derek, c’mon. Be a good buddy and tell dad that I’m old enough to
not need a babysitter.”
Derek hears a quiet smack of flesh and John’s wincing groan. “Hey, stop the
parental abuse. Also, weren’tyou the one who wanted Derek to come over ten
minutes ago?”
“Shh!” Stiles squeaks out and then the line rumbles with dry static that Derek
has to pull the phone away from his ear for a second. It sounds like John
dropped the phone on the ground. “Don’t embarrass me! He can hear you!”
“Oh, stuff it, kid.” John tells and then his voice is distinct at Derek’s ear
again. “Sorry ‘bout that. I got tackled from the octopus kid. Anyway, why don’t
you round up in thirty? My shift starts at the next hour, if that’s okay with
you?”
Derek tries to tame the stupid grin on his face. What? Stiles is adorable and
he can’t—oh, shut up. You are not the judge of anyone, conscience. “Sure. I
have nothing holding me up. I’ll be there.”
Before the call clicks off, Derek hears Stiles murmuring sulkily at John. “You
are definitely not getting any best father presents for your birthday. More
like worst father. Hmph.”
The smile stays even when he’s driving over to the Stilinski’s.
-
Derek knocks tentatively at the door. He’s rolling the car keys at the ball of
his palm and kicks at the imaginary speck of dust on the welcome mat—he’s not
nervous. He’s not. Whatever, sue him. He hears a ‘coming’ being shouted through
the door and seconds later, it’s being gingerly opened and John appears behind
it.
John’s all worn out lines pressed at the corners of his eyes and faint dark
circles that draws Derek’s immediate attention. He looks exhausted, kind of how
he looked pre-Derek when they were stood awkwardly at the checkout counter.
It leaves a low unplesantry brewing at the base of his spine.
John greets him while ushering him into the house, saying. “Thanks for doing
this, Derek. I know it’s on really short notice.” He purses his lips,
considering. “I could pay you for the night? You probably had some important
things to do but my neck was on the line.”
“No, no. Nothing important.” Derek waves his hand, shutting down that
proposition. The idea of being paid to spend time with Stiles is—it’s wrong.
Awful. He doesn’t like it at all. “Don’t. I won’t accept your money, John.”
“We could do the standard hours? What is it nowadays? Six bucks an hour?”
Derek grimaces. It’s not exactly ajob to be around Stiles. Hell, Derek thinks
that he should be the one paying since, you know. He’s eventually going to pay
for Stiles’ therapy. “It’s fine. Really but I don’t think you’re going to put
this down, so…” He considers. “How about if a home cooked meal is up for
discussion—no money, then yes.”
John laughs softly and pats him on the back. “I’ll see you here on Friday,
then.”
Derek is about to reply him with a reciprocal back pat when Stiles’ voice comes
bursting through the thin walls of the house. “Dad? Daaad!” He yells and it
sounds like it’s coming from upstairs. “Is that Derek? Is he here? Gimme one
second and I’ll be down!”
“Don’t tell him I said this,” John whispers conspiratorially, darting his eyes
up the staircase and to Derek. “But, kid’s tryna get all spiffy for you. Even
asked me where I placed his best jeans at.”
That earns a soft huff from Derek, eyes crinkling.
He’s about to say something along the lines of ‘Your son is the fucking cutest
and I want to do bad-good things to him. So, please arrest me before I do said
things and possibly warrant myself into jail for the rest of eternity’ but then
a stampede of clumsy footsteps are tumbling down the stairs, interrupting him.
Stiles leaps off the second last step with a triumph noise and then he’s
lunging towards Derek.
“Dur-ek!” He mock cries and before Derek knows it, he’s being slightly knocked
back, a soft oofleaving his mouth when Stiles actually flings himself bodily
around him. “You’re here again! I thought you no longer wanted to be my friend!
But, you’re here!”
John is chuckling at his son’s antics, shooting Derek an apologetic look. “Ease
up, koala. He’s not a tree.”
“He’s my tree,” Stiles pouts, looking up at Derek. There’s that look. “Aren’t
you?”
Derek hums sagely while that pair of doe eyes are slowly tossing him into the
depths of hell and he has to stop his hand from actually going to edge the hair
away that’s covering his eyes. “Yes. I am the revised version of Mother Nature.
Pretty sure you’ll get the note of confirmation soon enough.”
He gives a shrug at John, in his own way saying that it’s okay, nothing to be
sorry about. Your colleagues may want to execute him, but never Derek.He’d be
the knight in shining armour to fend off these preposterous creatures, without
sweeping Stiles off his feet, of course.
Derek’s notthat type of cliché.
Stiles seem to accept his answer and beams up at him before he starts to nuzzle
his cheek against Derek’s hip, arms tightening around his waist. He may be
internally chanting a prayer of strength in every language he knows so that he
won’t pop an erection there and then. Damn it. He really shouldn’t have gone
the last week without masturbating.
“See, dad.” Stiles harrumphs and finally lets go of Derek, sliding his way down
until his feet anchors back on the ground again. “Told you.”
“Of course,” John relents, rolling his eyes fondly. “You are the knowledgeable
son. I keep forgetting.”
“That’s right.” He declares proudly, puffing his chest out. “All the smarts in
the family goes to me. Aha!” Then he focuses back at Derek. “You—” He points
his finger. “—are not forgiven for leaving me and Scott alone for the last
week, though.”
“Um,” Derek stutters and tries meekly with a, “I had grown up thingies to do?”
There’s no point in trying to defend himself, actually. He’s been around the
both of them for the last month and whenever has errands to run, he’d usually
inform Stiles the day prior.
Stiles sees through it, narrowing his eyes and his lips tightening. “Nope.
Still not forgiven. You’ve got a lot of making up to do, old man.”
John chokes out a loud laugh at that and it digs fondness into Derek. He cuffs
Stiles at the back of his neck, “Alright, alright. Break it up you two.” He
glances over to Derek. “How’s the job coming along? Good?”
“It is,” He smiles, small. “Trying to get Talia’s bookstore up and running
again.”
Stiles gapes up at him, blinking hurriedly before he pinches Derek at the waist
with a soft yip. “Oh my god! Are you really?” Then he tugs at John’s nicely
ironed uniform that earns him a hand batting. “Dad! The bookstore is going up
again! Eeee! Best. Day. Ever.”
John squeezes his fingers deftly before releasing his clutch on Stiles’ nape.
“I think you just gave my son an aneurysm.”
Derek chuckles (definitely not a giggle) because, well, the main reason he
wanted to do up the bookstore is because of Stiles in the first place. “So… am
I forgiven yet? Or do I still need to grovel?”
“Hmm,” Stiles considers, biting at his bottom lip. “Fine, because I loved that
bookstore, but only for now! You still need to give me, y’know.” He lowers his
voice. “—the secret cookies that dad doesn’t know.”
“I am standing right beside you, Stiles and still have perfect hearing.”
“Uh—I mean, the secret… secret… lab! Yes. Look, Dur-ek. We have banana muffins!
I helped bake it this afternoon!”
Derek gets willingly dragged into the kitchen while Stiles’ small hand clutches
onto his little finger. He’s pretty okay with it, nothing biggie. Definitely
not yelling ecstatically inside like a hopeless teenager with a terrible crush
(“He’s holding my hand!”). Nope. He’s cool—collected.
Derek’s probably iceman now with how extremely cool he is.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Stiles asks suddenly, giving him an awkward
look.
“I—nothing.” Derek stutters, heat flushing at the high points of his cheeks. He
stuffs his mouth with a handful of muffin. “Nothin’s wr’ng wif mah f’ce. Let
m’eat in peece.”
-
“And…” Stiles drawls, studiously listening to the cruiser’s engine starting up
at the garage before it finally drives away, leaving a wake of silence in its
hold. “—dad has left the building!” He cheers victoriously.
Derek scoffs out a laugh because how can he not with Stiles standing on the
couch, arms thrown high above his head. “We, and by we, it’s really I, who
promised your dad that there would be no skateboarding. So, don’t even think
about it.”
Stiles sticks his tongue out at him and flops down onto the couch. “You’re no
fun. Your grown up thingies have sucked all the fun out of you. Gimme back my
Dur-ek, you—you creature!”
“You’ll live,” Derek remarks offhandedly. He glances at the selection of DVDs
stacked beside the television. “How about we watch a couple of movies before
bed time?”
“Fun sucker,” Stiles emphasizes once more before he crawls over to Derek. He
absolutely does not think that Stiles looks like a kitty cat—he does not.
Especially on his hands and knees with a cute button nose to boot. “Can we
watch Frozen? Dad got it on Blu-ray last week.”
“Sure,” Derek shrugs and plucks the disc out from the pile before he puts it
on.
“You know,” Stiles starts, pinching at a thread of his quite frayed shirt. It’s
probably an old one too, worn from too many laundry cycles and fits a little
too tightly at the abdomen region but loose at the shoulders, probably from
Scott pulling at it while playing. It’s his go-to move. “Me and Scott were
actually planning to remove you from the three musketeers since you started
ignoring me.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.” Derek huffs plaintively. Liar, his mind bellows
hypocritically. “I spoke to Laura, my sister. Remember her? I told you she was
still in New York. She wanted me to get a job, so—I did.”
“Well,” Stiles murmurs, sinking into himself on the couch. “You’ve could’ve at
least called.”
Derek blows out a breath, scoots over closer while the credits roll on the
credit. “Yeah, I should’ve. I will next time, alright?”
“Promise?”
Derek lifts his little finger out and when Stiles doesn’t respond, he bops at
his nose. “Don’t leave me hanging, baby boy.”
“M’ not a baby,” Stiles juts his bottom lip out and reluctantly hooking his own
pinkie around Derek’s.
“I promise to call next time.” Derek solemnly swears but doesn’t add cross my
heart and hope to die, because, yeah, no. They’re not making a recess pact or
something. Nothing thatdramatic. “Also, now that the bookstore is opening up
soon, I may need a little helper…”
“Me!” Stiles chirps up, eyes wide and bright and seemingly forgotten that he’s
supposed to be upset with Derek. He sidles closer, thigh pressing against
Derek’s hip. “I can help! I’m small too! So, I can like, get into the little
places that the books fall! I’ll be a fantastic helper!”
“Ooh,” Derek teases. “Big word for such a small guy.”
“Heyyy,” Stiles whines, poking him at the ribs.
He’s in a playful mood today, Stiles, and that probably accounts to why he
crawls into the empty space of Derek’s lap, settling, so that his body is
twisted around until he’s actually straddling him. Christ. This must be a test
created by the devil—or angels. He doesn’t even know anymore.
“I’m notthat small,” Stiles points out. “I’ve grown a little bit this week, if
you must know. But! I’ll be your little helper. Please, Dur-ek? I’ll be
sogood.”
A zing of arousal strikes like gold heat at his crotch. Derek rasps out, “Oh,
really? You’ll be a good boy? For me?”
Stiles nods his head eagerly, promising. “The good-est.”
Derek chuckles and doesn’t stop himself when he leans in to press a chaste peck
against his forehead, “That’s not a real word.”
“Nuh-uh, it is.”
“Alright, alright.” Derek relents because he knows they’ll continue with this
back and forth for ages. He’s had this exact same conversation with Stiles
multiple of times whenever he makes up his own word and Dereknever wins. “You
are thebest boy. Now, turn around. You’re missing the movie. They’re chopping
ice, it’s a big deal.”
Stiles pouts at him, thick eyelashes fanned across his fattened cheeks that it
makes Derek’s resolute crumbles a little. He’s a goddamn wet dream, that’s what
he is. Stiles finally wills himself to pay attention to the movie when the
first song starts but still accost to sitting on his lap, only struggling
around so that he’s turned towards the television.
“Uh,” Derek stumbles out, coughing. “You do know that there’s a lot of space on
the couch, right?”
“Yep,” Stiles replies smugly and Derek just knows that he probably has a shit
eating grin to follow with it. “But you make a better couch. Also, I’ve missed
you because you were ignoring me the last week ‘cause you’re a big, ol’ smelly
poop.”
Derek doesn’t have the heart to shove him off, then. Not that he even wants to
before that, really.
Stiles is a small kid and he fits against him just nicely, with his back
curving and moulding to the little dips of Derek’s chest and stomach. He can
almost hear the faint click of them finally joining together when Stiles
decides to get really comfortable, shifting a few inches back while his bottom
is resting snugly on his thighs.
The first twenty minutes of the movie goes by and it’s good—innocent. Stiles
snuffles into the back of his palm a little when the white haired chick starts
to ignore her younger sister. It’s all Disney prime material for urging potent
tears from adolescent kids (and maybe Derek too, but he’s going to deny it. He
only cries at Lion King because he’s loyal like that).
But, as soon the movie picks up and frosty the snowman (yes, Derek knows that’s
not its name but, you know what. It’s fuckingfrosty for him. What kind of name
is an Olaf?), Stiles starts to squirm on his lap whenever the music throws out
a catchy tune.
That’s when the lap seating gets not too, uh, virtuous.
Especially when the white haired lady starts to lose her shit and the song is
an upbeat rhythm. (Derek’s also mildly worried that she may cause an avalanche
but Stiles may not get the reference since he probably doesn’t know what the
heck an avalanche is.)
He should start to make a somewhat believable excuse and scoot away. Or,
probably even push Stiles off him when his cock starts to fatten up in his
three quarter pants since Stiles starts to dance along to the fast beat of the
song, bobbing against his thigh like he’s oblivious to the fact that he’s being
the worst goddamn cock tease in the world, but he can’t.
Derek likes the solid weight of Stiles pressing down on top of him, bodily
warmth seeping under his clothes and festering under his skin into bright
bursts of arousal. He’s sporting a semi now but thankfully, the song ends.
However, Stiles starts to babble out commentary about the movie, shifting about
on his thigh.
“Y’know,” Stiles starts and twists a little to take a peek at Derek’s face.
It’s nice and all because of eye contact but when he does that, Stiles’ butt
shifts against his getting there stiff cock, placing all the right types of
pressure against it to make it go full mast.
He blows out a loud exhale, stifling the groan in the shallow of his mouth.
“What?” He grits out, not too harshly though. Stiles is sensitive to things
like that—said once that it was something Scott’s dad used to do, talk down on
him in that condescending, brute way which made Derek venomous with rage that
day.
“You kinda look like that guy.” Stiles indicates with a nudge of his shoulder
at the screen. “The ice guy.”
“No, I don’t.” Derek disagrees with a shake of his head, holding firmly onto
Stiles’ hips to prevent him from moving again. He’s really hard right now and
already feels the slick already pooling at his cockhead—he doesn’t need Stiles
wondering why he has something poking at his little butt.
He already has one crisis going on, giving the sex talk is not one he wishes to
will upon himself.
“You do,” Stiles persists, squinting at the television before continuing. “It’s
the nose, I think. If he has dark hair like you, and a beard! He’d definitely
look like you.”
Derek would argue with him that he does not, absolutely do not look like that
guy. The nose on him is a little chunky, isn’t it? However, all the blood has
rushed to the south, leaving him a little light headed and too turned on while
watching a fucking Disney movie to actually deliver a conclusive argument with
a ten year old, so he bumps Stiles’ cheek with his head, urging him to pay
attention.’
It goes on like that for almost the entirety of the movie and Derek’s pretty
sure that he has a zipper imprint on his dick by the time Anna is at the brink
of death.
Also, he learnt that his cock can deflate into a semi chub and then become an
unyielding pressure of want in less than twenty seconds. That and he’s being
edged by a prepubescent kid—almost to the point where if he actually up and
leaves to the bathroom and gets a hand around his shaft, he’d come in several
strokes.
Derek never wanted it go this far. (That’s a lie. He did.) It’s not a good idea
since the front of shorts are probably already staining with pre-come and he’s
just—hot all over from valiantly trying on not creaming in his pants. There’s
sweat pooling at the back of his knees, at his pits, and beading at his
forehead.
He’s literally a string being pulled taut and as soon the movie ends, he’s
going to excuse himself and probably blow a load into the sink.
Fuck, hereally needs to come right now.
Of course that’s when the movie picks up with its climax (ha) and Stiles starts
to squirm brazenly in his lap, shifting and pressing against his swollen cock
like the most gratuitous of pleasure. He starts shouting, too and his voice
rumbles and vibrates against Derek’s chest, “Oh my god! Anna can’t die! Kiss
her, you big oaf!”
“Stiles,” Derek rasps out warningly. His voice is wrecked—almost fucked out.
“Stop movin’ around.”
“But!” Stiles cries and the scene plays out, dramatic music flowing out through
the tinny of the television speakers. “Oh no, oh no. Dur-ek, I can’t watch
this. My heart can’t take it. I cannot do it.”
Then Stiles is trying to struggle himself around so that he’s facing Derek,
pulling his knees up so they’re bracketed around his thighs. He swoops into
Derek’s neck and clutches the front of his shirt into the small of Stiles’
fist, leaning front and that angle twists something like fire at his
groin—lighting up like peaks of untamed goodness.
“Oh god,” Derek whimpers shallowly, breaths labouring against Stiles’ shoulder.
He’s fighting on just thrusting up against Stiles’ ass but he keeps his hands
firm at the side so that he won’t reach around and just—gripthemselves onto the
pert, fullness of them. “Stop. Moving.”
“Fine, fine.” Stiles acquiesces but nuzzles against his neck, unbeknownst to
his wasting sanity. He shifts away, probably to say something but the movement
catches against his cockhead, dragging this tenfold, silky pleasure down to the
roots of his toes.
Derek clenches his eyes shut, trying to focus on his entire being on not coming
(don’t do it, don’t come, don’t). He’s heaving by now, and his hands have moved
from being deadened hangers by his side to gripping Stiles at the hips, thumbs
digging lightly into the soft pudginess of flesh.
“Derek?” Stiles murmurs, and it’s so soft, warm breath pelting against his
cheeks. “You’re all sweaty. Are you okay? Are you sick? I can call my dad if
you are.”
“No—don’t. Don’t call your dad.” Derek roughs out, and just. Fuck it.
He jerks up onto Stiles, digs his cock up to beginning curve of his ass and the
friction welcomes his straining cock so blessedly that Derek has to muffle a
groan against Stiles’ small shoulder. “Oh god, don’t move, Stiles. Okay? Say
you won’t move.”
If he pulls away, he’d see the slightly confused, dazed look on Stiles’ face
but he won’t. Derek can’t look at Stiles right now because he’s takingfrom him
right now and that’s—that’s what he never wanted to do. But, he’s so hard and
at the verge of shooting white inside his boxers that he can’t control it
anymore.
“Okay, m’ not moving.” Stiles replies shakily and he’s twining his arms around
the back of Derek’s neck, face pushing into the little dip of his collar and
neck. “I’ll be a good boy.”
Derek grunts lowly and then mouths the sound into the worn fabric of Stiles’
shirt, teething at it because he is. Stiles always has been so good for him—to
him, especially right now. It’s almost like the boy senses what he needs, even
though unknowing, because he starts to urge himself a little, nothing too
glaringly obvious or sensual and definitely not as deft like how the teenagers
he used to fuck would grind their cute, little bubble ass filthily against his
cock.
No, Stiles is unsure, lazy movements, haltingly from one gyration to the next,
and so indicative of the person that he is. Derek whines at the back of his
throat, finally releasing the cloth from his mouth and that’s when he sees pale
skin—he dives into it.
He leaves an open mouthed kiss on it first, not near the column of his neck,
lower, below his collarbone. Then he sucks the thin skin into his mouth,
teasing and bruising it against his upper teeth that Stiles starts to actually
make these soft, whimper-like noises against Derek’s neck.
“Hurts, Derek. It hurts.” Stiles whines and claws at his nape, fingernails
etching half-moons there.
And god—Stiles is making these delicious noises Derek wants to capture into his
mouth, and it emboldens him, kindling velvety fervour at the base of his cock,
making his shaft swell even thicker. He’s so close, so fucking close to the
edge of free fall, and Derek knows there’s no turning back now. He can’t, not
when he has a lapful of Stiles and he’s fucking his cock into the shallow of
his ass cheeks.
He’s going to hell anyway so he finally ghosts his hands down to Stiles’ little
butt and it drags out this long, strangled mewl from Stiles once he gets his
hands on it.
“What—what’re you going?” Stiles asks confusedly but his voice is clearly shot,
squeaking a little. “Dad says that my buttock is private. I can’t let anyone
touch it.”
Derek wishes he was a better man, not controlled by his cock but he’s so
close—seconds away from bursting his load for his little boy. “Please,” He
cries softly, yearning permission as he ruts up against Stiles again, squeezing
his ass cheeks and urging him down.
He’s near already, feels his balls already drawing up and tightening while the
crown of his cockhead is tightening, preparing to spurt. Derek jerks up again,
once more, sliding his body sensually so that it’s a long sleek move when he
rucks up against Stiles’ ass and then he’s just chasing it. He starts to fuck
up, unabashed, mouthing weakly at the already bruised skin.
Derek’s panting, a low growl rumbling at his chest. “I’m—” Don’t say fuck.
Don’t curse in front of the kid. “Fuck—you feel so good, Stiles. So good.” Then
deliberately spreads Stiles’ cheeks in between his fingers, feeling the thin
fabric of his pants melding with the action.
Then, he roughs him down against his cock, squeezing Stiles tighter, closer to
him as he ruts his cock up repeatedly, feeling the slick of his foreskin
pulling just rightly and then he’s releasing, cock throbbing to the rapid
flutter of his heartbeat with each clench of his orgasm.
He’s pulling long drags of air, tongue darting out to soothe the worried skin
littered along Stiles’ collarbone. God, what did he just do? Fuck—he just. Oh
god. His come is starting to settle, mocking like disdain and his piss poor
restraint.  
“Did you just—” Stiles gasps; shifting away from Derek so that he has a good
look at him. Derek clenches his eyes closed. He feels abominable, no, scratch
that. He is abominable. There is a man like Robin Thicke, and then there’s him,
several levels and shit hells below. “You said a bad word!”
“I’m—”Humiliated. Revolted. Yet, Derek still wants to go for another one more
time. Several times, actually, until his cock starts to chafe in his crusted
underwear. Fuck. Derek’s all types of fucked up. He’s crossed the line. He’s a
fucking immigrant now at the land of no return.
The child molester who has come staining on his pants.
Regardless all that, Derek’s not sorry it happened. Derek wanted it—he did. He
never meant to touch Stiles, he didn’t because that isn’t right but he did, had
two handfuls of Stiles’ ass cheeks in his palm, gripping and squeezing.
Derek blinks his eyes open, slowly and Stiles’ bottom lip is worried into a
flushed shade of dark ruby, like he had been chewing on it for the last few
minutes. This little boy will be the end of him. It will, and he’ll be stuck in
cuffs, thrown in a cell with grey walls and bright overalls.
“You were being a naughty boy, too.”
Stiles’ bottom lip quivers then, eyes wetting. “No—I wasn’t. You said I was
being a good boy. You did.” He persists on. “But you said a bad word. You
said—”
Derek mutes the word with a finger on his lips. He doesn’t want Stiles to ever
say it. Not now, at least. Maybe when he’s two years older, in the midst of
puberty and his voice would dip like sex, predatory, as he hisses out swear
words.
“That’s because you were doing bad things to me, baby boy.”
“What—”
“You got me hard.” Derek gulps thickly, slowly entangling his fingers into
Stiles’ hair. “Then you got me off. All with your cute lil’ bum. You’ve been a
naughty boy, haven’t you, Stiles?”
“No,” Stiles mewls, shaking his head. “I wanna be good for you, Derek. M’sorry.
It wasn’t on purpose. Does that—” His breath hitches wetly. “Does that make me
the Joker now too? Like you? I don’t wanna! I want to be Batman still.”
Derek presses a smile against his temple, scooting Stiles nearer to him. “No.
You’re too adorable to pull the Joker off, I reckon.”
Stiles bats him weakly, “M’not adorable. I’m handsome.”
Derek chuckles, humming. “Very handsome, you are.”
“And smart!”
“And smart.” He echoes.
“And I—” Stiles pauses before he blabbers. “I like you a lot, a lot. Like, how
Scott likes to look at girls sometimes.” He scrunches his nose up, clearly
thinking that that’s gross. “That’s why I let you touch my butt. It’s private
but I like you so, it’s okay, right? My dad won’t scold me for it?”
Derek frowns down at him. He doesn’t want the guilt to gnaw him away just yet,
prefers for it when he’s alone back at home and wants the sated feeling of
having Stiles in his arms and the post orgasm sensitivity weighing his limbs
down.
Stiles chews at his bottom lips again and Derek smacks his tongue at that,
telling him not to do that. “Is that wrong, though, Derek? That I, uh, like
you?” He adds. “The kind that Scott says like how sometimes his mom really like
like a boy.”
Derek snorts because that’s such playground talk—like like. He nuzzles into
Stiles’ temple instead, breathes in the bubble gum shampoo he’s missed and
there’s a smidge of salty after bite of clean sweat. “No, of course not. It’s
never wrong, Stiles, to like a boy. Or a girl. I promise. But, other people
will think that it’s wrong, though. That we’re wrong.”
The law, for one.
“Why?” He asks.
“Because—” Derek starts, shifting awkwardly when the drying come starts to
stick on his pubes. “I’m not good for you, Stiles, but I’ve tried staying away.
I did, for one week. The last week, that’s why I haven’t been around. I’m not a
bad person, but I’m not good either. You just—you’re my weakness and my
strength.”
“Well,” Stiles harrumphs, throwing his arms around Derek again and pulling him
into a hug. “You’re my best friend now and I like you a lot. It’s that easy.”
“It’s—” He sighs. “I’ll explain it to you soon enough. Properly, okay?”
“Okay. Promise?”
“Promise,” Derek holds out his little finger for Stiles to hook onto. “Alright,
I gotta wash up a little. Getting a little weird with the—um, yeah. You
probably wouldn’t even know. But, I’ll be quick. I’ll get a refill of the
popcorn too.”
He struggles up from the couch, watching Stiles flail over the empty space,
lengthening his entire body out on it, putting his arms behind his head. Derek
has control—he has, so he starts to walk away although albeit awkwardly when
Stiles yells out a, “I want the buttered ones, okay? Not salted!”
Okay, maybe Derek likelikes Stiles a lot too. 
Chapter End Notes
     I apologize. I have this condition where I procrastinate the ever
     loving shit out of writing but tis' be a long chapter! I honestly
     started this fic with this exact smut scene and I don't know what
     exactly happened, the plot just decided to vomit itself at me and
     suddenly I have like 28k. What the fuck. I really, *really* need to
     learn how to write PWP from the get-go. But, thank you for all your
     lovely comments. They mean the whole world to me, especially as I
     have been very uninspired by the fandom's wank the last few days.
     They keep me going :*
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                                   Chapter 5
 
It’s Friday.
The temperature is pelting its last vestiges of summer heat onto Derek; kissing
lazy tendrils of warmth that seeps into his already sweat clammy skin. He’s
foregone the jeans today after he was done with his morning shower. Instead,
has on a pair of fitting light navy shorts and thrown on with a basic white
tank to cool off further.
Derek’s picking up some juice in town before heading over to the Stilinski’s.
He’s getting John green plum juice, which also is sort of a silent ‘I know we
promised dinner but I’m here a little bit earlier which I hope you don’t notice
as it’s barely even noon’type of juice.
It may prove futile, though.
He’s also considering on getting Stiles a surprise orange juice (without pulp,
of course) to make his late morning, and maybe as a peace offering for the past
week.
A light shudder courses down his back when Derek thinks back to an incident two
weeks ago. Stiles and he got into a mildly heated argument, although amusing on
some degree, about pulp in juices.
Derek’s always been a pulp guy. He likes the texture, not overly chewy like
aloe vera always is, or smooth like grass jelly. He likes it mostly because it
stays coating on his tongue long after the drink is finished—sort of like come
does. (He doesn’t tell that to Stiles, though.)
Stiles, however, likes it creamy with a dollop of pressed juice foam at the
top.
(His mind may have gotten into the gutter then.)
As Derek  approaches the porch of the Stilinski’s, double fisting John and
Stiles’ juices, etches of guilt steadily creeps up on him as he pads through
the front lawn. It’s not as though he smashed his head against a wall and
completely forgotten what happened the day before yesterday with Stiles, nor
has he been actively avoiding thinking about it.
He tried, but how could he?
It’s constantly being replayed at the forefront of his mind, enabling a
restless sleep the last two nights. It’s a staccato of Stiles, Stiles, and
Stiles. As he tosses and turns, (Stiles), or while he brushes his teeth and
flosses in-between them, (Stiles), and even while he ties his shoelaces
(Stiles, Stiles, Stiles).
He feels a little on edge, like his skin has been drawn tight with bundling
nerves and brimming arousal, stretched and taut under sinew and muscle. It’s
almost like an itch that’s been imbedded into the marrow of his bones,
impossible to tug at.
It’s faintly similar to the first few years of puberty. When his dick was
constantly rod stiff, leaving trails of dried pre-come at the front of his
briefs that mocks him as he starts doing his own laundry. Despite that, no
matter how many pillows he manages to hump onto, or have a saliva slicked hand
wrapped around his girth—he just can’t jerk out the static arousal of his
system.
Like, it’s not enough. Never enough.
Fuck, if anything at all, Derekcan’t stop thinking about it.
Stiles was the sweetest of pleasure, all dainty and house warmed as he was
settled on his lap, oddly pliant in contrast to his thrumming, usual
personality. The harsh clashing of their laboured breaths while Derek rutted
his fattened dick against Stiles’ untouched ass, chasing for his impending
doom.
Or, the way Stiles fitted against him either.
The kid’s all soft, youthful curves pressed against the firmness of Derek’s
long, abled torso. His fingers had dug into the folding of chub collecting at
Stiles’ hips which fanned out to his thighs, meaty and pale under the soft
fabric of his boy shorts. Even the gentlest of touch, a lingering sweep of
knuckles against Stiles’ cheek, all smooth skin and baby fat clinging to the
soft frame of his face, is enough to send him into a spiral of faint
mortification.
He can’t rid of those images and he can’t even blame Stiles for it. Never for
it. Not now, not ever, really.
Not after he got that teasing taste of boy sweat hanging at the tip of his
tongue. Stiles isn’t one that could be easily forgotten, pushed to the back of
his mind like the handful of teenage tricks he had framed in some dank back
alley back in New York.
Derek just hasn’t had much time to really reflect on it. He’s spent all day
yesterday in the study, finalizing the bookstore’s blueprints and layout. He
directed all that antsy spur of energy into getting things done—procrastination
isn’t his middle name, mind you.
That, and he sort of really wants the bookstore to be done up as quickly as it
can before school completely sweeps Stiles out of their summer’s haze.
Derek peeks out the corner of his shoulder to make sure that the cranky old
lady that neighbours the Stilinski’s isn’t peering through her windows,
muttering curse words at him as she so normally does, and only then that he
discreetly adjusts himself with his forearm.
Well, at least he’s cleared from an early age erectile dysfunction. Not much
could be said about her husband.
He then nudges the front door with his elbow which quickly follows with the
bellow of clumsy footsteps and a high pitched yell of ‘I’ll get it, dad!’
Derek’s heart contributes closely with a stampede of Stiles-thud, Stiles-thud,
Stiles-thud.
It’s quite exhilarating.
Barely a second later, the door gets flung open with a long bang and instead of
being welcomed by what Derek earlier pictured while getting juice (John alerted
with a gun pointed at his crotch meanwhile two other deputies are backing him
up because he apparently saw everything that happened on Wednesday through some
hidden nanny camera), but nope.
It’s just Stiles there, fingers twisted in front of him and his shoulders
hunching in, making him look even smaller than usual. Stiles is barely scraping
four feet tall (on a good day) which means Derek always has to tilt his head
down just to maintain eye contact with the boy but—fuck all of that. Semantics,
those are.
They don’t matter.
Stiles’ age? Or the large fifteen year gap that hangs on Derek’s conscience
like the worst to-be prosecution? None of it.
However, what does matter is: this boy.
This wonderment of a child that has taken over his dreams and out of them,
infiltrates parts of his life with his usual get-go rowdiness that always make
the world seem a little too quiet in its solemn nature. Stilesis the beacon of
this small town and it frustrates Derek, terrifies him on most days, because
this… kid makes him re-evaluate everything that had once held importance in
question.
Said boy is also wearing his heart in a huge, chummy grin pasted on his face.
It makes his eyes squinty small while the apples of his cheeks flush in that
pretty pink Derek has been bringing up to jerk off for the past month.
What really makes his heart palpitate though; melting away all that lingering
guilt he held moments prior is that Stiles looks—ecstatic? to see him, instead
of being frightened away by his actions on that Wednesday evening.
The tenseness that was holding at his shoulders previously dissipates slowly.
“Hi!” Stiles chirps in greeting. His hair is askew and damp, making the tips
curl out. Derek’s hand itches to go and press them down, flattening it. “You’re
early!”
Derek coughs sheepishly as he steps through the threshold. “G’morning, Stiles.”
Stiles echoes him with a toothy grin before he tells, “I, uh, hard your car
coming through the driveway while I was taking a shower so… I didn’t wash with
soap.” He lowers his voice, giggling a little. “Don’t tell dad, tho’. He’d make
me take another shower. With soap this time.” He grimaces.
Derek tries to pull out a stoic expression out of his ass but he feels the
moment his jaw goes slack.
Don’t, Hale. Derek berates. You have more control than this. Don’t think of
Stiles naked. But— anaked Stiles. Completely nude. Bare of all clothes.
Stripped down to just pale skin and the scatter of darkened freckles dotting
his petite little body that’s all soft and yearning Derek’s palm to the
fleshiest parts.
He picks his jaw back up and tries for nonchalant this time, ducking down
slightly with a whispered tone. It comes out huskier than he expects. “You know
what they call boys that bathe without soap, kid?”
Stiles blinks up at him owlishly, stunted.
Derek feels like the big, bad wolf right now, especially with this
hungerfestering under his skin for the little boy in front of him. Fuck.
Someone really should throw him into a cell and swallow the key, or something.
Isn’t he in the home of a deputy? Where the fuck is John to haul him away and
have him locked up with the other messed up criminals of society?
“Uh…” Stiles contemplates, rubbing at his chin before he pouts, letting out a
soft harrumph. “I give up. I don’t know. What are they?”
A dirty boy, Derek wants to say. The words are already hanging at the tip of
his tongue, taunting, but instead he stutters out with a, “Well, they’re
undeserving of this delicious orange juice that I speciallygot it for someone.”
Stiles mock cries, pointing at one of the cups in his hands dramatically. “You
mean—you got orange juice? For me?” Then he ushers closer to Derek, throwing
the idea of personal space out of the front door as he grabs him by the
forearm. His fingertips don’t even meet as they curl on them. “But!But, Dur-ek,
I was just so excited to see you! You can’t take away my orange juice.”
“Stiles!” John yells, interrupting Derek’s reply. His voice sounds hollow,
distant, like it’s coming from upstairs. “What did I say about talking to
strangers at the door?”
Stiles gives him a look saying it’s not over, mister and then bellows, “Derek’s
the one at the door, dad!”
Derek’s about to open his mouth to have his presence validated when Stiles
suddenly pricks his nails into his arm, earning a bite of pain that tingles on
the small of his skin that probably have tiny half-moon indentations.
“Now, Dur-ek, orange juice. Gimme.”
Derek breathes out a laugh, amused because apparently Stiles reckons that some
sort of mild infliction of pain would have him surrendering, handing over the
juice that easily. Not quite. If anything, he’s quite a hard ass.
“What are we? Cave people now?” He plays along though. “Orange juice. No.
Stiles.”
“C’moooon,” Stiles whines, eyes batting up at him and thick, dark lashes
shadowing against his cheeks. This kid would put Jessica Rabbit to shame. “You
bought it for me! Wait—” He pauses haltingly. “There’s none of that gross
stuff, right? Because, you know I hate pulp.”
Derek shakes his head, grinning with a smidge of smugness. “Nope. Just how you
like it. Foamy at the top and still chilled since I got it ten minutes ago.”
Stiles shakes his arm with a little more force this time, although the impact
of a ten year old forcefulness pales in comparison to a fully grown adult who
works out quite regularly. Derek’s barely shaken by it which makes Stiles even
more agitated.
He weeps out an outraged groan, stomping his feet for emphasis. “I’ll share my
lunch with you! Promise.” Derek’s not easily taken by bribery either. “Dad said
he’s going to be making PB&J’s since its Friday.”
Okay, fine, he may be swayed by said bribery.
In his defence, it’s been a long time since he had a peanut butter and jam
sandwich. The last he remembered was during the first year of college when he
and Laura were still getting situated in a rented apartment in Brooklyn,
practically living off cup noodles and the odd loaf of bread every then and so.
“Christ,” John grunts, padding doing the stairs in a leisure manner. “What’s
all this commotion going on here? I nearly thought there was a wet market in my
hall. I couldn’t even hear what was being said when I was taking a work call.”
He then makes brief eye contact with Derek. “Nice to see you here, Derek.
You’re… early.”
“Uh, I got you and Stiles some juice?” Derek replies sheepishly instead, 
lightly jostling John’s drink to make a point. “Green plum for you.”
“Ah, in good timing too.” John smiles gratefully as he plucks the drink out of
Derek’s hand. “Once you reach my age, bowel movements aren’t as frequent as you
think it would be. Thanks, son.” He slurps a sip from the straw and draws a
grimace, “Maybe next time we’ll just stick to regular apples, alright?”
Derek nods, “Noted.”
Stiles probably sees this exchange between him and his father as an opportune
moment as he lunges for the orange juice on Derek’s other hand with a loud
battle cry. Derek, however and fortunately, catches it in his peripheral and
probably slightly deafened too, swiftly snatches his arm up that leaves Stiles
grasping onto thin air.
“Cheater!” Stiles wails and then angles his body slightly at John, “Daaad! Tell
Derek to give me my juice!”
His hands, however, are still gripped onto Derek’s forearm in a vice clutch,
tightening minutely as though he’s afraid that Derek may turn and run back to
his car with Stiles’ juice, roaring manically with triumph. Or something.
(Derek blames his active imaginative skills due to Stiles.)
John quirks a brow before he shrugs. “You must have done something. So… not my
problem, kid.” Then he plops himself down on thecouch, settling his juice on
the coffee table while he reaches over for the remote.
Derek grins smugly down at Stiles.
Stiles throws his arms up in defeat, “Even my father’s against me! And I am his
flesh and blood. This is not one of my good days.” He juts his bottom lip out,
showing his distaste.
Although Derek may often wax (quite) poetically about Stiles’ maturity and all
that, the boy is still a preteen. With that come its usual prepubescent traits.
The frequency of having an odd stain or two on their tees, or knobbly knees
grazed with bruises and mud grassy shins. That aside, the virtue of patience is
something even the best of kids aren’t able to quite hone to its full potential
at that age.
The kid storms his way over to the arm chair, shuffling onto it while his legs
dangle half way off the carpeted floor. He sulks directly at John’s direction,
arms crossed. “Who evendoes that, dad?” Then wheezes out a noise of annoyance.
“It’s like having Christmas presents under the tree but never opening it even
after Christmas is over!”
He then pointedly looks over at Derek who’s still lingering at the front door,
slippers finally off his feet.
“You—” Stiles points out, eyes narrowing. “—are theGrinch of orange juices.
You’ve ruined them for me! Forever, Dur-ek. That’s a long time. Now, whenever I
think of OJ’s, I’ll never,ever feel happiness again. Ever.” He then flings his
upper body in the most dramatic sense so that he’s flopped over against the arm
rest.
Derek must have some sort of screw loose in his head. Or, all of them, really,
because there’s this surge of heated fondness wrapping around his chest like
heat radiating off a fresh batch of ironed laundry. It’s too much to handle on
a late Friday morning. Especially, since Stiles is pulling out all the stops on
being way too fucking adorable with his pouty—everything.
“I’ll let you know that I would make a great Grinch.” Derek retaliates, walking
over to join John on the couch with an air of casualty because he totally
didn’t do anything on said couch. Nope. Not on this very seat. Where he
definitely didn’t soaked his briefs through with come because of his underage
(god, severelyunderage son).
Derek clears his throat, swallowing down that thickening of saliva coating
against his upper palate. “The best, actually.”
Meanwhile, John is dividing up his focus on both the television that’s
broadcasting some local Californian news and them. Whenever he glances over, an
amused expression flitters over his face like he’s enjoying their little drama
session. It’s also intimidating, on some level, because Derek can see the
silent ‘your spilt milk, your clean up’ underlain his features.
Kind of like a: you break it; you buy it, bucko—except Stiles is definitely not
for sale.
There’s a brief, uneasy tension settling in the hall, surrounding the three of
them as nobody speaks after Derek’s last words. Stiles is still slumped over
the chair, making these unhappy grunts ever y few seconds to make known that
he’s still pissed at Derek. It’s too quiet, especially since Stiles permeates
everything that isn’t cool silence.
John’s the one that breaks it with, “Oi, kid.”
Stiles grumbles out reluctantly in acknowledgement, voice muffled where his
face is smushed against the side of the armchair.
“Have you said the magic word yet?” John asks. “Wait—you do know what that is,
right?”
A miffed wheeze leaves Stiles as he struggles up, plopping upright on the seat
and his face completely flushed red. “Of course I do! I’m smart.”
“And have you said it, then?”
Stiles darts his eyes over at Derek, a smidge of panic lighting up those bright
browns. Derek is not cooing internally. No, he’s not.
“…Maybe.” Stiles answers warily. “But, still! Even if I said it, Derek still
wouldn’t give it to me! Because—because…” He trails off, clamping his mouth
shut when he realizes that the truth would lead him taking another bath.
It still baffles Derek that the concept of kids not liking their shower time.
He likes showering plenty, even since young. More so after he discovered the
use of his dick, when the bathroom gets a tad too steamy and he starts sporting
a chub due to the heat of the water.
“…Because?”
“Because!” Stiles gestures his arms wildly, eyes wide as he seeks out to Derek
for help. “Uh, ‘cause Derek’s a mean old lug!”
Derek whistles lowly under his breath, not overly impressed but there’s still a
gentle smile on his lips because it’sStiles. He’s been called worse by Laura,
anyway. “Throwing me under the bus? Never thought I’d see the way. You’ve
learnt well from me, young Padawan.”
Stiles beams up at him, seemingly settled with the praise and momentarily
forgetting about the whole orange juice debacle.
John laughs at him, though. “You’ve got him all wrapped around your tiny
finger, Hale. That, or my boy’s taken one too many falls from that skateboard
you got him and he’s lost touch with his bark.”
“Hey,” Stiles whines. “Those falls gave me battle scars, dad. We both know it.”
Then shows off a huge scab that’s starting to peel at his elbow, tinges of
dusty yellow bruising around it.
“Whatever you say, kid.” John teases. “If the ground was your enemy, that is.”
Stiles scrunches his nose at him, blowing out an offended noise and pointedly
decides to ignore his dad from now on. Since his dad was his only back-up
support for Operation: Get OJ from the Grinch, Stiles quite reluctantly
concedes defeat and thusly, probably comes up with a spurred solution to make
it up to Derek.
He limply shuffles off the arm chair and then crawls on the floor, hands and
knees, to where Derek’s sitting on the couch which—yeah, nope.
Not going there. Not even gonna look at the boy right now.
It’s awful.
Stiles tugs insistently at the hem of his shorts, wanting Derek’s full
attention which he hesitantly flicks a glance down to where he’s situated. The
boy’s shoulders are hunched down, making him appear even smaller than he
usually is.
“Dur-ek,” He starts, wetting his lips. “Could I have my orange juice now?” He
asks sweetly and pleads as an after-thought. “Please? I’ll share my sandwich
with you. Promise.”
Derek tries not to react too greatly since John might be overlooking but his
breathy voice gives him away, anyway.  “Uh—yeah. Okay. Sure. Sandwiches. Are
good. Great” He internally scuffs himself on the head. “Right, juice,” Then
hands the cup over to Stiles who is already making grabby hands.
He’s weak, that’s what he is.
Stiles, as per usual, is oblivious to Derek’s melt down, of course. Instead,
the boy squeaks out enthusiastically, receiving the cup like it was an Olympic
trophy before he wraps his lips around the straw, slurping happily.
He has a content smile tugging at the corners while he sits with his knees
tucked snugly against his chest, cup balancing in between the dip of his knees.
Stiles mouths around the straw, “’Fank you, Dee, you’s ‘zee bestest.”
John shakes his head, mumbling quietly in his usual, affectionate tone that he
always directs to Stiles’ odd antiques. “Bunch of kids.”
Derek’s heart swells a little. And maybe his traitorous dick does too because
he accidentally chances a glance over to Stiles who seems to be using only his
tongue to get the straw back into his mouth instead of using his damn fingers.
He swiftly covers it with a throw pillow that was tucked behind him before
John, or hell, Stiles manages to get an eyeful of an indecent bulge. Hey, at
least he has boundaries. Not much could be said about Stiles’ awful—terribly,
really, tongue.
-
They spend the next two hours channel surfing with Stiles on remote duty. It’s
been quite hectic since all young and mature Stilinski have the tendency to
veto whichever favoured show was put on.
John seemingly prefers to kick back with any news station but then Stiles would
mope and whine until its back to cartoons. Or a violent-heavy movie that he
mildly gets away if John’s distracted with his phone.
Derek, however, is content with letting either Stiles or John call the shots
for home entertainment.
It was one of the rules Talia enforced on a daily basis when he was younger.
The person who was holding onto the remote got to pick their desired show and
anyone who doesn’t agree gets to go without evening television. They even had a
roster so that everyone had their fair share of getting the remote.
Ridiculous, he knows, but nobody would butt heads.
It’s only in the last fifteen minutes of the two hours when father and son both
finally reached a mutual, not-so-silent agreement with some mockumentary about
dinosaurs. It’s getting pretty interesting, too.
Derek can see from his peripheral that John is getting absorbed to the English
speaking narrator pulling out the moderately biting one-liners meanwhile his
phone is long forgotten against his thigh. That is, until Stiles lets out this
long, high-pitched whine from the armchair.
“Daaad,” Stiles whines, gathering John’s whole attention. He shuffles around
the seat so that he’s no longer contorted in his previous, absurd position.
Thank fucking Jesus for the little things. “M’hungry. Feed your starving
child.”
John shoots him an indifferent stare. “Didn’t you just finish your juice?”
“I’m a growing boy!” Stiles says defensively. “Also, it was juice. Not food.”
He points out strongly, gesturing to the now empty cup idling on the coffee
desk. “Melissa said that a hearty meal for boys my age should have solid food.
So,” He drawls. “I think I was promised a PB&J. Derek, too!”
John grumbles under his breath, “You’d think getting a kid would mean that I’ll
have more opportunities to enforce child labour during my days off. You’d be
wrong, Hale.” Then he pushes himself off the couch.
Stiles stifles a giggle behind his palm, hair sweeping over his eyes. “Go be
sad about your lazy kid while making me and Derek our sandwiches.” Then adds
half-heartedly with a flying smooch, “Thank you! Ruv’ you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” John says flippantly, padding away. “Love you too, kid.”
Derek tracks John’s retreating form as he heads towards the kitchen, worrying
his bottom lip. Sure, John may have invited him for a meal (an evening meal,
his guilt sharply points out) but this just doesn’t sit right with him.
He’s been brought up to be courteous and gracious whenever present in someone
else’s home. It’s probably ingrained in the Hale veins—thou shall not sit back
and relax like thy own crib. Okay, maybe not so much of Laura, since she leaves
traces of her even in public malls, but she doesn’t count. Not in the scheme of
manners, that is.
“Uh—John?” Derek calls out awkwardly, cringing at how raspy his voice sounds as
he follows him into the kitchen. John hums, acknowledging. “I, um, don’t mind
making the sandwiches.” He offers with a shrug. “It’s the least I can do since
I’m, well, here this early.”
“Ah, I didn’t even notice it was only noon.” John teases, grinning as he picks
two slices of bread from the packed loaf. “It’s fine, Derek. I’ve already
started, so you just haul your ass in there and accompany the wretch that is my
son before he starts pulling out the crocodile tears act.”
Derek smiles at that because it’s true. Stiles’ a people person, always been
since he’s gotten to know the boy. “No—no. C’mon, I insist.” He picks up the
jar of jam from the kitchen counter as a fit of protest when John goes for it.
“They’re just sandwiches. I mean, they’re no Michelin type recipes. I won’t
screw it up that badly.”
“I’ll have you know Stiles is a lot tougher than Gordon Ramsay. Particular,
that kid.” John informs warningly but there are still laughter lines running
faint at the corner of his eyes. “Alright, alright. We’ll compromise. Don’t get
yourself all twisted up, Hale.”
Derek exhales a sheepish snort.
“So, you’ll do lunch and I’ll make dinner. That good with you?”
“Sounds great.” Derek nods, complying.
John lets out a soft breath, scratching at his lightly dusted chin. “If only
Stiles had half the manners you’ve got,” He starts, voice admirable. “I’d
probably save myself from a possible, near-future high blood pressure.”
Derek grins, heat creeping up the back of his nape. He’s not used to receiving
compliments. Laura always used the tough love approach and Derek is familiar
with that. “Well, to be fair—Sir, Stiles’ a great kid. Smart, too. You’ve
brought him up right.” He gives his honest opinion. “If I ever fathered a child
in the future, I’d want them to be exactly like Stiles too.”
What was he even saying? Jesus, shut up, Derek. John could probably smell the
crush he’s harbouring for his son from where he’s standing. Or, probably
getting funny ideas that Derek might want to kidnap Stiles for his own—not that
he would. Just to clarify.
John smiles, albeit wistful, exhaling out a shaky sigh. “That’s probably all
Claudia’s doing, though. My, uh, wife.” He pauses. “She—passed away a few years
back, but all that nurturing is definitely none of mine. Only thing he got out
of me is probably that quick tongue.”
Derek’s familiar with death of loved ones. He’d come from a big, extended
family both from both Charles and Talia’s side, and with annual wedding events
comes the abhorrent funerals. He knows that it’s never nice to press on with
sympathy encouragement and usually, the warmest condolence would be to
acknowledge it and start up a conversation on a different topic.
“Still,” Derek persists, a small smile on his lips. “He’s a great kid. You
should be proud.”
“I am,” John exhales softly. “Y’know, parents are always going on about how
their kids are all that, but Stiles really is something else, isn’t he?”
“Of course I’m something else!” Stiles yips, squeezing in between them and
making his presence known with a boisterous cackle. He’d probably gotten bored
from being left alone in the hall. “I’mspecial, dad. Like the Avengers! With
super powers and all that.”
“Oh yeah?” John asks, playing along. “Super powers for farting, you mean?”
Stiles does a great fake sniff, “I’ll have you know that it’s a talentto
flatuate while sleeping.”
John ruffles his kid’s hair, almost close to a noogie. “You’re something
alright, kid.” Stiles petulantly bats his hands away and then sweeps the hair
that’s covering his eyes, patting the top down. “Okay, there’s definite
overcrowding in this kitchen. C’mon, get.”
“I thought you were making us sandwiches?” Stiles asks his dad while digging a
finger into Derek’s side because he’s a little brat.
“Derek offered.” John answers and places both hands on Stiles’ shoulder as to
guide him out of the kitchen. “It’s a compromise. He’s doing your sandwiches
and I’ll make us dinner.”
Stiles shrugs away from his father’s hold, eyes going narrow with dubiousness
at Derek. “Are you really, really sure that Dur-ek knows how to make PB&J’s?
Because I like ‘em spurci—speaci—sepectially?”
“Specifically?” Derek offers with an amused chuckle. “Don’t worry. Your dad,
here, told me you like mustard with them. That right?”
“Nooo,” Stiles scrunches his face, features twisting before he goes to jab
Derek again at the side, a little tougher than before. “No mustard! Yuck.
Blergh.” He pulls a really ludicrous face, eyes going wonky before he continues
saying in a tone of finality, “Okay. Derek. I’ll help you withmysandwiches or
not you’re going to put weird stuff in it. I know you, ya’ poop head.”
John swiftly takes that as his cue to leave but not before throwing a casual,
“He’s your problem now, Hale,” over his shoulder as he leaves the kitchen,
laughter trailing behind like a shadow.
Derek’s pretty okay with it.
“So,” Stiles commands attention with a clap of his hands. “You need to wash
your hands first. Always gotta wash your hands before touching food. My mom
taught me that. Said there are germs that will attack your entire body, turning
us into zaaambies.”
Derek scoff-laughs at that, “Mm, but taking a bath is a problem?”
“Hey,” Stiles voices, tone gruff with petulance. “You’re on my side! Don’t side
with that—traitor.” He peeks out to where John is already settled on the couch,
picking up where he left off with the documentary. “I mean, baths are nice but
I’ve got to take ‘em twice! Every day! Do you see my problem now?”
Derek turns up the faucet, a mocking gasp escaping him. “That—wow, sounds like
an absolute chore, Stiles. Who does your dad think he is? Making you taketwo
baths a day?” He scoffs. “That’s just—madness.”
“I know!” Stiles squeaks, bouncing almost giddily since he’s got Derek
totallyconvinced about the travesty of twice daily showers. He slides up beside
him, toes tipping a little, to get his hands washed wet in the basin. “See, you
get me. That’s why you’re cooler than my dad. Scott has it worse, though.”
“Is that right?” Derek asks feigning slight interest and catches Stiles off
guard by splashing water onto Stiles’ arms because, well, he can. And it’s just
delightful getting Stiles all worked up.
“Hey!” Stiles yelps crossly, “No splashing! You’re gonna get me wet!” As soon
as Derek puts up his hands, conceding, Stiles goes to wipe his hands on the
back of his tank, a cheeky ‘aha!’ leaving him. Yeah, apparently brattiness is
contagious.
“As I was saying, Dur-ek, before you turned evil,” Stiles starts dryly, eyes
narrowing at him. “Scott definitely leads a sad life, m’friend. Melissa makes
him take—guess! Nope, okay, never mind. I’ll just tell you. She makes him
takethreebaths—sometimes four, if we get to play outside.”
“Ah,” Derek drawls with a smidge of mocking sympathy. “The horror of bath
bubbles.”
“S’only fun when you get to make a Santa beard with it tho’!” Stiles quips
merrily, stroking his imaginary bearded bubbles in a sagely manner. “You don’t
need bubbles since you’ve got the real deal.”
“Mm, true.” Derek hums, scratching at the coarse grains pebbling on his chin.
“You’ll probably be able to grow one once you’re older. Maybe… a little taller,
too?”
He receives a biting smack on the arm, “I’m tall for my age, okay!”
“Right,” Derek rolls his eyes in the fondest of manner that even he’s suffering
from the whiplash of it. “And the sky is pink.”
“It can be pink when it wants to,” Stiles adds smartly then sulks when he
finally concedes that his argument is weak. “Meanie,” He tuts, pinches Derek at
the waist.
“Alright, alright.” Derek relents with a grin, fingers rubbing over the sore
area. “I won’t tease. How bout we get started on making those PB&J’s. What do
you say?”
Stiles agrees with a gusto yell and almost trips when he goes to get the
toaster out of the cabinet.
Derek tries (he really does) his best not to laugh. Or, burst out into a
crushingly embarrassing song that coos endearment for this kid. He’s already
tipping the scales of being a legitimate paedophile (or way over the scales),
he doesn’t need his life to be a spin off for Glee. So, he sticks with laughing
because that’s safer.
Stiles elbows him on the ribs as pay back.
-
When they’re done making their lunches and finally exit with three plates
(Stiles insisted on making one for his dad), John is no longer in the hall.
Derek lets out a curious noise at that but, Stiles, oblivious to his father’s
non-presence, plops back onto the armchair and finally settles down with his
food.
He sinks his mouth into the sandwich with an overly large bite and makes an
alarmingly, loud moan as he chews. Derek thinks of everything gruesome that he
can think off his head (that cake fart video Laura’s classmate showed him, two
girls one cup, also oddly by the same classmate, and pain Olympics—he’s not
even gonna talk about that one).
“Okay,” Stiles yips, startling Derek out of his absolutely horrific reverie.
“I’ll admit. This tastes a lot better than my dad’s.”
“It’s the secret ingredient.” Derek waggles his eyebrows. “That shall never be
said out loud. Not even to Scott. My mom passed down that family recipe to me.”
“Y’r mom’s a genius, then.” Stiles says with a mouthful of bread spilling out.
“Do ya th’unk she remembers me?”
“Yeah, she does.” Derek says after he swallows his own bite because he has
table etiquette. “You’re not one to forget, kid.”
Before Stiles can make any comments, John finally steps into the hall after
noisily padding down the stairs. He releases a deep sigh, hands raking through
his hair. Stiles stares at him nonplussed, curiosity quickly flitting over his
face while Derek’s throat absolutely burns with questions. He’s never seen John
this… worked up? Not under his roof, that is.
“What’s wrong?” Derek inquires when it seems John isn’t going to share.
John settles onto the couch beside him, face grim and tight. “Work happened,
that’s what.” He eyes the untouched plate sitting on the coffee table but
doesn’t go for it. “It’s like the guys down at the station don’t understand
that I’ve got a kid to take care of. Or, the concept that I have the weekends
off.”
Stiles frowns, patting his half-eaten sandwich down onto the plate. “You gotta
go pew pew?”
“Yeah,” John answers guiltily, not looking at Stiles. Derek wishes he could do
something in this situation but feels utterly hopeless as he watches father and
son exchange glum expressions. “Probably gotta do overtime too since the others
aren’t familiar with LA cops.”
“You’re making the drive downtown?” Derek says, voice raised and alarmed.
“That’s a three hour drive, sir.”
“It’s all politics.” John says, hand gesturing with an indifferent wave. “They
caught a man earlier this morning.” He starts explaining. “That’s not under our
jurisdiction so we can’t do anything about it, legally, unless we hand him over
to the Los Angeles force.”
Derek makes a noise of acknowledgement and asks, “What did he do?” while Stiles
questions with interest, “Did he steal something, dad? Like that guy you caught
last month?”
“Somewhat.” John answers shortly. He only mouths at Derek when Stiles isn’t
looking at him, finally allocating his focus back onto his forgotten sandwich,
to what he makes out being: child harassment.
Derek gulps thickly, brows raised.  “W—who’s it?”
John goes to paw at his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he decides if
he’s going to share that information. He finally comes to with a decision,
muttering the words, really. “One of the bus drivers that works with Stiles’
school.”
Stiles quirks up at that from, probably because he heard his name, while Derek
breathes out a shaky, “Jesus.”
Derek tries keep an aloof face that doesn’t give away too much of what he’s
feeling. Currently, it’s a toss-up between genuine fear of getting caught,
right here in a deputy’s living hall, and insurmountable disdain. He’s not—it’s
not child harassment between him and Stiles, right?
It isn’t—can’t be. Derek’s not—he can’t ever picture out a situation where he’d
consciously hurt the boy, let alone harass, or abuseStiles. Not even in the
worst of circumstances. But, whatever happened on that Wednesday evening was
harassment, though, wasn’t it?
Stiles had no idea what was happening. He didn’t as Derek clearly remembered
Stiles whimpering out in confusion while he touched intimate areas because
he’s—he’s a fuckingasshole, that’s what he is. He took from Stiles, even though
he’s asserted with strong conviction that he’d never do just that. Hell, Derek
should have been the one that got caught instead of sitting here, beside a man
of the law, chatting about another paedophile’s demise.
“I—” Derek starts but gets cut off by John.
“Who knows how many kids this guy has touched?” John grits, hands fisted by his
side while his eyes are a dark shade of ferocity. “Or—or, if he’s ever
approached my kid before? Myboy. My onlyson.”
Stiles darts anxious looks between his dad and Derek, bewildered by their on-
going conversation. “What’s happening?” He asks Derek timidly which he gives a
light shake of his head. Now he understands why his parents used to do that
whenever he walked into his parents chatting with relatives, probably something
grown-up that they didn’t want to discuss with him nosing around.
“At least,” Derek stutters a little. “At least he’s caught now, right? There’s
evidence and stuff?”
“He had tapes, that son of a—” John spits and then releases a deep breath he
was holding, hands going lax. “Sorry, I just—lost my head a bit there.
Sometimes it’s… hard to separate work and personal life. Especially when they
collide too closely.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” Derek assures mildly even though his heart is pummelling
against his chest. “I was the same way with architecture. Always got too worked
over by the smallest of things.”
John smiles weakly at him, probably more for courtesy rather than a semblance
of happiness. “Hale, I know I promised you a dinner but I don’t think it’s
going to work out tonight.” He blows a breath out. “Rain check on that?”
“Of course, it’s no problem, Sir.”
“Okay, can someone tell me what’s going on?!” Stiles screeches, commandeering
both their attention on him. He gives a sheepish pout, “I don’t like being left
out of things!”
“Sorry kid, y’know. It’s adult things.” John says lightly, grimacing. “I’ll
tell you once you’re a little older, okay?”
“You always say that.” Stiles mopes, crossing his arms, plate jostling on his
knees. “You’re gonna get all old and forgetful then you’ll never tell me! I
know your plan, dad. I can see through all of it.”
John laughs, finally, eyes crinkling. Derek prefers this John to the one just a
moment ago. The Stilinski’s are good people and they should always be
surrounded by happiness whenever possible. “Alright, I promise to pen it down
so my senile brain won’t fail you. Okay?”
Stiles harrumphs, “I don’t see you writing anything down.”
“Jeez, kid, if you had a greying moustache, I’d mistake you for a cop.”
Stiles grins and sing-songs when John pulls out his phone to note something
down, “Only learnt it from the best, daddy-o!”
John waves his phone in front of him when he’s done, showing Stiles the proof
that he has noted it down on his cell.
Stiles, satisfied, leans back onto the chair and licks up the little smidges of
peanut butter that’s stained on his plate. He peeks up, “Can I have your
sandwich if you’re not going to eat it, dad?” Because, like, Derek’s PB&J
is—woah.”
“Hands off the goods, Stiles.” John says warningly when Stiles’ grabby hands
are nearing his plate. “Derek made it for me so it’s my sandwich to eat. Go
make another one if you want another.”
Stiles fakes sniffle, “Here I thought that I was your favourite child.”
“You’re my only child.”
“Pish-posh,” Stiles waves off and then eyes greedily at Derek’s plate. “So,
Dur-ek, best friend of mine, would you like to share your sandwich withmoi?” He
ends with a horridly butchered French accent.
“When you say share,” Derek starts. “Do you mean share, or for me to give you
the whole thing?”
“Duh,” Stiles answers, rolling his eyes. “The whole thing.”
Derek scoffs, “Nice try, kid but I’d only give you half of mine.”
Stiles thinks about it, probably weighing the pros and cons for a couple of
seconds before he reluctantly huffs out, “Fine.But, I call dibs on the bigger
half.”
John, who’s been quiet the last few minutes as him and Stiles exchange easy
banter, suddenly releases a disgruntled groan. He’s looking up from his phone
and glances over to Derek almost… desperately. Or was it confliction? It’s a
tough call to make.
Derek’s not really a scientist on body language, anyway.
John dismissively waves the phone his palm, saying. “Uh, Melissa just replied
my text. Said she can’t take Stiles in tonight. Something ‘bout Scott and
swimming?” He sighs heavily, body slumping. “I know this is—” He bites on his
words and yeah, okay. Derek is pretty certain now that whatever his features
were announcing was conflicted desperation.
Derek raises his brow as a silent go on.
“Derek,” He starts, scratching at his stubble before he shakes his head. “No.
You know that you’re like family to us, right?”
It’s a rhetoric question but Derek shrugs his shoulders because, sure, John has
candidly called him son a handful of times but the last time he was called
precisely that was by Charles. Well, and everyone in this town knows how that
story goes.
Anyway, it’s probably the right answer because John scoots to the edge of his
seat, knee shaking.
“Sorry, it’s just this case is—” His eyes glazes over a little, searches for
the right word. “It’s all—” Waves a hand around and then settles with, “—bull
crap and my son is my top priority to keep safe.” John takes in a shaky inhale.
“You’ve proven to be a just man, Derek, and your mother, Talia, was an honest
woman herself, as well. I’m still grateful for her when I was— I wasn’t right
after my wife passed away.”
The room is thick with an uneasy quietness. Derek wishes for anything to break
that tension. For Stiles to slice it up with a little joke, or anything,
really. Just lighten up the gloom that has now overtaken the room.
“Mopey story aside,” John continues after a way too long beat. “Talia really
helped out a lot. Melissa, too.” He says. “Ah hell, I’m beating ‘round the bush
and getting all y’know. Just—I might have to cash in one more favour today and
I know it’s extremely last minute.”
Derek doesn’t need John to spell it out to know what it is already. Neither
does it lessen the guilt when he agrees.
-
John goes to prepare, although quite begrudgingly, once the documentary ends
and the credits start to roll. The whole time while he’s putting on his pressed
uniform, grumbling lowly under his breath, Stiles shuffles from the kitchen, to
the hall and then loiters around the front door. Almost as if he doesn’t
exactly know where to settle down.
Derek has only that little much strength when it comes to repressing the urge
to pull the kid into his lap and just—anchor the kid down. Have him steady
against his chest until the nerves eventually bubble out from his system with
tickles and laughter.
He doesn’t do any of that, of course.
Not with John highly stringed in light of recent events.
When John leaves, it’s with a mellow goodbye pressed onto Stiles’ forehead and
a promise that he’ll be home soon. Then he eyes at Derek with a look that makes
his balls shrivel up, “You take care of m’boy, alright, Derek?”
Derek nods, an imitation of an obedient pup and silences the unsaid with my
life, sir.
The garage door creaks shut and then the house hollows out with an odd sense of
trepidation.
Stiles finally speaks a few beats later with his chin tucked down and eyes down
casted.  “Do you think dad’s mad with me? Y’know, because he knows I secretly
didn’t take a bath?”
Derek frowns, rushes out. “No. Of course not, Stiles. Why would you—”
“Because he’s not here?” He answers, almost snappishly. “Dad’s always here on
the weekend! It’s father-son time. Especially since mom’s gone.” He wheezes
out. “He’s angry with me, I just know it.”
“Hey,” Derek breathes out quietly, gently. “C’mere. Sit beside me.”
Stiles reluctantly nudges his way to Derek’s left on the couch, knocking sharp
knees and elbows against him.
Derek hums a little, pats Stiles’ fingers where they’re twitching against his
thighs but not lingering on the touch. It’s almost… wrong to touch him now. The
nonsensical beat still continues, melts into the cascading silence around the
house.
“Your dad’s not mad at you. He loves you.” Derek starts.
Stiles scoffs, “Well, if he loves me, he’d be here.”
“You know he didn’t want to go too.” Derek argues. “But, your dad’s out there
doing good things, alright? He’s getting the bad guys to stay locked up so the
people in this town would be safe.”
Hypocrite, his conscience raves
“Still—”
“I know for certainty that your dad will always choose you first, Stiles, but
he’s got an important job, too. Know what that is?”
Stiles blinks up at him, eyes a little red and raw with indignation. “A cop?”
“No,” Derek grins, ruffling his hair up a bit. It earns him a hand batting but
then a small, obscure smile starts to lift at the corners of Stiles’ lips and
everything feels right again. “Being a hero, silly. Just like you are as
Batman. Saving the city from villains and all that.”
Stiles furrows his brows, lips pursing, signifying him deep in thought. “Won’t
he catch you too?” He asks timidly. “Because, like, you’re the joker and since
dad is Batman, he’s gonna catch the bad guys!” His bottom lips trembles a
little then he cries out. “I don’t want you to go to the bad place! That’ll
mean you won’t get to play with me and Scott anymore!”
“Maybe,” Derek finally mutters and Stiles’ eyes widens. “He might, too. I’m not
a very good person, kid. Especially after—” He sighs. “Wednesday. Not anymore.”
Abuser, his mind traitorously roars.
“You mean,” Stiles begins, licking his lips. “The one where we pinkie promised
to keep it a secret?” His eyes are a little too bright, shining with some sort
of glimmer of mischief. “When you touched my—” He lowers his voice. “My butt.”
“Yeah,” Derek says grimly, squeezing Stiles’ thigh. He shouldn’t, though and he
retracts it like his palm grazed upon the dance of flames. “I’m not supposed to
do that.”
“But, why?” Stiles asks, sidling closer to him. “I mean, dad sometimes used to
do it when I was younger because he needed to wipe my butt after—y’know,” He
giggles a little. “Number two.”
Derek chuckles because, well, yeah. Stiles’ laughter is a little addictive. No,
he’s not his own personal brand of heroin. What is he? Seventeen and a socially
awkward vampire? Okay, maybe just the socially awkwardness but everything else,
yeah no.
“That’s okay.” Derek says patiently, trying to make Stiles understand. “He’s
your dad. He’s allowed to touch like that.” Then he remembers those cases of
parents who molest their kids, rape them in their sleep. Then he hurries to
correct it, “Not in certain… circumstances where the touches aren’t innocent,
though.”
Stiles smacks his tongue at him, confused. “I don’t understand, Dur-ek. I mean,
you’re sort of like my dad?” Derek does not groan internally. “Well, you’re
more half-dad and half-super bestest friend to me, so you can touch me that
way. I’m okay with it.”
Derek’s finger twitches, yearns to have a guiltless touch on this sweet kid. He
smiles tightly, instead. “I wish it was as easy as that, baby boy.”
Stiles bites his bottom lip, murmurs out. “I liked it when you touched my butt,
though. It was nice.” He tells, plays with Derek’s arm in faint circles. “Your
hands are like, really,really big.”
“Jesus,” Derek groans.
Temptation is such an unjust sin, and sin, itself, comes by an entity that is a
ten year old kid with stupid mop-like hair, freckles dotting across his
shoulders and cheek while light eyes that bounces off the sun’s heat.
“Alright, let’s just—No, we’re gonna move on. Alright, baby boy? Do you wanna
go swimming instead?” Derek rambles. “We could meet up with Scott and Melissa
at the pool? That sounds good?”
Stiles scrunches up his nose, waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, at least I can
hold this above his head for a week. That shows him for being a lousy best
friend.” He grumbles low under his breath. “Best friend more like poop friend.”
“Let it all out, buddy.” Derek grins.
“I’m going to squeeze all the cookies out of him.” Stiles starts in a mock evil
laughter. “I’ll even share it with you.”
“By share, do you actually mean that this time or do I just get the crumbs?”
Stiles snorts, “I’ll leave you the best crumbs because you’re mysuperbest
friend.”
“You’re actually the devil’s child, aren’t you?” Derek teases. “You put up the
whole Bambi gig but then once you’ve gotten us on your side, bam, you’re gonna
become turn all Ursula on everyone.”
“Heeeey,” Stiles pokes at his side which definitely didnot produce a yelp of
surprise out of Derek. Yeah, nope. “If I’m going to be a bad guy, I’d rather be
the Joker. Just like you!”
Derek’s chest area shouldn’t feel all warm and gooey but unfortunately, it
does.
“Well, then, I ought to teach you the basics of being all… villainous. C’mon,
we don’t have all day.”
Stiles, of course, follows.
-
They spend the rest of the afternoon practicing little odd qualities that
typical villains in Disney movies seem to have. Firstly, they do up a makeshift
cape. An evil one, of course. Stiles’ a shade of forest green bed sheets that
he stole out from his dad’s drawer meanwhile Derek has one of Stiles’ old
sheets that has smiley, contorted worm alphabets on it.
Stiles says, “It adds flavour and ittotallysuits you. Now, you have little
wormy minions!” which Derek shoots him the deadliest glare while the kid
practically wets himself with glee.
That little shit.
Once they have their capes secured against the back of their shirts (and
Derek’s tank), they finally begin to conjure up their maniacal, wicked laughter
because “Weneed one, Dur-ek. Every villain has one which means Stiles the
Stinky Lord and Derek and the Evil Beard needs one too!”
Derek only catches himself mid cackle when he ponders of the odds if there
reallyis a nanny camera installed around the house and if John decides to
upload this footage as blackmail because it mayprobably go viral in about ten
minutes. Okay, Laura might make it about five minutes what with her three maxed
out Facebook accounts.
It’s also an understatement when Derek says they’re the epitomeof
embarrassment. Fine. Him, probably more so but that’s because Stiles (reminder:
little shit) used John’s hair gel to create a pair of hairy devil horns. Well,
it was either that or hair plaiting which he successfully shut down in seconds
only to be introduced by all that… eye batting.
He’s weak.
So, yeah, ten minutes in and Derek doesn’t have much ego intact but Stiles
makes it up for it by busting his spleen open by literally embracing the famous
internet lingo of rolling on the floor, laughing.
The bubble of laughter only start to wear out when Stiles’ stomach makes loud
grumble which Derek takes that as his be a responsible adult cue to whip
something up in the kitchen. Stiles wanted to go with an easy pizza take out
but Derek disagrees, insists that he makes a mean mac and cheese.
Again, it’s a family recipe.
Stiles loves it which only pleases Derek even further. There’s a sense of pride
blooming warm in the center of his chest and probably something like fulfilment
too. He’s never cooked for any of his dates before, lest embraced the whole
nine yards of dating long term quirks.
This is—nice.
The feeling quickly fades away when Stiles starts to really love the meal.
He’s licking at the spoon, getting the bits of burnt cheese and pasta that he
missed at the curved planes of the bowl even though he’s practically inhaled
dinner. It’s a little outrageous how a ten year old has Derek all clamped up
while his mind thrums with bad, wrong, no good abusing thoughts which then
becomes a self-deprecating aroused state.
It’s a little messed up, really.
“Stiles,” Derek grits out, wiping at the sauce that got on his beard. He also
makes a mental note to shave tomorrow, or some other time in the near future.
No hurry though since Stiles seems to like it. (Not that he’s keeping it for
him. Well, not allincorrect.) “Don’t do that. It’s not good table manners.”
“But it’s so good,” Stiles whines but then pops the spoon of his mouth. “You’ve
got to teach me the ways of such nomgreatness,Dur-ek, because if I ever lost
you in battle, I might die from hunger.”
Derek chuckles, “And you deny being the dramatic one.”
“It’s not being dramatic,” Stiles mocks, pulling a face while Derek gathers the
plates. “It’s me, Stiles, being real with you. I don’t think I can go back to
my dad’s burnt soup after this meal.”
Derek tosses a slightly wet rag over his shoulders, aiming at Stiles. “Don’t
let your dad hear that. He might not let me in the next time once he knows I’ve
got favouritism over his kid.”
“What’s that?”
“Favouritism?”
“Uh-huh.”
He slides the washed plates into the drying rack, “It, uh, means you like me
best.”
Stiles hums, “Also true. You’re number wah right now. Scott’s a poophead.”
Derek tries to wilt the shit eating on his face but to no avail, “Well, the
feeling’s mutual, kid.”
Stiles beams back at him, nose scrunching a little.
-
Stiles’ bedroom is an utter mess by the time half past seven rolls around. It’s
disastrous and Derek really needs to learn how to say no when time comes.
Unfortunately, whenever it’s accompanied by that high, whining tone and puppy,
pleading eyes—yeah.
His resolve weakens.
It started with:
“Hey,” Stiles nudges at his feet. “Oi, Dereeek.Don’t ignore me. C’mon! There
are no nice cartoons on television right now.”
Derek hums, pretending to be oblivious to Stiles’ mopey little face.
“Can we please do something or, I’m being serious here, I’ll explode from
boredom!” Stiles raises his voice, tone warningly. “I’m not even joking. I’ll
be splattered all over you. It’ll takedays to wash out Stiles’ boringness off
you.”
Derek nudges back at him, eyes still trained on the television set. “But it’s
the power puff girls.”
“Yeah, but I’ve already watched this episode a hundred, gazijilliontimes!
Please! Entertain me, ya’ evil beard.”
Derek blows out a breath and goes to click the television shut, “Fine. What
would you like to do?”
Twenty minutes later, they have a makeshift fort in Stiles’ bedroom. Well,
technically, it was Derek’s idea to make it but only because Stiles was getting
a little too adventurous with his suggestions. He doesn’t want to go out in
public with crusted hair horns. Not that he has a reputation or anything but,
y’know.
It’s a small town.
So, they holster up two chairs from the living hair to upstairs and have them
settled a few feet away from Stiles’ bed and then uses both of their “capes”
and a one of Stiles’ old Superman sheets that’s faded in colour, and probably
in size too. Derek may be a little judgemental when he sees it since Stiles
raves about Batman so much.
“What?” Stiles pipes defensively when he notices Derek’s little eye glare.
“Hey, everyone goes through a Superman phase, alright! You can’t hold it
against me. I’ve seen the light now, though. At least they’re not like
Scott’s!”
“And dare tell, what are his?”
Stiles giggles a little, “SpongeBob. He also told me once that he wanted to
grow up and live in the sea, too, and that I could be the Squid ward to his
SpongeBob.”
Derek snorts, “Don’t they hate each other? It’ll make more sense if you’re
Patrick, though.”
“Well,” Stiles drawls, clambering over a chair to adjust one of the sheets
that’s slipping from where it’s hooked under the leg. “I wouldn’t call it hate.
It’s more like a… uh, angry loving type of thing. They’re totally secret
besties. Also, I’m not a Patrick because I can play instruments on my nose
too.”
This time Derek can’t contain the laugh, “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.” Then he proceeds to show him about said nose instrument.
There’s mucus wetting on Stiles’ upper lips once he’s done, giving a curtsey
and Derek’s side ache from cracking up so much. “Oh god, make it stop. Don’t do
that anymore, Stiles.” He chokes out. “You’re making a mess everywhere.”
Stiles sniffs, wipes his nose down the front of his shirt. “Heh, well, it
proves that you reallylike me then, since you’re not all grossed out by my
germs.”
Derek should be repulsed. He should, but Stiles is shooting him a toothy grin,
eyes all squinted and button nose a pretty shade of pink from having clamped in
between his fingers just now and he’s just—so gone for this kid.
“I don’t think being friendly withanyone’s germs proves anything.” Derek tells,
well, lies.
Stiles harrumphs, “Well— your face doesn’t prove anything!”
“Weird, isn’t it?” Derek acknowledges in thin sarcasm, pawing a little at his
face. “I ought to get a return voucher! Stiles needs a face that proves!”
Stiles pinches him at the waist and knees him at the back of his knee,
“Meanie.”
Derek chuckles, “I’m evil, remember?” Then picks up two torchlights that Stiles
has thrown haphazardly when they were starting to compile all the things they
needed for the fort. “Shall we?”
Stiles snatches one of them off his hands and smirks, “S’mine now! And yes,
Dur-ek, we shall.” Then he sinks down to his knees, slowly nudging his way into
the fort. “Welcome, welcome to The Best Fort Made Ever.”
Derek squeezes in after Stiles, tries not to pop his head up because he’s a lot
bigger than Stiles and he doesn’t want to sour the moment by having the entire
fort collapse on them because he can’t contort his neck to a certain angle.
If this ends with a sprain, well, at least it’ll be a good memory.
“Alright?” Stiles asks once they’ve got their limbs all in order and Derek is
flat on his back, looking up at the faded Superman sheet. “You’re like a giant
in here. Are you a giant, Dur-ek?”
“No,” Derek huffs. “You’re just tiny. A teeny little baby boy.”
“Not a baby,” Stiles shoots back and if Derek looks over at the kid, he’s
pretty certain that there’s an on-going pout too. “Can we try switching on the
flashlights now? I’m really excited!”
Derek laughs softly, feels the warm puffs of air whipping back onto his face.
“Go on, then. Knock yourself out.”
It’s a little customized because Derek sometimes has great ideas, which, fine.
He admits reusing from when Laura was in her artsy phase and made everything
all Laura-dazzled. So, Derek teaches Stiles to cover the front of the torch
with a thin, coloured napkin and it’ll successfully change its plain old, warm
beam of light into—well, any spectrum of colours if you so wish for with your
napkin.
Stiles chose a daring red while Derek went for a hue of vibrant colours. It’s
supposed to be ironic but trying to explain that to a ten year old may prove
problematic.
“Wow,” Stiles breathes out, watching the way a faint pink emits out from the
torch instead then he looks over at Derek’s and his eyes widens. “Yours is so
cool, man! I should’ve gone for the other one with many colours too!”
“Yours is pretty, though. It’s very suiting.” Derek tells and he’s not saying
it to pacify the kid. It really is.
The way it lights up the shadows of their fort, melts onto the pale of Stiles’
skin, almost like a flush but not as organic as the ones Derek remembers,
especially the one he had that night. When Stiles burned into a blush, cheeks
full and mouth slack open as he mouths against the flat of his shoulder.
“Yeah, but yours looks like fireworks!”
“Fireworks?” Derek asks, intrigued, waving his torch around. “In Beacon Hills?”
“Oh, no.” Stiles replies, twisting his own torch around so that their beams
mould into each other until it becomes a flurry of colours. “Dad drove us out
to, uh, somewhere. I forgot where it was. I was still pretty young. There was
like, a lake? Yeah, and we were out there celebrating my mom’s birthday.” He
quietens his voice a little. “She’s a valentine’s baby.”
Derek smiles, little finger searching out for Stiles’ own and wraps onto it
once he manages to find it. “And how were the fireworks?”
“Pretty,” Stiles exhales, eyes fluttering shut and pinkie tightening a little
onto Derek’s. “I can’t remember much of it but it was definitely loud. I
couldn’t hear myself talk for a few hours after that! Uh, that and I saw dad
and mom, you know.” He pulls a face that Derek catches from his peripheral.
“Kissing. Lots.”
Derek shouldn’t, but yet he does. The question slips out of his mouth fluidly,
almost as easy as wanting this boy, laws and deputy’s son be damned. “What’s
wrong with kissing?”
“It’s all—” Stiles tries to find a word but comes up with nothing so he huffs.
“I don’t know. S’just weird, like that time when I tried to lick Scott’s
tongue.”
Derek tries to angle his body around so that he’s actually looking at Stiles.
He knows it’s a bad idea. The two of ‘em, plunged in the darkness and a fort to
keep them out from the reality of it all while just two dim torches barely
highlighting the planes of their profiles.
It takes quite a lot of manoeuvring before Derek actually gets comfortable,
“You do know that kissing’s a lot more than just licking tongues, right, baby
boy?”
“Uh, not really?” Stiles squeaks a little when Derek goes to still his flailing
arm that’s waving the torch around. “I mean, there are a few boys in my class
that brags whenever they… you know, kiss during lunchtime? But, I don’t really
know anything. Nobody in school wants to kiss me. Dad says it’s good to wait
for a nice girl, though.”
“Mm,” Derek hums, presses a small peck onto Stiles’ palm while looking straight
into the boy’s wide, curious eyes. “It’s kinda like that, light, but against
your lips.”
“Like what you did the other night?” Stiles asks, stares as Derek leans in
again and leaves another peck into the center of his hand although this time,
lingers for a beat. “On my neck? I liked that. It hurt a bit, though. I didn’t
think kisses would hurt.”
“No, no.” Derek pulls back a bit, remembering the last time when he went a
little overboard. He was too hazy with edged arousal and the fervent need to
come. Abuser, his conscience reminds him. “M’sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean
to. I never want to hurt you, Stiles.”
“I know, Dur-ek.” Stiles shuffles a little closer until their foreheads are
almost bumping onto each other, torchlights tossed to their sides. “It’s like
when my dad spanks me. He doesn’t mean to hurt me but I was being naughty so he
needed to punish me. You said I was being naughty so—”
“No, that’s not it.” Derek cuts in, feels a little sweat already pooling at his
nape. He needs to set things straight, even though it was with a kid. “I was
wrong. You weren’t—weren’t naughty. You were such a good boy for me. Always.
Even though you gave me these horrible devil horns, you’ve always been good for
me. Do you understand me? It’s just-- sometimes, you make me feel all weird,
and it’s not a bad thing.”
Not really, he doesn’t say.
“Yeah, sorta?” Stiles peeps out. “I just felt sad because I thought you didn’t
want to play with me anymore because I was being bad.”
“Never,” Derek rushes out, pulls Stiles into his arms and curling his entire
body so that he’s successfully cocooning the boy against him. “You make me
laugh and even my sister, Laura, has a tough time doing that. And, you have
such an odd mind. Always interesting, always keeping me on my toes.” He presses
a dry kiss to Stiles’ temple. “You’re too good for me, baby boy.”
Stiles pulls away slightly, looks at him carefully, eyes probably adjusting to
the dully lit fort. “You’re still my favourite, no matter what.” Then a small
mischievous smile curls into the corner of his mouth. “Wanna know a secret,
Dur-ek?”
Derek raises his brows, curious, “Always.”
Stiles leans in, burrows to Derek’s side so that his mouth is hovering just
above his ear, warm puffs of breath blowing against the outer shell. Derek
tries his best not to shiver, or groan, or press a hand to stop his dick from
thickening up.
He whispers, low and rough. “I like, like you a lot and I— I wanna do the
kissing thing with you.” Then he bounces back, stifling his giggles to the back
of his hand.
Derek blinks, quick flashes of having Stiles’ mouth against him heating pools
into the forefront of his brain. He may need a reboot, or Stiles to pinch him
hard at the wrist just to invoke his almost catatonic state. Thankfully, he
snaps out of it when Stiles rustles hair out of his eyes a bit, movement too
jarring in the small of their fort.
“Yeah?” Derek asks airily, sounding breathless already. “Are you sure? Thought
you said kisses were gross.”
“But—” Stiles whines a bit, sidling closer so their elbows knock against each
other. “You’re different from Scott. He always has cookie breath.”
“You have cookie breath,” Derek retorts teasingly and then presses a light peck
onto Stiles’ knuckles, grazes his lips against the smooth skin of his fingers.
“I like your cookie breath, though.”
“That’s good,” Stiles whispers shakily when Derek peppers a series of faint
kisses against his wrist, up to the insides of his elbow, trail up to his upper
arm until he meets fabric. “Your beard feels all scratchy against my skin.” He
tells, pauses. “I like it, too.”
Derek’s laugh bubbles out onto the thin skin at Stiles’ neck, inhales deeply
the smell of slightly sour boy sweat and the faint endings of the mac and
cheese they had for dinner. He could get used to this, or maybe he already is.
The rich scent of Stiles, all worn in and homely, instead of how his old tricks
used to have deodorant and cheap cologne splashed on their skins, almost making
him gag.
His lips are just a few inches away from Stiles’, noses bumping each other.
“You can always back out now, Stiles. It’s your first kiss. You could have it
with anyone else you want.” His tongue feels like lead once he finishes but
Stiles is already shaking his head, bottom lip tugging onto his teeth.
“I wanna kiss you, alright? Poophead.”
Derek grins then leans in, and there’s a long second where it feels like free
fall, his entire body cut off at the source from oxygen and it’s buzzing him
out of his skin while he awaits for collision. Instead, a pair of soft, soft
lips presses against his and Stiles’ unsure hands flailing out to wrap around
his biceps, not knowing if he should tug him closer or just to have something
to anchor on.
When they part, it’s with a gentle smack of lips parting and Stiles’ heavy
exhale.
“Wow,” Stiles whispers, voice croaking. “Again?”
Derek forgets the complete usage of words because all he does is nod his head,
eyes already shutting as he goes in for another. This time it’s a lot less
tense. Stiles is probably already warming up to having someone being all up in
his personal space so his body goes a little lax around Derek’s arms,
signifying trust and giving up a little of control.
Derek doesn’t take, though. He won’t. Not after what happened on Wednesday.
This time Stiles leads and he’ll follow.
So, when Stiles purses his lips a little, finally reciprocating the soft
movements that Derek has been pressing against his mouth, Derek tries his best
not to groan. Even the skin around Stiles’ mouth smells a bit like dinner, and
somewhat of peanut butter. It’s all so unsure, so unknowledgeable—virginal,
that he doesn’t realize he’s so hard in his shorts until Stiles lets out this
broken little whimper.
They part for a bit; Derek’s sweat clammy forehead resting against Stiles’ own
balmy one. “God,Stiles.” He exhales, shaky. “You drive me crazy, you know
that?”
Stiles’ eyes shouldn’t look so bright, and glassy with mirth. “I hope that’s a
good thing.”
“The best thing,” Derek whispers, then. “Can I? Once more? Then we’ll go down
and watch some movies?”
“Yeah—yeah.” Stiles stutters out but this time, he’s almost half straddling him
and half having his leg slinging atop Derek, leg hooked just at the back of his
thigh as he shifts closer. Fuck—his kid is a goddamn vixen.
“Christ,” Derek mutters out, a shattered syllable leaving his groan before he
dives onto Stiles’ mouth and kisses him.
It’s not too heavy but he has one hand fitted right into the sharpness of
Stiles’ hip and the other cupped against his cheek, thumb brushing at the
smooth apples of them. He tastes the dinner that he got made for the both of
them and this jarring scent that Derek could only place as Stiles, a bite of
flesh salts that Derek wants to have it permanently scented in his head.
He ruts up a bit, getting Stiles’ thigh to lightly rub against the pitching of
his cock. Fuck—what is he doing?
Derek finally parts away with a muttered, “Stop, Stiles.” while he breathes
rapidly and eyes are still clenched shut. He can feel the drool of precome
almost slowly oozing from the cockhead slit, a yearning to have any kind of
pressure pressed around his crotch to soothe the heady ache.
“I gotta—bathroom.” Then he scrambles out of the fort before Stiles can object,
limbs still too wasted from being cramped in such a small area but when he gets
there and has the door jammed shut, he whips his cock out in record time and
jerks himself off slick with spit until his palm starts to feel like chafing
heat.
When he comes, he shoots into the sink and tries not to picture Stiles’ wet,
parted mouth when he does.
It’s not very successful, of course.
-
They watch The Lion King trilogy until John returns home, eyes red with
exhaustion and hair all fingered messy. John clambers into the kitchen after
giving Stiles a big, bear hug, while he goes to making himself some warm toast
before heading off to bed while Derek heads up to tuck Stiles in because, “You
do it, son. I’m pretty sure he’ll kick a fuss if he doesn’t get his last few
Derek time.”
When Stiles is all warm under the covers, he whispers, “Can you give me a
goodnight kiss, too?”
Derek’s already free fallen so there’s really no use of trying to deny anything
Stiles wants because he’s always ready to give them up. So, he does. Leans in
and parts with a soft peck against those lips that he already dearly misses but
then Stiles hooks him at the back of his neck, leans in and swipes him a touch
of teasing tongue.
Stiles then swiftly ducks under his covers, words muffling against the pillow,
“’Ruv you, Dur-ek.” And then pretends to fake snore so Derek wouldn’t be able
to respond.
Derek chuckles to himself because this kid is the most precious person to
ever,whispers back. “Love you too, baby boy.”
Chapter End Notes
     Alright, (ducks away from throwing vegetables) I have a serious
     procrastination problem and this took a lot longer than I expected
     because I had so much issues with writing this. It was either the
     story wasn't flowing right or the content was starting to bug me out
     but I /know/ this story. It's all in my head. I just can't find the
     words to put them onto paper, so, I must sadly conclude that:
     This is not the end but due to unforeseeable future, I may not be
     updating too regularly! There's probably two more chapters left,
     maybe three if I wanna be adventurous with an Epilogue but, we'll
     see! I hope you guys don't stone me because there's no dirty do here.
     But!!!! First kiss *o*
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