Prompt Post 02
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These posts will remain open to preserve the fic contained within.
These posts will remain open to preserve the fic contained within.
At least until Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore break up before the winter formal. Lydia goes on the warpath to find an eligible date, and Allison oh-so-helpfully points her in Stiles's direction.
Lydia wasn't on Derek's radar, until suddenly Stiles was on hers.
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Derek does some of his best work under pressure. He's not much for planning, in a manner of speaking, but he's good at strategy. At sniffing out the weak points. The places people break. If you're clever, sometimes you only need to attack once - and Derek is very, very clever.
He considers, briefly, a car accident - but there can't be too many of those going around, and accidents are tricky. It's one thing for a car to not start, its another for the brake lines to fail, or even a tire to blow. Too many variables.
It's not like he wants to kill her. Derek just wants her out of the picture, with enough space for him to slip back in.
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In the end he breaks into her house. He cuts up her dress, breaks her mirror, puts bleach in her shampoo. Fights like a girl, a jealous girl; or so the police will think if they even look into it. More than effective enough for his purposes. Lydia doesn't show her face for a week, and certainly not at the dance.
He comes across Stiles in the woods later that week. Not near a fire, this time, but clearly coming from one. A smudge of ash across his face, on the knees of his jeans. How his father hasn't noticed there's a growing pyromaniac in the house, Derek will never know. Double shifts and single parenthood only excuse so much.
"Stiles."
"Uhhh. Hey. Dude. Derek. How, uh - how are you?"
God, so nervous. So guilty. You can practically smell it on him.
"Great," and a flash of teeth. "What are you doing out here?"
"Clearing my head, you know. The great outdoors, and fresh... air... all that. Nature. It's the place to be. You look - sporty."
"Running. Good for clearing your head."
Stiles snorts. "Pretty sure Finstock subscribes to that philosophy."
"Nice to see he hasn't mellowed in his old age."
"Please. He's jumping directly from middle age to being that cranky old guy in the retirement home."
Sounds about right, actually. "You've got a little... something," Derek says, and rubs the flat of one thumb over Stiles' cheek. Feels the muscle in his cheek jump. "Dirt, maybe. What have you been doing out here?"
"Getting... dirty..." Stiles trails off, and looks a little like he's wishing himself off and under a rock somewhere. "Apparently."
Derek lets his hand drop by his side. The blush on Stiles's face as good as a mark. "Do you need a ride somewhere? My house is just back over the ridge."
"Am I seriously out that far?"
"Guess so."
"Nah," Stiles says after a moment. "I don't think I'm parked that far up the road."
Derek tries to swallow his first instinct- to insist that Stiles come with him. To reach out and guide him by the arm. "If you're sure."
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In hindsight, it's probably the lacrosse games that go too far. There's nothing inherently wrong with showing up at the lacrosse games; Beacon Hill has had a winning team for six years, which the whole town is ridiculously proud of - not to mention Derek is a former lacrosse player himself - but Derek only watches Stiles. And Stiles sits on the bench. It's probably no where near as subtle as he should be. Unless he's got a hate-on for Coach Finstock, which - no. God, no. No one could be that masochistic.
Derek hangs back most of the time - indiscernible from the trees, or the rest of the crowd. But he isn't invisible. And even though the Sheriff rarely makes his son's games, he certainly doesn't miss all of them. And he's not stupid.
He sidles up to Derek near the end of the game. Pins him down next to the bleachers. Pretty masterful, actually. Derek can't get away without making it clear he's running.
"Been around a lot recently," the Sheriff notes. "Rediscovering your love for lacrosse?" The look in his eyes is one that Derek can't quite read beyond sharp. His tone is bland - but deliberately. Looking for a reaction.
"Something like that," Derek manages, vague. It's not that he doesn't like lacrosse. It's just enhanced by Stiles.
"Dad!" Stiles shouts, out of nowhere, and Derek realizes they've missed the last whistle. "What are you doing back here? How are you ever going to see my spectacular scoring streak once Coach finally decides to put me in?"
"Nice alliteration," the Sheriff says dryly, and Stiles beams. "I was talking to your friend," he continues, and something rings wrong in the word 'friend'.
Derek hunches his shoulders further into his jacket. "See you around."
"Later dude!" Stiles chirps, and the Sheriff's eyes feel like daggers in his back.
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It's almost entirely too easy. It doesn't even have to look like an accident. Being the Sheriff means there are plenty of people around here with resentment enough to cause bodily harm.
Derek waits. Picks a night Stiles is staying over at McCall's, one where the Sheriff is tired from a double-shift. It helps that the Sheriff is fond of Scotch - not over-fond, never on duty, but when it's been a long day and he needs to sleep soundly. It makes it even more likely that he'll never make it out of the house. Derek siphons diesel from one of the local farmers. Blocks the doors and douses the porch.
One of the most fucked up things about watching someone burn to death is that burning flesh smells kind of sweet. Like a pig roast. It would smell good, if you could forget that it's a real person burning up in there. The same smell as when his family burnt to death, all those years ago.
As it happens, Derek thinks, well, that's definitely one.
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On a totally different note, I have another fill for this prompt I'm working on as well. I have a lot of feelings about pyromaniacs and sociopaths, as it turns out..
Derek goes to the funeral, but so does most of the town. No one notices him in the back; everyone's eyes are on Stiles here, not just Derek's. He's going to be careful, now. He wasn't before, not careful enough anyway, and look where that got him. Look where that got Stiles. This wasn't exactly how Derek wanted it to be.
Derek can wait. He can wait as long it takes. Sometimes he forgets to be subtle, but - well, he's adaptable. He always has been. He can wait.
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Stiles is sixteen. No other family. He stays with the McCalls until he's declared legally emancipated and the insurance money comes in. A few rules probably get bent on the way, but everyone's willing do that for him. Why wouldn't they be?
Mrs. McCall helps Stiles set up at an apartment in town - probably after trying to convince Stiles to stay with them, but sharing a room with Scott has to be less than ideal. She cries when she hugs him goodbye, and Stiles tears up, and Scott looks uncomfortable. Par for the course.
Sometimes it takes everything Derek has to stay away. The dejected slump of Stiles's shoulders, the late nights in front of the television, watching Law & Order until his eyes glaze over - the pizza and Chinese food binges, too much Adderol or not enough - but Derek said he'd wait. Said he'd be subtle. Harder than he thinks, but the sacrifice is worth it. Stiles already made his; Derek should too.
A few months, he thinks. Then some other chance meeting - at the Chinese food place, if Stiles keeps this up - or the nearby movie theater. Even the grocery store. Derek can be charming enough when he wants to be, and Stiles is still short on friends. Short on distractions from his own life. Scott is a good friend, Derek admits - grudgingly - but he has his own life. A girlfriend, now, on top of taking care of his mom.
So Derek doesn't even mean to find Stiles in the woods this time. He wasn't even looking - not consciously, anyway. He supposes he's always looking. At any rate, he almost stumbles across Stiles in the woods; literally stumbles, coming over a hill, and seeing Stiles sitting on a log, poking sullenly at a pile of ashes with his lacrosse stick.
He thinks about just nodding - acknowledging him, of course - and then running off. Leaving him to his solitude. But Stiles looks like he perks up a little - straightens his shoulders and blinks a few times, like he's coming out of some sort of trance. It would be wrong, wouldn't it, to leave him alone if he's lonely?
"Hey," Derek says, before realizing he doesn't really know what to follow that up with. He wasn't prepared.
Luckily, Stiles seems more than capable of taking the conversational reins. "Hey dude. Running again, I see."
"Every day."
"Amazing," Stiles says, with the disgust of the truly lazy. "You probably liked it when Finstock made you run suicides."
"No one likes suicides."
"True that!" Stiles snaps back, and pokes the embers of the fire around more.
"Really, Stiles? Your crosse?" Derek says, because he can't quite help it. He always liked lacrosse.
Stiles's face immediately squishes into a frown. Squishes is a good word for it - like his forehead collapses right into his eyes. "Not like I'm using it. If I spend any more time on the bench there's going to be an ass groove. A perfect ass groove. For my ass."
"Everyone spends time on the bench." Although it's true that Stiles is really above average in that regard.
Stiles snorts. "Not you. Like, ever. You're a lacrosse legend. I think half the plaques at school have your name on them."
"You're not so bad yourself, really."
"You would not say that if you'd seen me play."
"I have."
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Derek pretends to think about it for a minute. "The game against Lancaster. You held your own. First string that game, right? Could work on your turnovers a little, but I've seen worse."
"Huh," Stiles says slowly. "Seriously? I mean. Okay, probably my turnovers could use work, my everything could use work -"
"I could help," Derek interrupts, and watches Stiles's eyes widen. "I mean - if you're still interested in lacrosse. Despite achieving your... ass groove on the bench."
Stiles opens his mouth. Snaps it shut and scowls. "You don't need to pity me. Everyone else does."
Derek shrugs. "I want someone to play lacrosse with. If it happens to be you, that's better than most people." Better than all of them, really, but Stiles wouldn't believe him. Not yet.
Stiles narrows his eyes. "I honestly have no idea if you're lying."
"It's the eyebrows."
"And the crazy teeth," Stiles says agreeably. "Did you go as a vampire for Halloween? I'm just saying, a little bit of fake blood, you are good to go."
"Didn't do much of anything for Halloween." Generally need friends to do much of anything.
"You're even more pathetic than me, huh," Stiles says sympathetically. He's kidding, Derek thinks, but the sad fact of the matter is that it's basically true.
Derek stands up. "Make sure the fire's out when you leave, all right? It's way too easy to start a wildfire out here."
"I know," Stiles snaps, good humor gone in a flash. "I'm not losing it. I mean, it probably looks totally weird, setting all these fires, when my Dad --" He takes a deep breath. "I lost everything in a fire, all right. I should be terrified of them way more than I'm fascinated, but I just - that's not -"
"Stiles." Derek reaches out and puts one hand tentatively on Stiles's shoulder. Corded muscle pulled taut beneath his fingers. "I don't think it's weird. I probably know more than anyone else in Beacon Hills how you feel."
Stiles's mouth falls open. Momentarily shocked enough to stop the production of tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. That's a good thing, Derek reminds himself. "Shit, right, ohmygod I am such an ass, I didn't even think --"
Derek squeezes Stiles shoulder, for a moment. "It's - it's been years. It's all right. It never stops mattering - I won't lie about that. But it will matter less, someday."
"Really? You're gonna feed me that time heals all wounds bullshit?"
"Yup."
"Huh."
Derek lets his hand drop back to his side. "And believe it or not, I actually like fire too."
"Seriously?" Stiles says, and tilts his head. "You need to stop bullshitting me, because I seriously, seriously cannot tell."
"Seriously. Always have. My sister Laura and I - our dad showed up how to make these straw animals when we were young. And we used to make them out of twigs, and make creepy little fire sacrifices in the basement." Derek lets the corners of his mouth turn into a smile.
"So I'm probably better adjusted, is what you're saying."
"Probably," Derek agrees, and Stiles beams.
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admittedly, I did not look into it, but in New York, at least, you can be legally emancipated at 16. Since California tends to be even more liberal, I figured that would stand true.
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I loved Derek forcing himself to wait and being caught off guard. Their interaction is always great, I simply can't get enough of it. Your style is fantastic. And a second fill? The mere idea makes my day!
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scott thinks you're luring me into the woods to kill me
Derek takes a minute to think about it, before texting back Scott is a moron.
:D
So that goes well.
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After that Stiles starts texting him at odd intervals. Mostly during the school day, when he should be concentrating on other things, and every so often Derek has to text aren't you supposed to be in chemistry? just so Stiles will text back a sad face, but sometimes Stiles texts at two in the morning, or when he first gets up. Anything from what he's having for breakfast - capn crunch... brekkie of chmpions!! - to the downright weird - werewolvs or vampirs? v imprtnt Q may defin r rlatinship - and Derek probably shouldn't be surprised at how often he's surprised.
Soon after they start playing lacrosse two or three times a week. Derek does his best to fix some of the stuff Stiles doesn't do so well, but there's really only so much he can do. Stiles lacks a certain physicality - that killer instinct you really need in contact sports. Even if he stops tripping over himself and taking too much Adderol, he's never going to be great.
Derek has fleeting thoughts, sometimes, of pushing Stiles against the ground - tripping him, knocking him over - just getting on top of him and grinding, feeling all the soft giving parts of Stiles's body. He wants to be close, needs to be; sharing the same air, the same space. He's so desperate, sometimes, so greedy.
Greedy is the word for it, Derek reminds himself, stern. He has to stop being greedy.
The best part of it - the part that keeps Derek properly distracted - is that Stiles never shuts up, ever, about anything - anything that pops through his head, whether or not its really an appropriate conversation topic. Not that Derek cares. Derek likes hearing about Stiles's life. He mostly talks about Scott, and school, and lacrosse - which means he spends a lot of time talking about Jackson Whittemore. Jackson and Lydia are back together again, which is a stupid decision on Lydia's part, as far as Derek is concerned, because this Jackson kid sounds like an asshole.
"And then," Stiles practically yells, voice climbing another half-octave. "Then the jackass decides, oh, hey, Stiles would probably really enjoy spending his Thursday afternoon with Professor Harris --"
"Ouch."
"Unbelievable! I hate his perfect guts. But mostly his hair."
Stiles has definitely mentioned the hair before. "Clearly."
Stiles sighs, and throws his crosse carelessly in the back of Jeep. "Anyway..." he says, and Derek takes this as his cue to hug Stiles goodbye.
They hadn't done that at first. Just said 'see you later', maybe a wave on Stiles's part. Stiles is a hugger, Derek thinks, but Derek is definitely not. Doesn't look like a hugger. But Stiles had looked so sad one day, so dejected - and Stiles is not a down sort of person, all right, Stiles is a rubber ball of human emotions - that Derek had stepped closer to him, reached out for him, and had ended up with an armful of Stiles.
Parent-teacher conferences were, apparently, even more traumatizing when you didn't have a parent to attend.
Stiles had apologized, nearly, while Derek made a face somewhere between 'no problem' and 'lets not mention it again,' and now that Stiles realizes he's allowed he hugs Derek every time they hang out. He's a pretty touchy guy, Stiles -- and where else is he going to be getting it? Scott is a straight high school student - not much hugging going on there. Mrs - or Ms., maybe, Derek should find out - Ms. McCall barely has time for her own son, much less someone else's.
The hug always goes a little too long, but Derek tries not to let himself read too much into it.
"Later," Stiles says, and Derek isn't sure if it meant anything that he's dropped the "dude."
not much here, but the next part is a doozy
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"Unbelievable! I hate his perfect guts. But mostly his hair."
Stiles has definitely mentioned the hair before. "Clearly."
Love this exchange.
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also, I consider Derek more of a pyrophiliac and Stiles more a pyromaniac, but its kind of six of one, half dozen of another
The next Friday, Derek goes to pick Stiles up from practice. Stiles's car is in the shop getting inspected - "and, like, re-tired, I don't know how this stuff works" - and Derek and Stiles usually do old horror movies and pizza. Occasionally with Scott, even, when there's an action film they all feel like seeing.
"Scott hates horror films," Stiles confides to him. "We watched It at his eleventh birthday party, and he didn't sleep for three days. His mom finally dosed him with benedryl. True story."
Derek doesn't particularly like Scott, but Stiles does, and as much as Scott appears to still distrust Derek, he at least behaves himself when there's food involved. Scott's instincts are probably better than anyone gives him credit for, but Derek certainly isn't going to admit it.
"Scott wants me to go to the party tonight," Stiles says, off-hand, as he slides into the car.
Derek looks at him sideways. "You can go, if you want. I am capable of ordering pizza by myself."
"Are you, Derek? Are you? I think you nearly scared the shit out of the delivery boy last time. You're lucky they even deliver to your horror mansion."
Stiles tend towards the off-topic, but he rarely misses the subject entirely. "Why don't you want to go to the party?"
Stiles shrugs. "It's Jackson's party. I'm sure it'll be fun, but since I sort of want him to fall off a cliff somewhere--."
Just as Derek tries to pull out of the lot, a Porsche pulls out in front of them, nearly colliding with the side of the car, and laying loudly on its horn.
"What the hell," Derek mutters, and honks back. "Dick," and Stiles laughs.
"That's Jackson."
"Of course it is," he says, and Stiles practically giggles.
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That night is vampire movies - what Stiles has dubbed the "modern classics" - and Chinese food.
Derek frowns. "That's not what would happen if you cut someone in half."
"You gotta stop spending so much time alone in the woods. It's very serial killer of you."
"Look who's talking."
"Oh no," Stiles counters. "Old guy-"
"Hey!"
"Older guy, living alone in a creepy old house in the woods? Serial killer. Teenager whose dad dies? Suicidal. Or school shooting," Stile adds thoughtfully after a moment. "Which I guess is sort of like a really quick serial killing spree."
"You're not though," Derek says, and tries to ignore the way his heart is seizing in his chest. It had seemed like Stiles was better lately, and of course you're depressed in the beginning -
"What?"
"Suicidal. Or... planning a school shooting." Though they could theoretically deal with the latter.
"Nah. I mean - no. I mean no," Stiles emphasizes, and the set of his mouth is serious. "I was depressed, obviously, but not - I'm not, anymore. Not really."
"Good," Derek says, which is kind of an understatement.
"Are you?"
"What?"
"A serial killer."
"One isn't serial," Derek says flatly, and Stiles cackles.
"Definitely better than Jackson's party."
"Glad to see I rank higher than that dickwad."
"I think I know roadkill I rank higher than Jackson."
"And I'm the serial killer," Derek mutters, and Stiles throws a pillow at his head. Derek is about to retaliate when Stiles phone rings. The polyphonic sound is borderline torture, but Stiles snags it quickly.
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Derek doesn't have the greatest feeling about this. "What's up?"
"Well - from what I can tell from the various shrieking - Jackson dumped Lydia, again, in some sort of spectacular fashion, and then Scott and Allison got into some sort of fight about it because Scott thinks Lydia is better off without him and Allison doesn't think he has any emotional sensitivity - which, to be fair, Scott has the emotional range of a rock. A shrieking rock - and nobody is sober enough to drive home. So who do they call? They call Stiles."
Derek sighs. "I'll get the keys."
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Having four teens in his car - two angry and drunk, one crying and drunk, and one sullen and sober - is definitely not how Derek planned to spend his night. After dropping the girls off at Lydia's and Scott off at his house, Derek turns to Stiles.
"Want me to bring you back to your apartment?"
"I want to punch Jackson in the face."
Derek shrugs. "I can do that too."
Stiles smiles wanly. "Pretty sure his parents would get you sent to prison. But it's a nice mental picture. I bet his chiseled jaw breaks just like glass."
"Or we should just burn his car," Derek says, and Stiles laughs.
Then stops, because -
"Are you serious? Derek, you have to tell me if you're serious, because your eyebrows are doing that thing again."
Derek shrugs. "It's not like his parents won't buy him a new one."
"I -- okay." Eyes darting from Derek's face to Stiles's own hands, like it's still a joke. "Do you really - are you really--"
In response, Derek pulls out the lighter he keeps in the glove box.
"Everyone at the party will be drunk," Stiles says, like a question. "Or passed out."
Derek grins. "Just tell me where to go."
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Unsurprisingly, Jackson lives in one of the better parts of town. A big house, well-lit, but also not very close to the house next to it. Small towns certainly have their good points. Derek parks up the block from the house, with a batch of other cars. Kids at Jackson's party, presumably.
The Porsche is sitting out in the driveway. The house behind it is lit from random windows, loud music blaring out, and next to Derek Stiles trembles.
"Can you even - how do you set a car on fire?" he whispers. He's licking his lips - nervous, or excited. Both, maybe. This isn't the first fire he's set since his dad died - Derek knows that much - but it might be the first real one. The first one he can't control.
"Easier than you'd think," Derek says. Carpet, seat foam, even windshield fluid is flammable. All they need to do is crack a window and - encourage. "Grab one of the neighbor's newspapers. A pile of ads. Anything."
Stiles scrambles away; back within a minute. "The old Beacon Hills Bugle. Good thing nobody reads it."
Derek puts his hand on the back of Stiles's neck. Feels the way his pulse is hammering. "Do you have another lighter?"
Stiles digs one out from his pockets. A cheap gas station staple. Also unsurprising.
"Okay. Simple process." Derek takes Stiles's lighter and holds out his own. "You take my lighter and set the newspaper on fire. Once that gets going, I'll break a window and throw in the lighter fluid from yours. Then you throw in the newspaper."
"And that'll work?"
"Like a charm." His hand is still on the back of Stiles's neck. "Ready?"
Stiles nods. "Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker."
Definitely a yes.
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There's a nice flare-up, to begin, when the flame hits the fluid. It quickly eats into the seats - the foam underneath, the carpet - and spreads back towards the trunk. Derek pushes Stiles back towards the end of the driveway. In a minute or two the airbags could start to detonate. The tires, the door mechanisms. They're not ending this night in the hospital.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, reverent, when the engine finally goes. It's not like in the movies, of course, where a whole wave of fire comes at them, but the fire has clearly eaten into the fuel line. Nearly the whole car in flames.
It's beautiful, really.
"Come on," Derek says, and grabs Stiles by the arm. Even late at night with a party full of drunk teenagers, someone is going to notice something, and soon. They're not ending this night in jail either. "Time to go."
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They rush back to Derek's car - nearly a run, not quite, but still too fast. Stiles leans up against the trunk of Derek's car, breathing like Finstock had just put him through a week's worth of suicides.
"Holy shit," he pants, "holy fuck, holy shit, oh my god," and Derek steps up next to him, can't help it. Moths drawn to the same fucking flame, aren't they? He can tell the front of Stiles's jeans are tented, baggy as they are, and he's been waiting for this so long - my god, he's been patient, he's been so patient, all told. He can't help the way his hands reach out for Stiles now.
He shoves his mouth onto Stiles's, hard and surprising, one hand hooking around the back of Stiles's head to pull him closer. Sucks the gasp that arises into his own mouth. Stiles's hands flail around for a moment, tearing into Derek's chest, his shirt - they settle on his shoulders, tentatively, when Derek takes a moment to breathe, to flick his tongue just over Stiles's bottom lip.
Then he drops to his knees - just to taste him, he thinks, just to slide his mouth over the head of Stiles's cock. Just to make him come.
"Oh god," Stiles says, "oh god. Oh god oh god oh god," over and over, one hand curled into a fist and shoved into his mouth; the other petting the hair on the back of Derek's neck, quick and nervous, as Derek undoes the zip on Stiles jeans, drags them down with his boxers. "Derek, oh my god, that was - this is - " Past normal Stiles's babble and into full-on verbal nonsense when Derek sucks Stiles into his mouth, holds him down by the root. Stiles is already so worked up, so ready; he gets off just a few moments later, spilling down the length of Derek's tongue even as his hips pump into Derek's face. Wanting more. He whimpers when he comes, his hands pulling at Derek's hair.
Derek grunts. Rolls his tongue around in his mouth and pushes his face up to bite at Stiles's stomach, just below the belly button; that solid mouthful of flesh. Stiles moans, nails digging into the back of Derek's neck, and - God, Stiles tastes like sweat and the clouded smoke in the air, mixing so perfectly with the taste in Derek's mouth - he growls. Gnaws at Stiles, sucking at his fingers, standing and pushing him up against the back of the car - Stiles lets out a little squeak of air and, God, Derek didn't think he could get harder, but it's kind of good to know he's wrong. He yanks his pants open, pulls out his own cock and shoves up against Stiles, artless. Biting Stiles's neck, the collarbones that peek out of the stretched out collars of his shirts - fuck, he's such a child, barely not a child, and it makes Derek want to howl. He settles for rucking Stiles's shirt up and licking his nipples, bites as gentle as he can manage, while Stiles's ribcage heaves under his hands.
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Stiles clings to Derek until he realizes what he's doing, and starts pulling his shirt down and his pants up and babbling explanations and apologies all at once. Derek has to settle him down, one hand stroking the back of his neck until Stiles shuts up and presses his face into Derek's chest.
And he has him. He has him.
It really is as easy as that, in the end.
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There are sirens in the distance, and they tumble into the car. Shell-shocked. Derek takes off in no particular direction - all the kids from Jackson's party will be stumbling away soon enough.
He looks at Stiles from the corner of his eye. Sideways. Stiles is jiggling his leg, biting his lip. Looking at Derek and then out the window.
"Are you freaking out?"
"Only a lot," Stiles nearly shrieks, and Derek's grip on the wheel tightens. He pulls over, to look Stiles in the face.
"Look - " he starts before realizing that, once again, he has no idea what to say.
Next to him, Stiles worries the edge of his shirt.
"Did you want to?" Derek blurts out, suddenly, "did you like it?" and Stiles blushes and turns away. "I wanted to. I liked it," he says softly, and Stiles looks back. Eyes wide. Derek reaches out to cup Stiles' face, and kiss him. "Don't freak out," slips out, like an order.
Stiles snorts. A little shaky, but not squirming in his seat anymore.
"Don't freak out," Derek says again, and Stiles nods. Face hot in Derek's hands.
for those who don't know, the above method is basically how so many cars were set on fire during the riots in France. Bust a window, drop in a torch, and watch the car burn.
on another note, I'm really worried all the searches I did for this fic are putting me on a lot of watchlists...
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Love Derek's wolf-like reactions, they are spot-on. Stiles is simply perfect. I loved how you described his freak out and Derek's attempts to calm him down. The last line is awesome, I can practically see them.
Also, Derek giving in and jumping Stiles? Scroching hot.
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On a totally other note, according to the great source of information that is wikipedia, in California "the age of consent is 18, with a misdemeanor if the minor has 3 or fewer years of difference with the major, and potentially a felony if the major is more than 3 years older." I would honestly put Stiles at about 17, which makes having sex in California AT ALL a felony - not just with Derek! I would assume that even though people close to Stiles know what's going on with him and Derek, they also know its the first time he's seemed happy in a while, and wouldn't want to bring any sort of authorities into it. Plus, at least in my high school era experience, a lot of students dated someone older (though, TBF, it was generally a girl dating an older guy. doublestandards for homosexual relationships are never to be underestimated).
ANYWAY. REALITY. GET AWAY FROM MY FIC. THANKS. enjoy!
Jackson's car is the biggest pieces of news around Beacon Hills for a month. The police - and just about everyone else -- originally suspected Lydia, for the obvious reasons. But since she had been at her house with Allison all night, parents downstairs, there wasn't much to contest. Add in that the scene of the crime was also one of underage drinking and sex, no one wanted to admit where they were or weren't, the whole thing just died out. Drunk teenagers, a stupid prank - who would ever really know the truth?
Jackson's parents buy him a new car. A Mercedes, this time. Stiles's fingers get itchy every time he sees it.
Derek, on the other hand, couldn't give less of a fuck. Not about what they did. Not about what's happened since. His time with Stiles has shifted in tone - lacrosse practice ditched in favor of much more athletic sex, movie nights more complete with making out, Stiles doing his homework at the counter while Derek tears up the kitchen flooring. They have a pile of scrap wood in the back they light up as bonfires. Sometimes Stiles lets Derek fuck him outside, right next to it; sometimes he shies away - "dude, no, there's mud - picky as any girl, racing up to the queen-sized mattress Derek calls a bed.
"Such a creep," Stiles murmurs, whenever he catches Derek watching him sleep. Derek can't help it, and it's at least partly Stiles' fault - he drops off right after, drowsy, quiet in a way he never is any other time. It makes it hard for Derek to let him sleep. He wants to touch him. He wants to fuck Stiles like this, when he's already wet from before. He wants to suck him to hardness. Let him sleep through that. "Creeeeeeeep," Stiles breathes, and Derek bites the barely-there curve of Stiles's ass as he yelps.
They spend all their time together, split between Derek's house and Stiles's apartment - Stiles's place has more creature comforts, but "at least yours was once a home," Stiles says, some kind of gloomy, and Derek always runs his fingertips over whatever pulse point he can find - Stiles's wrists, his neck, the groove of his hip. Soothing. And when Stiles is at school, Derek works on the house. Not just the upkeep anymore, but restoring it. Making a home. The bathroom and kitchen first - all the plumbing - but next is the main room on the ground floor, the giant brick fireplace with the wide open grate. He thinks about building up the fire and fucking Stiles there, pressed into the tiles, the both of them howling.
One day Stiles comes home grumpy, cross; face pulled down into a frown that won't quit. He won't talk about it, and Derek nearly goes mad wondering - how does he ask, when usually Stiles is the one doing all the talking? - before Stiles appears to take pity on him.
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"He's pissed I spend all my time with you," Stiles says, and picks at his nails.
"And he says you're too old for me," Stiles says, and looks away.
"He thinks its creepy we stay at your, and I quote, 'serial killer house'," Stiles says, and flushes. "Although I think that one is partly my fault."
And the thing is, he sounds pissed off at Scott. But underneath - Stiles knows it isn't exactly untrue.
"We do spend a lot of time together," Derek counters carefully. "Most of it. Don't get me wrong, I love it - but he's allowed to be jealous."
"I didn't lose my shit when he started spending all his time with Allison," Stiles says bitterly. "This is just like Scott. Even when it's not about him, it's about him. Just because they're still in a snit --"
"So spend some more time with him. Go play that stupid game --"
"Katamari Dynasty," Stiles says immediately, and Derek flicks him in the ear.
"That stupid game, and order a pizza, or something. Whatever it is you usually do."
"Get drunk and watch pay-per-view MMA matches?" Stiles says hopefully.
Derek rolls his eyes. "I'm not buying you booze." Although that's a thought, really, to be explored later.
"But Derek. Derek. What if we go to some party and someone decides to take advantage of my decidedly naive nature and supremely low alcohol tolerance?"
Stiles's tone is joking, but Derek feels his nails dig into the arm of the coach.
"I'd kill them." he says, and there's a banked rage there he can't quite hide.
Stiles blinks. Shocked to complete silence.
Derek panics. He tries to think of something - a joke, a way to laugh it off, but the rage is real. Way too close to swallow back down and pretend he didn't mean it.
"I'm -- " he starts. Sorry? Kidding?
"Jesus," Stiles breathes, and before Derek can blink he has his hands full of Stiles, in his lap, pushing their faces together. Pressing the briefest of kisses to the corner of Derek's mouth. "You're just that - you'd do it, you'd just do it," Stiles stammers, and hides his face. Derek can feel the heat from his blush.
"I'd do anything for you," Derek admits, torn out of him, the deepest and most obvious of secrets, and Stiles makes an unnaturally high-pitched noise against Derek's neck. "I love you," Derek says. So much more than Stiles is ever going to know.
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