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Proof in the Way it Hurts

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It's been a month and Derek's been avoiding the issue-- avoiding them. It hasn't been an easy task, but it's one he's been dedicated to. Ever since Scott became the alpha, the kid's been focused on a very irritating sense of togetherness for the pack. He wants them all to bond, thinks they'll have enough strength from those ties to make up for the fact that none of them really know what they're doing. It's genuine and hopeful, but also the kind of moony that Derek can't really afford in his life anymore and never had much patience for in the first place.

He appreciates the sentiment, and can admit to himself that a feeling of family was something he was looking for when he himself was in charge, but he was realistic about that. He knew dealing with the alpha pack came first, that these kids had to be trained as fighters before any of the rest came. It's because he did all that grunt work, because of the sacrifices of too many of them, that Scott has the room and the time to be this idealistic about how he wants to run things. A lot of times it feels like kids playing house, and though they're only teenagers, Derek can't help but get a little worked up about it every now and then, though usually not with this kind of animosity.

Until recently he'd been content to just ride along with it, all the threat cleared out for now. He found his place doing what he could in small, unobtrusive ways to help the others learn more about the minutia of their shift, about the dangers of this world, and the dynamics of the people that live in it. It was easy-- almost nice-- to sit back and let Scott be the figurehead that garnered everyone's attention while he crept along the sidelines, taking people aside one at a time-- as needed-- to shore up the structure of this pack. He was getting to the point where he felt useful, like he was really helping them better their lives instead of dragging them down into the mud with him. He was even maybe starting to consider them friends, but now he's back to bristly and stand-offish, trying to get out of the weekly meetings as much as he can.

Derek can't lie to himself about why, though the rest of the pack seems suitably confused by this regression. It came as a smack in the face-- realizing that he wasn't just getting chummy with Scott and his pack, but that there was something more there, that something fragile, but intense had slipped through the cracks. Derek didn't even know, until he saw him with another guy, that he wanted Stiles. Sure, the pack teased them enough that they bickered like an old married couple, but he just missed the fact that he felt pride in that, maybe even a little comfort too. He didn't let himself see how much he had started to turn to the other boy-- whether to catch laughs, look for confirmations, or just to share a quiet space.

And he can't do that now, not anymore. His instinct, still, is to turn his head and smile, small and private, but when he's looking over, Stiles' sweet, dark eyes aren't catching his anymore. Derek's other self is always there, soaking up the rapt attention that used to be his. He's always hanging over Stiles' shoulder, arm slung around his waist, lounging in his lap, head pillowed on his chest, or even sitting between his shins on the floor, playing with Stiles' socked toes like a kitten. And it's unbearable.

It's not enough that Derek just has to share his space and his life with the kid, that suddenly he's this weird combination of dad, older brother, and reluctant friend, but he has to go through all the grief of knowing he's irritated by himself. Every little thing that drives him crazy about Derek Beau is some messed up, Freudian tie in to his own self consciousness. He's literally beating himself up about the boy he used to be, always embarrassed and angry over how much DB acts like a whelp, still wet behind the ears-- overeager, easy to please, and blissfully ignorant. He can't help but be bitter about how happy the kid is, how things have just been clicking into place for him.

Derek can't just leave it alone, because he knows it didn't have to be like this, he didn't have to be this lonely, angry person again. He knows that this is all his own fault, at least to a degree. Hindsight is 20/20, and looking back on the years since they met, Derek can see that he's mostly angry at DB because this was almost his, here and now, not just a fix-it fantasy of what could have been, were the world different. He can see the way that Stiles always looked at him, how the younger boy gravitated towards him, how close they'd gotten especially recently. He can see how Stiles was waiting, was dropping little breadcrumbs to try and get him to follow along, but he was just so closed off, so unprepared to let himself have something again. He held Stiles away at arm's length, unconsciously so, and it sets about an immense ache in his chest to know that the teen probably felt shutdown, unrequited.

They might have eventually disentangled all these knots and found a place for each other on their own; with just a little more patience, if he just could have had more time... Instead he does get to watch what could have happened in another life time, what he could have been if Stiles had been his first, if his story wasn't written in tragedy. He gets to watch his confident, open, cocky self take Stiles by storm and give the boy everything he's been needing, everything he's deserved and has been waiting too long to receive. He feels guilty even being upset about it, because they're both so clearly happy and he can't say that they don't deserve it. Why should he punish Stiles more, or make Derek Beau feel an unnecessary pain just to get even?

Even as he backs off, gives them space, it doesn't mean he can't be a little bitter about it, that he has to feel bad for taking the occasional pot shot to DB during practice scuffles or cut him down a little by reminding him of the more embarrassing parts of puberty that he himself has already grown out of. Like the time Derek Beau was trying his damnedest to outdo Derek at a pack meeting with the arms crossed, muscles flexed, wide stanced, brooding presence thing and then immediately had his voice crack when he went to speak. Derek couldn't help but snort-- well, not that he tried that hard to suppress it, but that's not the point-- and Stiles had to smother a giggle, which was also less than successful. Faced with the two of them, together in their assholeish-ness and only seeming to spur the other on, DB flushed the brightest red and went off to sulk in the woods for a while.

It was actually kind of cute and when Stiles came up to elbow him in the ribs and attempt to chastise him for it. Derek almost came this close to asking why they were even together, why he couldn't give Stiles everything DB could and more, after all, weren't they the ones on the edge of a relationship first? Wasn't DB just second best because Stiles thought Derek didn't want him? It's what Derek convinces himself because Stiles is eighteen now and Derek Beau is only sixteen. So maybe they're still closer in age, but in maturity, in life experience and time spent together, Derek feels he's got his younger self beat. He can see when Stiles is having a hard day, knows the probable causes. He can talk the boy down from a panic attack and sometimes they just sit in a bubble of quiet together, feeling everything but not having the need to talk.

Derek can see sometimes that Stiles gets a little worn and tired with DB, the way you love and adore your hyper active puppy, but need them to go outside for a little while or fall asleep. He'll come downstairs and just sit on the couch with Derek for a while, watch trashy tv in silence. They'll share food and a drink, communicate in smirks and eyebrow movements. Stiles will put his dirty sneakers on the coffee table for the umpteenth time even though he knows Derek hates it. Derek will reply with a pointed huff and lean to the side with a small grunt to gas Stiles out, so he hops up with a squawk and they laugh with their eyes at each other, knowing this strangely intimate, domestic chess game too well.

He forgets, sometimes, in those little moments, that they're not together, that Stiles isn't always around because they're just one formal conversation away from living together. And then Derek Beau will stumble down the stairs with a yawn, hair all mussed and sweatpants skewed on his hips so they're yanked up past his belly button on one side and showing off his asscrack on the other. Stiles will get this look that Derek can't quite read as he traces his boyfriend's lethargic path on over to them. When Derek catches him in it, they'll stare at each other as the younger boy knuckles at his still mostly closed eyes, walks right between them, and snuffles as he burrows between Stiles legs and into his belly to continue his nap, shamelessly showing his wolf in the way he scent-marks and even whines and kicks in his sleep.

They don't say anything as Stiles unconsciously cards his fingers through the thick, unruly mop Derek used to wear at that age, and a tenseness settles over the room. Derek's chest gets tight and his throat constricts because he's used to trying to decipher that look, because it used to be directed at him. Over surprise fast food dinners for two, after horseplay and wrestling that got strangely intense, from across the room when they inexplicably looked to each other for comfort. There's something there, something in the unsaid space. Derek doesn't know what it is and he's terrified of it if he's telling the truth. He feels like they're on a dangerous edge, both staring into a chasm and looking to the other about whether they're going to fall in.

Even though they don't acknowledge it, even though Derek is always the one who breaks down and eventually gets up to walk away, it's also the reason why he's still here. If he's honest, he hasn't got much of anything that's still holding him in Beacon Hills. They tore down his family estate, Laura and Peter are both gone, he's not even the alpha anymore. Stiles is with someone else and he's not quite good enough friends with any of the others yet to feel the need to stay. He's old enough, wealthy enough, competent enough to pack up and get out of this town that has given him nothing but misery. But those moments keep happening, linger longer in every instance, and so he stays. He's here and Stiles is here, and though Derek Beau is between them, every day he feels less like an obstacle and more like a puzzle piece in their configuration.

Derek tries his best to get along with the kid, even succeeds most times. When it's just the two of them, or maybe just when he doesn't have to interact with DB around Stiles, it's kind of easy. Of course they get along fairly well, they're the same person, they practically predict each other's moves. DB does irritating things, sure-- like leaving dirty clothes fucking everywhere, forgetting to put things back in the fridge, forgetting they're not at the Hale property, and so it's not really decent to be entirely or just mostly naked throughout the day-- but so does Derek.

They have fun in the way they pick fights, like family members should, but there's a different sort of air to it, and edge that keeps Derek on his toes. DB smiles at him a lot, the way he smiles at Stiles, with these scarily open and almost awed eyes. He lingers around, always close, often touching, right over Derek's shoulder, breath on his skin. He tries to mimic his older self in a lot of ways, and Derek has caught him practicing expressions and body language in the mirror, trying to look tougher, more put together, and quite mortifyingly, more... blue steel.

Derek is nervous about the fact that the end of summer is coming soon and they're no closer to any concrete answers than they were before. Sure, they have a half dozen theories that they've been researching, but the well is running dry on most of them, and to be honest, most of the pack has stopped putting in much of the effort. Without Kate, they don't have enough to go off of, and none of them want to go looking for her if she's decided to fuck off away from the town for now. She only brings trouble, and Derek Beau has been anything but.

He gets along with almost all of them, brings a little necessary energy and naivete to the group. He's been reminding them that despite all the shit that they've been through, they're all actually still young, and they're allowed to act like it. He's been a brightness that they're missing, and none of them are really too interested in trying to send him away anymore. Eventually, if this keeps going the way it has, Derek is going to have to try and get the sheriff to help him fudge some papers, get the kid into school. He's going to have to buy DB a wardrobe instead of just letting him rifle through the now communal dresser drawers.

Derek's planning a life around him now, and he doesn't know what to think about it or how to feel. He just knows that it's what's right. Because no matter what Derek Beau is, or where he came from, it's real to that boy, and now he's here, surrounded by people he doesn't know, in a world that's completely different from what he's used to. His family is suddenly gone-- dead, all of them-- and for the first little while, everyone around him was afraid of him, telling him he could be a trick, a monster.

Derek still feels guilt for that. It's why DB gets the bedroom, why Derek gives him pretty much anything he asks for, and why he doesn't even put up much of a fight when the kid comes stumbling down the stairs in the middle of the night anyway and shyly asks if he can share Derek's bed. It's easy to spoil him because whatever life he might have had or thinks he had, has suddenly turned to shit, and Derek knows all too much about that. So he lets his vice grip of control go, when there's no one else there to call him out on it.

The two of them sing every Killers song known to man loudly into tv remotes and hairbrushes, using their natural born agility to do unnecessary backlfips off everything, run and leap off the back of chairs and couches, and do powerslides on their knees at each other, meeting at the middle to guitar solo. They pass the jar of peanut butter between each other with a bag of M&M's in the middle, demolishing the whole thing with overlarge spoons and not caring that it's not exactly a balanced dinner. Derek takes him hiking and swimming and for long drives to nowhere in particular with all the windows down, cheeseburgers in tinfoil on the console, and longboards in the back.

They get along well enough that they have a lengthy text chain despite living together, and Derek actually enjoys having company instead of always being alone until the pack decides they need him again. The only times it gets hard, is when it gets really hard, when he finds himself wanting to be vicious and cruel. Times like now, when he's just lounging in the kitchen, taking the time to make himself a triple decker sandwich with everything in the fridge on it, and then the little shit walks right on in, picks it up, and takes a huge bite, moaning around his open mouthed chewing and sitting on the counter as he bangs his feet against the cupboards.

“Where have you been?” Derek asks, even though he already knows. He's not pissed about the food thing, at least he wouldn't be if he hadn't been immediately set off the second Derek Beau walked in the door, smelling like he did. The kid's utterly disheveled-- hair in a ruffled feather pattern, clothes wrinkled and askew, flushed and dewy with sweat-- and he reeks of sex. Derek's trying his best not to pop his claws or flash his eyes because as Derek Beau gives him a shit eating grin, wriggles in place, and takes another huge bite of his sandwich, he can smell Stiles' saliva dried on his collar bones, Stiles' sweat smeared on his belly and back, Stiles' cum sticky in his ass and wetting the briefs Derek let him borrow.

DB just wiggles his eyebrows and sucks a bit of mustard from his fingers, acting like it's adorable that he didn't even bother to shower before coming home, that he's literally rubbing Derek's nose in his mistakes like a dog that's piddled on the carpet. “You're a life saver Big D. I'm fucking starving after all that work and the thought of having to sit and wait while I boiled noodles for mac and cheese was killing me.” He either doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care that Derek's hackles are raised, groaning as he stretches his arms above his head, cracking his back and letting the dark, thick hair on his underarms waft more of his pheromones, the thin tank top clinging to his skin doing little to cover the raunch. “Stiles usually makes me food after, but I'd already made him late to some college prep seminar thing, so he kicked me to the curb, said he'd already given me my protein for the day anyway.”

He snickers at that, wrinkling his nose, because he knows he smells like a goddamn cum-dump, but just smiling at it instead of being embarrassed. “Derek Beau--” Derek tries his best not to have it come out as a growl, but there's no denying his clenched teeth or the way he tenses up. His wolf is practically snapping its teeth, begging to be let out, and his head feels hazy with the pure instinct that's overloading his common sense.

“Dude, would you please stop calling me that? It's embarrassing enough that mom named us Broderick Beauregard but you don't have to go around giving everyone else clues.” His cheeks are chipmunked at this point as he tries to scarf the sandwich down as fast as he can, and he's started looking around for something to help get it down. Derek mostly only goes to get him a cup of water so he can keep his hands busy not throttling him. Mostly. “I mean, I get that it's like... the product of mom and dad's epic french love story and all, but neither of them actually lived in France, so they had to know we'd get made fun of.”

Derek sighs, trying his best to breathe shallowly so he doesn't wolf out, especially now that his-- their family has come up. It's a sensitive subject for them both, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't nice to have someone around that gets it, that knows. “Ya, but you gotta admit how amazing it was for them to even meet at all, let alone have that in common. Some random guy from Quebec on vacation in Louisiana and he meets a girl that speaks the same dialect of Acadian French as he does? What are the odds?” Derek gives his damnedest to flash a small, patient smile at Derek Beau, but he can feel himself straining as he hands over the glass and then quickly steps away, not wanting to be too close.

“Whatever, you go by just Derek, so you're totally fronting.” DB chugs the glass and then mashes the last remnants of the sandwich into a ball to pop into his mouth before dusting off his hands and hopping off the counter to invade Derek's personal space anyway. It's usually cute how much he hates not being touched, how little distance he can tolerate between him and another person, but right now it's just maddening. He still has one more growth spurt to go through, only coming up to Derek's chest right now, and though he's got muscles, he's slim and compact.

Derek could pick him up and just move him out of the way right now if he wanted to. His hands come up and everything, but then DB is looking up at him through the fringe of his dark hair, those cool eyes intense and unwavering, and instead he just starts rubbing them against the boy's bared arms, curling his fingers around to grip him firm. “You know, I already give you enough shit for being the most stereotypical teenager in the world, you don't have to pile on with it. I know you're a little bastard, don't have to purposefully have an attitude with authority figures to boot. And I know that dad gave you The Talk already so you really shouldn't go around smelling like some guy's used up jock all the time. Wash your goddamn feet and balls.”

Derek Beau gives the wickedest smile Derek has ever seen on someone that's not Stiles and it sends a shiver down his back as his hands still and his dick actually twitches in his clothes. “You know you like it. You think you're totally covert just because the rest of the pack doesn't notice, but I'm born, not bitten, I can tell when you're scenting me.” Derek feels the tips of ears go hot with his flush, his chest tightening with anxiety, but his nipples pebbling with arousal. “You gotta up your game if you want to pretend like you're not totally into my boyfriend's pits or how much we get off together. Your bi-curious is showing, bro.” DB chews on his bottom lip in a way that shouldn't be that lascivious on a kid his age, but Stiles must have been teaching him a thing or two, because all Derek can think is cocksucker lips.

“I-- I don't know what you're talking about.” Derek swallows thickly, crossing his arms in front of his chest to give himself some more space and to try and dissuade DB from whatever... this is. But he can't keep himself from leaving his mouth parted to breathe loud and wet, can't keep his ass from clenching or his cock from twitching, no longer able to ignore the thick sex permeating the room now that it's been put front and center. Stiles is all over the boy, in all the lewdest ways.

Derek Beau doesn't back up though, doesn't give him an inch. “Please, you think I'm always walking around like this just for myself, or because I'm too stupid to know better? I mean, ya, it's sexy, but I know how to act human, thanks, and I know that this would be inappropriate. But you love it. I know you clean my room every morning because you like to sniff the sheets, not because you're anal like that, and I know you let me borrow your clothes because you like how they smell on me and how I leave them after. It's cool, man. I haven't told Stiles you're a whore for his old cum and even if I did, he'd probably just think it was hot.”

DB shrugs like this doesn't mean anything, like the stuff he's saying isn't the bomb that Derek's been trying his hardest not to set off for the past couple years. “I totally get it-- obviously. Stiles is sexy as fuck and we're werewolves. You don't have to be ashamed about totally having a scent kink. He lets me lick his pits and sits on my face all the time, it's amazing.” He makes a little face out of nowhere, wrinkles his nose and wriggles, and then Derek has to do his best not to moan. Because it gets worse... or... better. He's still leaking cum from his fucking and another little gush just wet the back of his briefs. “You do so much for me, it's no big deal to let you spank it with a face full of my old underwear. I know I can't give you back half as much as you give me, but I can do this.”

Derek doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't even know what the hell to think. He's pissed and guilty and embarrassed and flattered and disgusted and-- and he's kissing Derek Beau. He doesn't remember making the conscious decision to do this, doesn't even remember the spare seconds of movement where his hands glided up DB's arms to his face, where he tipped the boy's face up, pressed their bodies together, and started to lick into his mouth. His lips are soft, his teeth sharp, and he tastes just the barest bit salty and bitter-- though from the bacon on the sandwich, or Stiles, Derek can't be sure. Finally he lets the deep, rough growl he's been holding back claw out of his throat as he uses his size to bully DB back up against the counter, biting at his lips as he whimpers and bends.

What reservation Derek had has been shattered, and there's nothing left but the animal inside. He practically fucking barks as he pushes DB away just to spin him around, rough enough for the boy to trip a little and yip as Derek grabs his slim boy hips and yanks them back to grind his thick, hard cock against his ass. He bites and suck's at the kid's ears, chest swelling as Derek Beau whines and writhes beneath him, bucking back into the dominating presence behind him, begging for the hot, meaty dick grinding into his cheeks.

Derek shove him with his chest so DB has to throw out his hands to catch himself on the counter, leaning over it so that Derek can drop into a crouch, mashing his face against the denim and breathing in deep before tearing the jeans and briefs underneath down. He can hear the button pop and tear as he uses his brute strength to get them down, though he only struggles long enough to fit them under DB's ass, waistband tight where it's digging into his upper thighs, and then Derek is shoving his face between the boy's legs. He moans, low and long around teeth starting to sharpen and elongate, burrowing as deep as he can get to drag his tongue broad and flat behind DB's hairy balls, across his taint, jerking at the feel, and into the loosened, dripping hole Stiles fucked open not an hour before.

Derek's nose is mashed in the crack of DB's ass, face swallowed by the cheeks, and he shakes back and forth to rub his beard against the soft flesh and thin skin, grip tight enough to bruise as he holds Derek Beau still while the boy squirms and gasps and shoves back onto him. Derek scrapes his teeth against the twitching, clenching ring of muscle as he fucks his tongue inside to lap up every drop of Stiles' leavings, shaking with his own desperate need.

His cock is hard to the point of painful, creating a lewd bulge in his lap the size of a fist as it strains against his pants. He lets go just long enough to free it, already wet enough with pre to be able to start stripping it with his loose foreskin, growling as he humps his fist. “Derek! Oh-oh god. Please,” DB is nearly sobbing already, and Derek can smell the precum that's leaking from him like a faucet, drooling down onto his low hangers, and they make sticky slaps as they swing and smack against Derek's cheeks every time he pulls back to breathe.

He reaches forward to grope at them, gathering up the loose sack and swollen nuts, hooking in DB's cock to pull back and underneath to push up near his hole. Derek is messy and bestial as he goes back and forth between eating DB out and sucking at his nuts, digging his tongue up inside the boy's foreskin to lick into his slit. He hollows out his cheeks to suck, drools around the entire sack as he juggles the balls on his tongue, and nibbles at the rim of Derek Beau's asshole.

His head is swimming with the musk and sex and he's not sure if he's there for minutes or hours, but eventually his own hangers are drawing up and he pulls back to latch his teeth hard enough to leave a mark one DB's left asscheek as he comes hard enough to white out, gushing all over the boy's hairy calves and bare feet, marking him with enough cum to make the dark bristles mat. Derek Beau follows soon after, the second Derek rams two thick fingers up his hole, scissoring to spread and see inside. His load isn't near as big, having just been emptied earlier that afternoon, but it still sticks in Derek's beard and runs down his neck to pool on the lift of his chest.

Derek Beau growls at that, higher and more rambunctious than Derek, nearly playful, and shoves at his shoulders to push him onto his back. It doesn't take much force, Derek's thighs shaking from being in the crouch for so long, and his eyelids flutter shut as he tries to catch his breath while the boy licks up his thick seed. He nibbles and sucks at Derek's skin and body hair, before crawling up his torso to share it in a lethargic, sloppy kiss. Derek wraps his arms around the smaller frame, trying not to let his breathlessness turn into panic.

Derek Beau doesn't seem to notice, making happy, hungry little growls while nipping at his lips and and smothering their bodies against each other. The small boy squirms and wriggles until he finds a comfortable spot between Derek's thighs, resting his face in the junction of Derek's neck and shoulder, snuffling at the slightly sweaty skin and nosing at the edge of his beard. The kid's voice comes out soft, awed, and a little excited.

“Well, fuck.”