Stiles still kind of gets the feeling Derek doesn't like him - or even knows what to do with him, but, well, Stiles is pretty sure his Dad has those days too. Stiles is an acquired taste, like brussel sprouts - and once you learn to like brussel sprouts, you love them, and hey! they're good for you! but that doesn't mean you want to eat them everyday. Truth. Hard truth. Stiles speaks 'em.
The thing is, though, it's kind of nice just having someone around. Stiles loves his dad, but his job keeps him out a lot, and even then it's Stiles's Dad. He doesn't play Pacman, or lacrosse, and he doesn't know what a hag Mrs. Stockard, the librarian, is the way Derek does.
Kinda worth putting up with abuse.
Not to mention Derek's car.
Today starts out as one of the lacrosse days. Stiles spends most of his time running after the ball while Derek spends most of his time pelting it at Stiles as hard as he can. It's a system. A sick system, maybe, but it works. They're out of sight of the house, because Stiles has broken more than a few windows in his time, and when he digs himself back out of the undergrowth, Derek is leaning up against one of the trees, something small and metal in his hands.
"Is that a lighter?" Stiles asks, because he lacks the ability to censor himself, particularly when he really should.
"Gonna tell your dad?" Derek asks, his tone somehow bored and pointed at the time, like he knows Stiles is planning on telling his dad. Like he thinks Stiles is some sort of sissy crybaby who tells his dad everything - when, in fact, Stiles keeps quite a bit to himself, thank you very much.
"Gonna burn my house down next?" Stiles sasses back, and Derek shoots him a sideways look of doom.
Stiles kind of wants to know the answer to his question now. Burning is probably in his top five ways he would really, actually prefer not to die. He's just saying.
"Your dad's been good to me," Derek says after a second, which Stiles takes to mean he won't be roasted in his sleep anytime soon. Thanks Dad - your humanity has saved two lives this day.
"So can we light something on fire?" Stiles says, because - yeah. He's got no sense. He's a teenage boy, he likes lighting things on fire just as much as the next guy. Except the next guy actually burned down a house. "As long as its not, you know, my house. Or me."
Derek rolls his eyes.
"Just a little one?" Stiles wheedles.
"No. You'll burn yourself. Or the whole damn forest."
"Aw," Stiles says, "you care," because he hasn't played with both literal and metaphorical fire today. Derek sends him a look that makes Stiles's heart skip a beat, and not in the good tingly girls-have-cooties way.
Derek has a burn himself, already, on the side of his wrist, moving a third of the way up his arm. Stiles reaches out for it, touches it - weirdly smooth under his fingers. Slick, but not wet.
“Can you feel that?”
"It's mostly numb.”
“Huh.” This time Stiles pokes it. Stiles's therapist says they’re working on his impulse control, and that his medication is supposed to help with that, but whatever. As long as he stops getting yelled at in class so much. His dad doesn't likes getting those phone calls, and Stiles doesn't like getting yelled at twice. It really seems excessive. It's not the yelling helps him pay any more attention; you think someone would figure that out
“Hey!” Derek jerks away from him and glares. “You're such a... weird kid."
“You’re weird.” Stiles pokes him again, Derek shoves him back, and suddenly they're on the ground, tussling.
Not exactly an uncommon occurrence, and Stiles uses all the knowledge he has at his disposal, jamming his fingers into Derek's sides. Feels him try to jump out of his skin and grins. "You have - rage issues," he says. He's heard his dad say it. Not about Derek, specifically, but if the rage-y shoe fits.
Derek's face contorts.
Something about the kid just infuriates him.
That's not hard to pinpoint. He never shuts up, he has opinions about everything, he won't leave things alone when he should. He's the poster child for ADHD. It's a wonder Derek hasn't tried to set him on fire.
This isn't even the first time they've fought, is the worst part. Is the stupid part. They're teenage boys, which not only makes roughhousing a way of life, but it's even fun for Derek. It's easy. He beats Stiles every time; his skinny stick legs and arms, just coming through another growth spurt.
This time Derek pushes Stiles into the dirt, hard. He doesn't have rage issues, he - he has a temper, maybe, like everyone else in his family. Everyone but Peter, who had his life burned out of him in the fire, like he was the only one who lost -
Derek grunts, Stiles pinned under his hands, the points of his knees, and there's an unconscious, agreed-upon lull to catch their breath.
Except Stiles is growing stiff against his leg, face gone red with embarrassment. "Let me up," he says, voice wavering. Not looking Derek in the eye. "I'm sorry. Let me up."
Derek doesn't know why he does it. Why he doesn't get up. It's not the first time either of them has gotten hard. Stiles is so young - it's so easy to make him hard. Just the heat of another body, the friction. And it's not like Derek has much control either. He's sixteen. He's hard too, pushed up against the roundness of Stiles's belly. A little cling of baby fat, and that might make Derek harder.
He should get up. Adjust himself, and put out the fire, and head back to the house for dinner.
But when he pins Stiles down - when he has this kid, this sweet little kid, tight little body attached to gangly limbs, mouth like a sin - mouth wet and hot and open, with those sweet little noises he makes - Jesus, Derek is only human. Sometimes he doesn't even like the kid, but he loves the way he can crush Stiles to his body, hold him down, push him into the dirt and rub their bodies together. Likes him just like this.
He should get up, but he reaches his hand up Stiles's shorts instead. Grabs hold of his sweet little cock.
"Uhm," Stiles says, like he tried to smother a squeak before it could escape, and didn't quite make it. "Derek --"
"Shut up," he says, and Stiles's mouth snaps shut. His eyes widening like a cartoon character's. The inside of Derek's hand is wet, already, and Derek thinks about tasting it, but he doesn't know what he'd do if Stiles tried to wrench away. "Shut up, just - " just take it, just let him do this, just -
Stiles whines again, and Derek pulls. Feels the jump of Stiles's cock in his hands, and the shove of his hips as Stiles thrashes up against the mesh of his shorts. Sticking and dragging. It must hurt - Derek hurts, still trapped inside his own shorts, he's sick with it, humping up against Stiles like an animal while Stiles squirms. Has to put his the other arm across Stiles's collarbones to keep him down. To watch Stiles's face as he moans. One of Stiles's hands scrabbling against Derek's chest.
It takes almost nothing to get Stiles off, really. Probably the first time he has with someone else. The first time someone else touched him like this, Derek thinks, and feels his own thighs start to tremble.
"Oh," Stiles says, one long groan, when he comes, a few hot spurts inside Derek's hand. His face has gone flushed, and Derek puts his mouth against Stiles's cheekbone to feel the heat of it.
"Stiles," he says, his own kind of desperation, shoving his dick against the groove of Stiles's hip, the little patch of skin between his shorts and his shirt. Pushing his face into the side of Stiles's neck. He lifts his hips, nudges Stiles's legs open, and Stiles avoids Derek's gaze. Presses his cheek into the dirt. His mouth is open, though, and red - tongue flicking out to lick at his bottom lip.
"Derek," he cries, snuffles it out against Derek's shoulder, and Derek comes in his own shorts like a kid. Collapses on top of Stiles when he feels his shoulders and elbows unlock. Pushes his fingers into the small of Stiles's back, and still doesn't get up.
"What happened to you?" John asks when they get back to the house, and Derek freezes. Dirt all over the both of them, and twigs, and dead leaves, and Stiles face still flushed bright red.
"The woods are treacherous, father-mine," Stiles says instead, as John looks heavenward. "As are, you know, tree roots. I'm gonna go take a shower," he continues, starting towards the stairs.
"Try not to hurt yourself there, too," John yells after him, and Derek breathes.
Two days from now, when Derek sees Stiles looking at him sideways - Stiles hits the ground so hard tears spring to his eyes. He gets the air knocked out of him, and when it comes back in one sick nauseous rush Derek's tongue is already in his mouth.
"Shh, it's okay," Derek says. Soothing. Making these little petting motions against Stiles's wrists, "it's a lot, it's a lot, it's okay, I know." Talking so Stiles won't, so Stiles can't. "Just breathe," and Stiles does.