Bookmarked by konstantkhroma
10 Sep 2017
“Well, what are you you going to paint?”
“A frog,” Stiles says promptly. “A pink one.”
For a moment, Stiles assumes that the ‘no’ has come from Derek, but then it sinks in, how high and sweet the voice had been, and he turns to Ellie to find her frowning severely at him, her mouth pursed in disapproval.
“No?” Stiles asks, eyebrows lifting high. “Why can’t I draw a pink frog?”
“‘Cause it’s wrong,” Ellie says sternly. “Frogs aren’t pink. Frogs are green.”
“Okay,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Then I guess I’ll just have to draw a blue horse instead.”
“No, Stiles!” Ellie says, in a tone that suggests Stiles doesn’t know anything. He’s trying so hard not to grin, but it isn’t easy; he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything more hilariously adorable than a righteously irritated three-and-a-half-year-old.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says. “How about an orange cow?”
Across the table, Derek’s looking at Stiles with this amazingly warm, amused look, one that fills Stiles to the brim with an aching heat, a rush of feeling that’s totally inappropriate, given the company they’re currently keeping.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says quickly, swallowing against his suddenly dry mouth. “How about a brown dog. Can I make a brown dog?”
Ellie eyes him suspiciously, but finally nods her head.
“Great!” Stiles says, reaching for the brown paint. “So, a brown dog with purple spots - ”
“Stiles!” Ellie exclaims, and Derek breaks down into honest-to-God laughter
All he ever wanted to be was Stiles Stilinski.
Bookmarked by konstantkhroma
21 Aug 2017
Derek is treating him the same as he’d treat any annoying as hell kid he got saddled with. He’s not treating Stiles like he’s going to break.
It’s a strange sort of thing.
It’s weird and twisted up and complicated, which is basically how Stiles feels about Derek Hale overall, and he doesn’t want to make excuses for someone hurting him, but it doesn’t feel bad.
Stiles doesn’t know what that makes him.
Weird and twisted up and complicated too, maybe.
Bookmarked by konstantkhroma
17 Jul 2017
one night, Stiles didn't go home.
He followed Derek upstairs after their dinner to play video games. When his vision went blurry with exhaustion, Derek nudged him back down the stairs.
By that point Stiles was delusional from fatigue and figured that he deserved to crash on the first bed he encountered.
That bed just happened to be Derek's.
And it wasn't all pretty and graceful like it was in the movies either. Stiles literally flopped face first onto Derek's bed. His face smooshed into the covers, converse clad feet sticking off the end.
He tried to half-assedly kick his shoes off, but Derek merely grumbled out a, "I'm not taking the couch." and undid his laces for him.
Once free of his shoes, Stiles wriggled up to the top of the bed then slid under the covers. "Thanks, bro."
"You owe me pancakes in the morning." Derek muttered, stripping to his jockies before climbing under the covers himself.
And once that first time went by without any fuss of fanfare at all, Stiles found himself sleeping in Derek's bed a couple times a week.
It got to the point where he'd even bought a spare toothbrush to keep beside Derek's in the bathroom.
After Derek noticed the toothbrush he went and got a spare key cut for Stiles. So should he ever come round to the loft when Derek wasn't there and it was locked, he could get in.
In short, shit became domestic fast, but neither of them mentioned it.
They didn't talk about whether this was weird or not. Two mates just casually spending many of their evenings and sometimes mornings together. Sharing meals and a bed.
Although they slept in the same bed, they never really migrated towards each other.
Sure, some mornings they would wake up and one of their limbs would be stretched out over the other. Stiles had woken up a few times with his head pillowed on Derek's arm, drooling onto his bicep. Derek had woken up with his face right up in Stile's armpit more times than either of them liked. And one truly memorable time, Stiles had woken up burrowed under Derek's bulk on a particularly cold morning.
But no spooning.
No awkward, half asleep, morning wood grinding on the other man's ass.
Just… casual, bro, sleep.
And it's only once Stiles realised this that his brain utterly betrayed him.
“…I want a dude who’s going to take me out on dates. And I want him to meet my dad in, like, a sweater vest and khakis and shake his hand and talk about sports with the guy. And I want him to have a car and an apartment – not like, nice ones? But ones, you know? He’s got a dog, too. He drives me around and buys me stuff and is nice to my dad and my friends but then, like,” he squeezes the basketball extra hard and is sure he feels some air being let out of it, “…he ties me up sometimes, too. Is that too much to ask for? Am I reaching for the stars?”
Scott shakes his head, shuffling the cards and making piles out of them, likely by category. “There are no kinksters in Beacon Hills. We’ve been over this.”
- Part 1 of Tax Evasion
Bookmarked by konstantkhroma
09 Jul 2017
Stiles twiddles his fingers as he stands up and pads across the carpet into the foyer. He peeks through the peephole, sees Derek standing there, and pulls away for a moment, biting his lip. He’s, honest to God, a little bit terrified. It’s a lot like when he’d get in trouble at school and he’d get sent home and then have to sit there and wait for his dad to get off shift to come home and yell at him about it.
All the same, he unlatches the door and pulls it open, revealing Derek is all his unblurry glory, and yeah. He pretty much just looks pissed. Without saying a word, he walks into the house and takes Stiles by the arm, not roughly at least, and starts leading him off towards the table Stiles had just been sitting at.
He sits Stiles down, but he doesn’t sit down himself. He leans over the table, gives Stiles the most stern, serious look he’s ever seen on a human face before, and Stiles swallows nervously. He thinks about opening his mouth and explaining, or apologizing, but he knows that right now, it really wouldn’t do him any good.
Derek puts both hands on the edge of the table and sort of leans over it, towering over Stiles in a somewhat menacing way, and then it begins. “I am not some possessive, obsessive control freak. I don’t need to be fucking calling you twenty times a day. That’s crazy. But when my boyfriend decides to get angry with me for next to no fucking reason and then vanish without a trace, what else am I supposed to do? You think I liked having to sit there a dozen times getting sent straight to your voicemail? I had better things I could have been doing.”
Stiles twiddles his fingers and looks at his lap, and says nothing.
“I don’t have time for fucking mindgames. You are a fucking brat. I don’t even understand what you’re angry with me about, I don’t even get what the god damn issue was! You can be upset with me about anything you want to be, but at the bare minimum, can you explain it? But ignoring my phone calls just –“ he shakes his head, knocks his fist on the top of the table as if getting Stiles’ attention. Stiles looks up and meets his eyes, feeling a lot like a chastised little kid. “…that’s not an option. You understand me?”
Seeing as how this is a lecture by any other name, Stiles figures he needs to be deferent. He says, “yes, sir,” in a low voice, and Derek taps his fingers on the tabletop.
“You can be mad at me all you want,” his voice is gentler this time, and he sort of pulls back from looming over Stiles like that, standing up normally and walking around the table to stand closer to where Stiles is. “But when you’re angry with me, I expect you to explain to me exactly why, what I did wrong, what you’re feeling, and if you just don’t want to talk to me for a while, tell me that. Don’t just go fucking nuts over text and freak out and then disappear. That’s high school shit.” He bends down to crouch right next to where Stiles is sitting to get down on his level, and Stiles nods his head, his neck bowed as he listens.
“And second of all, the money thing? Baby. Of course I was going to ask you about why the credit card I gave you to buy yourself nice things was showing a charge from Albertson’s grocery store. I gave that to you so you could buy shoes and things like that.”
“I know, but –“
Derek holds his finger up. “I’m not done,” he says, and Stiles shuts his mouth and bites his tongue. “That card is for spur of the moment spending. You want a pair of hundred dollar pants, you can just get them without having to come and ask me for money. But other things, like when you need money, you come and you ask me directly.”
“But it’s –“
“It’s not embarrassing,” Derek corrects before Stiles can even say it, shaking his head. “You agreed to this relationship. You said you wanted a sugar daddy. Now you’re too chicken to ask me for money? You could come up to me and hold your hand out and say money, please with no explanation and I’d give you a fifty dollar bill.”
Stiles jabbed his finger at Boyd, and then at Derek. "We're going to have a long talk about information that is important for the rest of the pack to know. Like where you've been going every summer, apparently?"
Derek sighed and crossed his arms. "It's a summer camp. For born werewolves."
Scott spun around so fast he nearly fell off his stool and careened into Allison. "There's a summer camp for born werewolves?"
"My family used to go every year," Derek said. "When things calmed down here, I started going again."
"Why the hell didn't you ever tell us about it?" Scott demanded.
"A summer camp for born werewolves," Boyd said dryly. "Gee, I wonder why."
Bookmarked by konstantkhroma
14 Jun 2017
"I heard your conversation with Alpha Traeger," he blurted out.
Derek poked at the fire with a long stick, but didn't raise an eyebrow or glare or otherwise react. "I thought I heard someone on the trail."
"You're not going to tell me I shouldn't eavesdrop on private conversations?" Stiles asked, and really? That was the first question that popped out of his mouth?
Derek huffed. It might have been a laugh. "I would, but one, it's already done, and two, you're at a camp with professional eavesdroppers. It's a safe bet that no conversation is private, here."
Derek set the stick down and sat back on the log beside Stiles. "So what do you really want to ask me?"
His heart hammered in his chest, and Stiles chewed on his lower lip. "Is that what you want?" he asked. "I mean...to be in a real pack?"
"This is a real pack," Derek said.
Stiles rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. I mean a pack where you aren't the only born werewolf, where you actually have people like you to hang out with, where you aren't stuck with a bunch of kids that you just got thrown together with because of an act of fate, or an act of the supernatural freak show that is Beacon Hills."
"Technically, you're all adults now."
Stiles groaned rubbed his face in frustration. "That's not the point! Look, I don't want you to go, but more than that, I want you to be happy. Don't stay with us because you feel obligated, stay with us because it's what you actually want to do. I'm sick and tired of watching you martyr yourself. If going to another pack will make you happy," he swallowed the lump in his throat at the thought, "then—"
"It won't," Derek cut in quietly.
Stiles snapped his mouth shut.
Derek was looking at him, in that soft, open way of his that Stiles had so rarely seen. The first time had been after the pool, when he'd called the kanima an abomination, and Derek had looked so utterly shocked and vulnerable and hopeful that someone didn't see him as a monster. Since then, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen this look. He'd catalogued each time, filing the incidents away in his mind, holding onto them like precious jewels.
Jeez, how had it taken him so long to realize how fucking gone he was on Derek?