Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/977207.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Badwrong, Blow_Jobs, Age_Difference, Face-Fucking, Exhibitionism, Secret
      Relationship, Pre-Slash, Cuddling_&_Snuggling, Coming_In_Pants, Finger
      Sucking, Rafael_McCall_is_a_douchebag, Dubious_Consent
  Series:
      Part 6 of Starts_with_"F",_Ends_with_"U"
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-23 Words: 8150
****** The fear of falling apart ******
by RemainNameless
Summary
     later sequel to "You hollow out my hungry eyes"
     Stiles doesn't count on Rafa not having any boundaries. He'd thought
     that this might be the line he'd draw.
Notes
     WOW THERE ARE WARNINGS. WHAT A SURPRISE.
     ONE) u really should start with the first part. Because a lot of
     stuff has happened yo.
     TWO) ok guys, you know what's what by now. This chapter has some non-
     consensual exhibitionism (trust me, that's a thing, u will see) and
     because of it, there's a bj that goes pretty dubcon. Also, just
     creepy stuff really. One might almost think Rafa wants the Sheriff to
     catch on.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles’ dad is sitting at the dining room table with a bottle of Jack, but it’s
mostly full. He looks up when he sees Stiles and doesn’t look away. There’s
obvious stress in his face, in the lines around his mouth and the resigned set
of his brow. Stiles goes and sits across from him instead of grabbing a swig of
OJ from the fridge. 
His dad sighs, rubs his temples, like he can’t look at the files in front of
him anymore. “I thought it would be easier, knowing what’s going on,” he says,
“but it just means I have to worry about covering it all up.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles offers. 
“Don’t be. You didn’t invent werewolves or magic. Jesus Christ. Sometimes, I
can’t believe this is all real.” 
“It gets easier,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t want to lie. “Well, it should. If
there weren’t all of this new crap piling up, then it would get easier. Knowing
about it gets easier, at least. Dealing with it...it is what it is.”
His dad looks at his half-empty glass, touches the rim of it. “They’re trying
to find motive. The FBI. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to tell them it’s
some sort of occult thing. That this woman believed in ritual sacrifice. And
then I have to explain why she’s dead and who killed her, and I don’t even know
who did it. I know it wasn’t Scott and I don’t think it was Derek, but I don’t
know what to tell anyone. I don’t think they believed me when I told them I
didn’t remember anything from being kidnapped.”
“It wasn’t Derek,” Stiles says because he knows from Scott, at the very least,
that Derek had no intention of killing her. “And you can always just tell them
she was a satanist or something. There’s always satanists killing people for no
reason, right?”
“You watch too much TV,” his dad tells him. 
Stiles shrugs. “What else can you say? Anyway, let them pin it on whoever they
want. It’s out of your hands.”
“They want Derek for it. Or they’re starting to look at him. They’ve got
security footage from the school that shows he was involved with her. They
don’t have enough for a warrant, but they think he might have figured out what
she was doing and tried to stop it.” His dad gives him a heavy look. “They
don’t like that he left town right after. Or that he’s been implicated in shit
from the spring. I think they might start looking into that next, and I don’t
know how to stop them.”
“That’s not good.” It’s a massive understatement, but it’s all Stiles can
manage.
“If they do get a warrant, are they going to find anything at his place?”
With a snort, Stiles asks, “Like what? How to be a Werewolf for Dummies?”
“No,” his dad says sharply, “like something from you. Anything, an article of
clothing, a notebook, something of yours that’ll put you there. I don’t want
anyone to have reason to believe you’re an accessory. I know you’re friends
with him, but I can’t worry about you getting arrested on top of everything.” 
“What about him? He didn’t do it. He didn’t know who she was. None of us did.
We can’t just hang him out to dry like that. It’s not fair.” 
“Then you better tell him to make sure his tracks are covered,” he says.
“Because soon enough, they’re going to show up at his door and bring him in for
questioning. Make sure his story is straight. I can’t stop it from happening,
but we might be able to minimize the damage.” 
“I will,” Stiles tells him. He can fix it, probably. Might be able to push Rafa
in a different direction. But it’ll take some work, and he’s going to need to
know what he’s up against. 
 
Friday after school, he goes down to the station. 
Deputy Barker is at the front desk, flicking through a magazine, cheek resting
against one hand. She gives him a tired smile when she sees him. 
“Your dad went out for a late lunch a little while ago,” she tells him. “You
can wait for him in by the drunk tanks.” 
Stiles frowns. “Why not his office?”
“FBI ‘relocated’ him,” she says with air quotes. “Said they needed an office.
Apparently, the drunk tanks weren’t good enough for them.” 
“How many Feds are we talking?” Stiles asks. This is going to make things more
difficult by far. He’d been hoping he could casually check out a suspect board
or something. 
“There’s a few. Most of them are down at the morgue, though, thank God. The guy
leading the whole thing is the only one who’s here regularly, but I heard they
might bring in one of those Criminal Minds guys if things don’t clear up.” She
leans in, lowering her voice. “Between you and me, I think they need all the
help they can get.” 
He grins, the fake kind of grin he might’ve stolen from Derek. “I’m sure they
do,” he says before heading back into the station. 
There’s a plan half-formed in his head, where he turns the tables on Rafa. And
he’s just going to do it. He has to. If he doesn’t, he’ll regret it, he’ll hate
himself for missing the opportunity. 
The door says Sheriff Stilinski, so at least Rafa didn’t take the nameplate
off. 
Stiles knocks, maybe to delay the ambush. He wants to see how much it pisses
Rafa off that he’d come to him here, wants it too much, maybe. 
“Come in,” he hears. It’s a little muffled through the door. Stiles smiles to
himself before turning the knob. 
Rafa’s eyes narrow at first when they recognize him, then he leans back in his
chair, hands coming up behind his head.
“Not your dad’s office anymore, kiddo,” he says, and Stiles remembers how much
he hates him as he shuts the door behind himself. There isn’t a window on the
door, so maybe this is safe. Maybe it’s too safe. 
“I was looking for you,” Stiles says, shoving his hands in his pockets as he
approaches the desk in a circle, taking in the board in the corner, the filing
cabinet that doesn’t belong. What he needs is a minute, just long enough to
snap a few photos on his phone, alone in the room. But that’s not going to
happen, so maybe a little time, long enough to take it in will do. Or just long
enough to make Rafa drop his guard. 
“What do you want?”
Stiles smirks. “I think you know,” he says, and Rafa grins. His legs spread a
little and Stiles walks up between them. “I know you must be very, very busy.
Maybe I should come back later?” Rafa’s hands slip under his shirt, move from
his hips to his back and down, beneath the waistband of his briefs. 
“Not too busy for this,” Rafa tells him. His fingers just move over Stiles’
skin, but does he have no fear? If someone were to come in, even if they’re not
really doing anything, it’s still a hell of a position to be caught in with the
Sheriff’s son. Especially in the Sheriff’s office. 
“Are you sure?” Stiles asks, gripping the back of his dad’s chair as he moves
into Rafa’s lap. “I could go. Maybe I could wait for you in your bed instead.”
Rafa hums, cups his ass and pulls him in close, and he looks so fucking pleased
that Stiles can’t see his face anymore, so he leans in to his ear, brushes his
mouth against it. 
“I wouldn’t be able to wait, you know,” he whispers. “I’d tell myself I was
just getting ready for you, but I’d have a hard time remembering that with my
fingers buried in my ass. Or maybe I’d just want you to punish me for coming
before you got home.” 
“Isn’t it easier like this?” Rafa asks in a low voice. “Don’t you feel better
just letting yourself want what you want?” He holds Stiles in place while he
thrusts up in a slow grind against him, and yeah, Rafa’s hot in a way he
doesn’t like, gets his blood pumping and his cock leaking. There’s no point in
saying he doesn’t. Sure, Stiles wants to know why, but this isn’t the time for
that. 
“I want you to fuck me. Right here,” he says, rolling his hips down.
Rafa huffs a laugh against his neck. “Would if I could, baby, but I like you
loud too much to get away with it. I don’t want you to have to be quiet.”
That’s not quite what he wants, but Stiles is an improviser, if nothing else.
“Let me suck you, then. I want you in my mouth.”
“Yeah,” Rafa says, a little breathy, “a dirty mouth like that should be
filled.”
Stiles slides off his lap, down his body, ending up under the desk. Back when
he was younger, he used to play down here. Used to sit curled up in this spot
with his Gameboy playing Pokemon. Now, he helps Rafa undo his belt and slacks,
pulls his cock out. It’s flushed dark, and the sight of it makes Stiles swallow
unconsciously. 
This is the third time he’s ever given a blowjob, he thinks loudly enough to
echo. Last time was quick, just foreplay for Rafa, but this is the main event.
So he takes his time. Milks it. Looks up at Rafa with too-wide eyes as he
kisses the head as sweetly as he can. A shiny drop pushes out of his slit, and
Stiles laps it up, not breaking eye contact as Rafa’s hand curls in his hair.
Doesn’t quite pull, but there’s a pressure against his scalp. 
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Rafa asks quietly, and Stiles knows he
doesn’t mean it. At least not in the right way. Not in the way he wants to be
called beautiful. It’s okay, though. Because he doesn’t really want that from
Rafa. This isn’t about being loved.
Stiles takes the head in his mouth gently, brushing his lips against the warmth
of Rafa’s shiny-smooth skin. The pout to it is a little bit exaggerated, but he
knows how Rafa likes his mouth. 
He’s got that sort of weird dick taste. The one that makes Stiles want to find
some guy to hold down and blow so he’ll know if it’s just Rafa or if it’s dicks
in general. But Stiles smooths his tongue over it, feels the dip of the slit in
the smooth dome of Rafa’s cockhead, the little depression at the bottom. Traces
the edge of it with just the tip of his tongue. 
Above him, Rafa breathes heavily and rubs his scalp. He doesn’t really talk,
just scoots forward so Stiles has to back up until his ass and lower back hit
the inside wall of the desk. 
His mouth is wet on his own, and it’s enough to sink down a little, take Rafa
further into his mouth. The taste is stronger, and now, he sucks a little.
Gently. Just enough to tease at something more. Rafa’s palm flattens against
his skull but doesn’t push. 
The girth of him spreads Stiles’ lips wide. He’s got a big mouth, always said
it, but it’s not big enough for this to be easy. As he sinks further down, the
head of Rafa’s cock bumping against the roof of his mouth and into the entrance
to his throat, his mouth feels too open, too full. His tongue is pressed down
as far as it’ll go, teeth open tall, and still, it almost feels like he’s about
to choke. But Stiles has never had much of a gag reflex, not unless he’s
looking at something bloody, and he forces himself to go down on the hot, hard
length until Rafa’s zipper is scraping his chin. 
Rafa’s hand is soft, petting his head, almost, as Stiles tries to swallow
around him. His throat burns and it’s hard to keep his breathing even through
his nose and his eyes are watering, but apparently, it’s good enough. It’s not
so easy to suck like this, and all he can do is move his tongue a tiny bit from
side to side, but when he looks up, Rafa’s mouth is open and his eyes are dark.
Steeling himself first, Stiles moves a little. Moves his head like he’d moved
his body for Rafa in the locker rooms. Like his mouth is just another hot, wet
hole. Which it is, really. As far as Rafa’s concerned. 
It’s harder to suck when he’s moving, harder to keep his lips tight enough to
retain some suction without it being too tight to move easily, but he’s
drooling a little, enough that there’s not enough friction to burn his lips. It
just aches a little. Makes them feel warm, the way the corners of his mouth
burn a little from the stretch. It’s not a whole lot of fun for his jaw,
really, and he can feel the strain of it. The feeling isn’t an ache, not yet,
but it’s a promise that in a couple minutes, at most, it will be.
And then there’s a sound, knocking on wood, and for a split second, Stiles
thinks he’s hitting the underside of the desk, but he isn’t.
“Come on in,” Rafa says, and Stiles goes still. His stomach boils cold, heart
starting to beat too hard, but there’s nothing he can do. 
“Found the arrest record for Derek Hale,” an all-too-familiar voice says. “I
have no idea why it was in with the DUI charges, but that’s rookie deputies for
you.”
Stiles forces himself to breathe slow, calm breaths through his nose so he
doesn't scream, horribly aware of Rafa’s cock pulsing against his tongue. 
“Only as good as who’s training them,” Rafa says. “But thank you. You can set
it on my desk.”
“My desk,” Stiles hears, then footsteps on carpet. 
“It will be, when I’m done cleaning up after you,” Rafa says, and Stiles is
going to kill him. He’s going to murder him. No one talks to his dad like that.
Except he’s not really in a good place to do anything about it, considering
that holy shit he’s going to die. 
“You know how much man power we have, and you know that we’ve had three serial
killers in the past eight months, and you know that one of them took out nearly
all of my deputies. So you can save it.” Stiles wants to fist pump for his dad,
but there’s still the fact that his fucking dad is right there, not five feet
away, one noise away from discovering him with Rafa’s cock halfway down his
throat. Fuck. 
Rafa’s hand, each finger a hot line in his hair, tightens against Stiles’
scalp. “Doesn’t explain why you couldn’t find the file I asked you for two days
ago until just now. That's assuming that, contrary to what I heard, you didn’t
go for lunch when you were supposed to be looking for it.” The hand pulls him
in, and Stiles does everything he can to minimize the noise as he’s forced down
Rafa’s cock all the way to the base. 
“I’ve been here since seven this morning,” Stiles’ dad says, frustration clear
in his voice, “and I don’t remember seeing you here then. So don’t give me that
shit. I may not like you, but I’m doing my job, and I’m doing it damn well. So
you can fuck off.” It’s the first time Stiles has ever heard him say the f-
word, and he doesn’t even get to enjoy it because all he can think of is how
Rafa’s twitching in his mouth, the hard beat of his pulse, going all the way
from Stiles’ lips to his throat. 
“I hope it was a satisfying lunch, then,” Rafa says, and something about it
sounds like a threat, enough to make Stiles’ hackles rise. “Is that all?”
“Yeah. It damn well is,” Stiles’ dad snaps, and Stiles can hear his shoes
thudding against the carpet as he heads out, the soft slam of the door and the
click of the latch. There’s a second pause and then Rafa pulls him by his hair
off a little, almost to the head of his cock, before moving him back down
again. 
“Fuck yeah, just like that, baby,” Rafa hisses, thrusting up into his mouth.
Stiles can feel it bruising the back of his throat and he hates him, fucking
wants to tear him apart, but he takes it. Lets Rafa fuck his mouth, jamming his
cock down harder and faster so it’s more difficult to breathe, until he hears a
low groan and Rafa basically grinds into his mouth. Not even a fraction of a
second later, the door opens again. 
“Are you okay?” Stiles hears something that’s not quite concern and not quite
suspicion in his dad’s voice, and he’s about to cry, maybe. Not just his eyes
watering all over his face as he feels something warm going down his throat.
“Fine,” Rafa says quickly, a little out of breath, on edge. “Heartburn. You
know how it is. What did you want?”
“Have you seen my son at all?” Stiles goes cold all over, guilt and nausea
roiling in his stomach. “Deputy Barker said he dropped by, but I haven’t seen
him.”
“No. But I’ll be sure to tell him to find you if I do.” Rafa clears his throat,
hand removing itself from the back of Stiles’ head to, he sees when he looks
up, straighten his tie. “Is that all?”
There’s a slight pause, and then, “Yeah. Thanks.” Stiles counts the frantic
beats of his heart in his fingertips until the door clicks shut again. At that
point, he leans away, pulling Rafa’s cock out of his throat with a little, sick
sound.
He’s mad enough to take a few swings and never stop, but that won’t get him
anywhere. It won’t be lasting, and it’ll probably fuck up everything he’s
established so far. So he says and does nothing. Just kneels there and wipes
the spit from his mouth as Rafa rolls his chair back a few inches and looks
down at him between his thighs. 
“You did so good, baby,” he says, sliding a hand up Stiles’ shoulder to the
back of his neck to pull him out from under the desk. “I’m so proud of you.
C’mere.” He stands as he pulls Stiles up to his feet. His hands cup Stiles’
face at first, then his fingers trail down, too hot, to trace Stiles’ lips.
They feel a little numb at the contact. 
Stiles grips the edge of the desk so hard his fingertips ache to stop himself
from punching Rafa in the face. Or saying something stupid. 
“It gets you hot, doesn’t it? Knowing how easy it is for someone to walk in on
us.” One of his hands drops down to squeeze Stiles’ cock, and yeah, he’s hard
still. There are very, very few things that can totally kill a boner for him,
and rage and disgust aren’t actually on that list. Seeing his father’s face?
Yes. But if he doesn’t have to see it, some part of him, the part that controls
his dick, can pretend it isn’t there. 
“You get off on it, don’t you?” Rafa asks, a practiced hand massaging and
rubbing him through his jeans. “You like that someone might know how much of a
slut you are for me. But just me, kiddo. Isn’t that right?”
Stiles makes himself nod, but his hips buck involuntarily when Rafa’s grip
tightens on his cock, shooting pleasure through him, despite the cottony rub of
his underwear. It’s fucking good is the problem, like he knows how to get
Stiles totally going even though he’s maybe never touched Stiles’ cock. Maybe
he does. Either way, he presses the pads of three fingers against Stiles’ lips
until his mouth opens and he lets them in. 
“Suck like a good boy,” Rafa murmurs, and fuck, it’s not fucking fair. It’s not
fair that he can make Stiles get off even though he wants to murder him. It’s
not fair that he somehow knows all of Stiles’ buttons and just how to press
them. “Good. That’s it. Use that pretty cocksucking mouth. One day, I’m going
to come all over it, see how good white looks against those lips of yours.”
His hand presses tighter, and Stiles gives up, just grinds down into his palm.
Even though it hurts a little, even though he’s pretty sure he’s starting to
understand what chafing is, even though he wants to bite Rafa’s fingers off. 
“God, I just wanna mark you all up, kiddo. Fill you up with my come, cover you
in it. That’s how you should be, isn’t it? Looking like sex, like you just got
rode hard for all the world to see. I’d want them to, you know. Let them see my
come slipping out of your pretty, used hole. Show everyone what you’ll let me
do to you.” 
He’ll maintain that it’s the pressure on his cock that gets him off, makes him
blow his load as he humps Rafa’s hand like he’s exactly what Rafa says he is,
but he’s choking off a moan around Rafa’s fingers and it just feels fucking
good. Just for those few, bright seconds of orgasm.
And then Stiles is standing there with hot, wet jizz in his underwear and drool
around his mouth and Rafa’s looking at him like he’s a miracle. 
“Good boy,” he says. “Why don’t you go clean up and make sure your precious
father isn’t too worried?” 
Rafa pulls away, wipes his spit-slick hand on Stiles’ hip, and smacks him on
the ass when he turns to leave. 
“Might want to do something about your mouth. Don’t want your dad to think you
cut a glory hole into the station bathroom.” He winks, and Stiles does his very
best not to launch himself at him, rip him apart. Instead, he forces himself to
smirk and leave, tries to walk as if he didn’t cream his pants, and heads to
the bathroom to clean himself up.
Slipping out of the room without being noticed is just a mark of luck, really,
and he tries to take something from that as he walks down the hallway as
normally as possible. In the second stall, he wipes himself down, straightens
his shirt, and takes a few deep breaths. He’s okay. No, he didn’t get the
information he wanted, but Rafa thinks he’s playing into his hand. He’s at
least doing a good job there. That was something to come from this. It wasn’t
all for nothing. He didn’t let Rafa use him for no reason. 
He repeats that to himself as he ducks out of the stall and checks himself out
in the mirror. His lips do look a little swollen, but there’s not really
anything he can do about it, so he splashes some cold water on his face. 
It hadn’t been for nothing. 
His dad looks up when Stiles finds him. “Where’ve you been?”
“Bathroom,” Stiles answers quickly. “How’s it going?”
“Fine. Everything’s fine. Just finishing some stuff up. I’ll be home before
dinner. I was thinking I’d cook tonight. Spaghetti sound good?”
“Turkey meatballs,” Stiles says automatically. “But yeah. I’m going to head
over to— I might be a little late is all.”
“Alright. I’ll make a plate for you,” his dad says, then looks down at the
papers in front of him. “I’ll see you later, then.”
Stiles nods. “Yeah. See you.”
His stomach is spinning when he leaves, and maybe he drives a little too fast
to Derek’s, but who fucking cares. He keeps repeating that it was worth it,
that it wasn’t a total loss, but it feels empty and his body is cold and numb. 
 
Derek opens the door right away, looking utterly bizarre in a t-shirt and
basketball shorts. He lets Stiles in, but Stiles just stands there by the door,
forcing himself not to freak out about what he just did. 
“I didn’t know you actually had calves,” Stiles says lamely. It’s better than
telling him everything. It feels easier. 
“Shockingly, I do have legs,” Derek says easily, but his eyes are intent on
Stiles’ face. 
“Can I just—” Stiles cuts off, not sure how he’s going to finish that thought.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I can do this. I hate it.” 
“What did he do to you?”
Stiles just shakes his head, wincing, because he can’t sayit, doesn’t want
Derek to know how far he’s gone. He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s as dirty
and fucked up as he is, doesn’t want him to know what he’s done, and then he’s
shaking his head against Derek’s shoulder. He smells like laundry detergent and
Derek, and that’s enough to let Stiles breathe for a moment or two. 
Derek’s arms come up around him slowly, reluctantly. His hands stay up near
Stiles’ shoulder blades and he just sort of pats. 
“You’re the most awkward hugger in the world, you know that?” Stiles says with
a little snort. It’s weirdly endearing, honestly, in a way he’s not going to
think too hard about.
“Shut up,” Derek tells him, but his hands slide across Stiles’ back, holding
him in close with his forearms around Stiles’ shoulders. It’s kind of nice,
actually, and Stiles lets himself wrap his arms around Derek’s waist. It
shouldn’t be, but it’s easier to breathe like this. He feels safe with Derek.
Has since forever, really, but he feels it in his body now. It’s different than
trusting him with his life. 
“I blew him,” Stiles says after a minute, words dampening Derek's shirt. “He
stole my dad’s desk, and I sat under it and blew him. And my— he talked to him.
Like I wasn’t even there. And I just feel sick and gross and I don’t want to do
this anymore. I don’t want to be a person anymore.”
The flat of Derek’s cheek settles on top of his hair and it feels comforting
the way Rafa’s hand didn’t. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just
breathes, and Stiles likes the way he can feel it. The very slight rise and
fall of his shoulders, his stomach and chest expanding and contracting in
Stiles’ arms, against his body. He’s warm and Stiles can feel his heartbeat
through his chest, and it’s nice. It’s nice knowing he’s alive and here. 
But Stiles has to make sure he can keep him that way. So he drops his arms and
pulls away. 
“You need to be careful,” he says, making eye contact. “They’re looking at you
for killing Julia Gulia or whatever her real name was. If they come here, they
can’t find anything from her. Or...or from me. I don’t really care, but my dad
wouldn’t take it well, so I can’t— They can’t know we’re friends.” 
“Okay.” The way he says it is so fucking resigned that Stiles can’t take it
because that’s not all there is to it, not really.
“Hey. It’s safer for you this way, alright?” he says, almost reaching out to
touch Derek’s arm. “Rafa doesn’t like you, and he’s kind of...possessive. If he
knows how well we know each other, he might come after you that much harder. I
don’t want you to get arrested because of me. Again. Not happening.”
Derek just shrugs, looks away. 
“God, just let me protect you just this once, okay? That’s all I ask.” 
“You’re not going to fuck him again, are you?” That’s a non-sequitur, or he
wants to think it is. 
Stiles looks away. “I’m not sure. If it’ll help, then yeah. Yeah I will. If you
have a problem with it, well, I guess I’ll figure something else out. I’ll deal
with it myself.”
“I didn’t say that,” Derek says sharply. “I’ll help you, I just— If it makes
you upset, if it makes you unhappy, then I don’t see why you feel you have to
keep doing it. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t deserve it?” Stiles asks with a snort, a bitter taste at the back of his
tongue. “I got off, okay? I came in my fucking pants, so don’t pretend you
don’t know why I’m doing it. Don’t pretend I’m above it because I’m not. This
is who I am. This is what I do. And it makes me sick, but that’s just how it
is. Deal with it or don’t. I don’t fucking care.” 
Derek’s mouth is tight. “I’m not going back on what I said. I’ll do whatever
you need. I just wish you weren’t the one who was doing it.” 
“Yeah?” Stiles is halfway between laughing and snarling at him, itching with
it. “If not me, then who? Who else is there? Who would you rather see driving
themself crazy with this, huh?”
“I’d do it.”
That’s not what he’s expecting, but Stiles is too worked up to let it go. “You
would? You’d let him fuck you? You’d get on your knees for him?” Derek nods
once. “You don’t even know. You think you could handle it? Have you ever had a
dick in your ass, Derek? Hmm?”
“Yeah, I have.” Stiles blinks back his surprise, can’t think of a response to
that. “I hate him for this, for you, but I’d do it in a second if it meant you
didn’t have to.” 
The fight goes out of him at that. 
“I don’t think you’re his type anyway,” Stiles says after a second, quieter and
softer than he intends. “You’re stronger than he is. I don’t think he’d like
that very much. I think he likes them, you know—” he makes a sweeping gesture
down his own body “—whatever. Not really into men, I think. You’re too old.” 
Derek looks down, jaw clenching and unclenching. 
“It’s not really like that,” Stiles says, and he can see the second Derek
registers the lie. “Alright, it is. It is and I don’t know how to deal with it.
I’m not sure how far it goes, and it’s fucking terrifying. Thinking about it
just freaks me out, but when I’m with him, I don’t have to think, I just— What
do I do?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea,” Derek tells him, eyes a little wide, and Stiles
wants to wrap himself up in him. Just curl up against his chest like a cat and
disappear from everything like that. Derek is safe, if nothing else. But he’s
not sure what the line is here, so he’ll see what he can do. 
“Can you smell him on me?” Stiles asks quietly. “I can feel him, and I hate
it.”
Derek nods, says, “A little, yeah.” 
“Should we— Last time, I mean, we got rid of it.” He indicates the couch with a
little jerk of his head, and Derek runs a hand through his hair, looking down. 
“If that’s okay. We might be able to figure something else out, if that’s not—”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” he says, grabbing Derek’s wrist and leading him over
to the couch. There’s a weird, awkward moment before Stiles says, “Couch rules,
right? Just like last time?”
Derek nods.
“Alright then. How about this,” he says, getting down and pulling Derek over
him. He seems super uncomfortable, holding himself above Stiles almost a foot.
“Is this not okay? I mean, he mostly touched my front, I just figured—”
“It’s fine, I just don’t want you to be, well, uncomfortable,” Derek says, not
quite looking at him. “With me. Like this. If you were on top, you could get
away easier. I mean, I wouldn’t— you know I wouldn’t, but it might be more
comfortable. For you.” 
Stiles wants to do something stupid, like kiss his face, but he doesn’t want to
ruin this so he just shakes his head. “I trust you. It’s, like, proof, you
know?” This time, when Stiles loops his arms under Derek’s and over his
shoulders, he lets Stiles pull him on top of him. He adjusts a little, so their
legs are alternating, Derek’s side fitting between Stiles and the back of the
couch. His weight is on Stiles a little, but not to the point that it’s hard to
breathe, just enough to keep him warm. He tucks his face against Stiles’
shoulder so they don’t have to make eye contact and it’s good. 
At least this time, he’s not fighting a boner. 
It’s not that kind of thing, really. Derek’s like a person blanket and a giant
teddy bear as far as he’s concerned. Well, Stiles was never super into stuffed
animals, something he feels kind of left out about, but he imagines that the
point is to have something to snuggle with when you don’t feel good. Derek’s
not very soft and, as far as Stiles can tell, not particularly fuzzy, at least
not below his face, but maybe it’s magic werewolf juju or something. 
This is what he needs, really. Snuggles that they won’t have to talk about or
explain later. Which is good, really, because the only thing Stiles can think
of to explain it is I like you, and he’s not so sure about that. Well, he does,
but he’s not sure if he’s okay with it. 
Derek is not unattainable the way Lydia is. There’s too much between them, too
many little looks and little touches and big gestures. They can’t turn this
into something casual. They can’t just have sex or anything like that. Whatever
it would be would be too deep and a little too intense. It would burn, and he’s
not sure if it would be bright and fast and explosive or if it would settle
into hot embers and burn long.
There’s just not time to worry about it. There’s too much going on for them to
circle around each other, always has been, but now especially. 
Mostly, he’s afraid for Derek. He’s afraid of what Rafa might do if he thought
there were something between them. Rafa’s never been explicitly violent, but
Stiles could hear the potential for it in the edge to his voice when he talked
about other people fucking Stiles. It’s just a hunch, but it’s a good one. That
it would get ugly. Derek’s got too much to lose, and if the whole werewolf
thing gets out to anyone, that’s trouble for the whole pack. 
But like this, Stiles doesn’t actually have to worry about any of it. He can
just think about how good it feels to be close to him. The fact that Derek’s
willing to do this, to drape an arm around him and breathe against his neck and
not be worried about the fact that Stiles could probably hurt him, now that
he’s off his guard. 
That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Derek probably doesn’t love him or
anything, but he must like Stiles. He’s doing so much for him, and sure, he
didn’t really know what he was saying, but he’d said he’d let Rafa fuck him for
Stiles. That’s...that’s something. Even if he doesn’t know everything it
entails, all of the things Rafa wants, all of the little ways he makes Stiles
feel wrong even as he gets him off. If Derek knew, he might not be so quick to
volunteer, but he did. 
There’s also the fact that Derek’s been fucked. By a dude. Or someone with a
penis. And that’s an interesting thing that Stiles wants to think a little more
about, but probably in private. Not with Derek on top of him. But that might be
an interesting side of his sexuality that deserves some attention.
But not now. Bad time. Instead, he’ll think of the warm weight of Derek’s chest
against his, the hot puffs of breath against his skin. Just comfort. 
Without really thinking about it, he realizes that one of his hands is
smoothing over Derek’s back. It’s not that weird. Stiles always moves as he’s
falling asleep, sweeping a foot in an arc over the edge his mattress or
something, so it’s just an unconscious thing. A comforting, repetitive motion.
And Derek doesn’t say anything. 
Actually, Derek might be asleep. Possibly. After last time, he’s not going to
say he’s sure, but maybe. That means it’s okay, so Stiles lets himself drift
off, cheek turning against Derek’s head.
 
Someone’s calling his name, shaking him gently, and he blinks into
consciousness. Derek’s face is right above him and he’s gorgeous in this silly
way that makes him grin because this? This is a good way to wake up. They
should do this all the time. 
“It’s late. Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Derek says, his voice a
little scratchy. 
Stiles takes a deep breath, almost a sigh, and stretches just a little. “I
guess we should get up then, huh?” 
“Yep. Come on.” Derek untangles their legs and pushes himself up, off Stiles’
body. 
Fortunately, there’s no awkward boner situation this time. It’s all good. 
Derek hauls him up to his feet, and Stiles stretches himself out, gets his
blood pumping again. His left arm is numb in spots where Derek was laying on
him, but it’s fine. 
He throws a glance at Derek and he just looks ridiculous. Stiles has never seen
him in not-jeans, and the swingy basketball shorts sitting low on his hips are
very nearly offensive. Partially because he’s barefoot, probably. He just looks
comfortable. Derek never looks comfortable.
“What?” he asks, looking down at himself.
“Nothing, it’s just...you look like a real person.” Stiles winces as soon as it
comes out. “I mean, that’s probably offensive but I dunno. You look like
someone who actually does laundry. Not like your clothes just spring into
being, perfectly tailored, on your body.” 
That seems to make Derek remember something. “I’ve got your track clothes. From
earlier this week. Just a second.” He heads to what Stiles had thought was a
closet next to the bathroom, and Stiles hears the sound of a dryer door
opening, then, “What the fuck?”
“Did anything shrink? I didn’t think jersey stuff did that—”
“Holy shit,” he hears, then the sound of something thudding against metal hard
enough to dent it. That’s enough to get Stiles in there.
Derek’s on his toes, peering out the small window above the dryer. It’s around
sunset, but Stiles can see something that looks weirdly like smoke. Which,
what? He clears the space, hopping up onto the dented dryer to get a look. 
“Is that your car?” Stiles breathes, stomach dropping. 
“Was,” Derek says. “I think the past tense is more appropriate considering that
it’s on fire. Fuck.”
Stiles doesn’t say it, but he’s fucking thankful he didn’t park anywhere near
Derek, who always takes the furthest away spot. At least there aren’t any other
cars that caught, but shit. It’s hard to tell because they’re up so high, but
it looks like the tires have melted and the whole thing is a yellow-black
mess. 
“You should call 9-1-1. Or should we go down and try to put it out? That seems
like a bad idea, but maybe you have sk—”
Derek’s shaking his head quickly, jaw set. “I’m not going down there. Neither
are you. It’ll put itself out.”
“Dude. You have to at least call. Otherwise, you’re going to lose the car.”
The look on Derek’s face pretty clearly says that it’s already gone.
“Fine, I’ll call,” Stiles tells him, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
Derek grabs his wrist. 
“You can’t. If the police investigate it, they’ll hear your voice on the
recording. I’ll do it, I just…” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Cars
don’t spontaneously combust.”
“Arson,” Stiles says softly, which is a fucking horrible thought, considering.
“Maybe it was just some street punks or something.”
“Street punks?”
“Youths,” Stiles tells him with his best old man face. “You know, kids do shit
like that all the time. I mean, troubled kids, yeah, but it’s not unheard of.
Your car was far enough away that it would be the only thing to burn. It was
probably just chance that it wasn’t mine or someone else’s. Really, not the
best parking decision.” 
“My car,” Derek says in a thin, strained voice, “is onfire. Do not talk to me
about parking right now.”
“Sorry. I know you liked feeling like a soccer mom,” Stiles says because he
can’t resist. The thing was fugly. 
“Go to the other room,” Derek tells him. “It was a hybrid, by the way. I was
doing my part for the environment. Pretty sure that Jeep of yours wouldn’t pass
an emissions test in rural China.” 
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I bet all of the great chemical fumes it’s releasing in
that smoke are just great for the environment.”
“I wasn’t the one who set it on fire!” Derek snaps.
“Well, neither did I!” Stiles throws back. “And I’m kind of freaked out right
now because I don’t believe in youths, okay? Someone set your freaking car on
fire. Who even does that?”
Derek sighs. “I don’t know. I...I would say it was Peter, but he’s not really
fond of fire. But I don’t know if Deucalion is still around, and I don’t know
what to do if he is, and I don’t know what to do about the fact that my one and
only car is being consumed by flames, so can you just go sit down and give me a
moment to figure out what I’m going to do? Thank you.” 
“I’m just...living room. Is where I’ll be. If you need me.”
Stiles plops himself down in a beanbag chair. A second later, he hears Derek
shaking the dryer and swearing, and seriously, he’s going to fuck up the dryer,
and it’ll only exacerbate everything. But no, Stiles is going to let him figure
that out for himself. 
Derek comes out after a minute of heavy breathing. “I’m going to call 9-1-1,”
he says, “and then I’m going to go downstairs. You probably don’t want to be
here when they send someone over.” 
“Right.” Stiles stares at him for a second before getting up. “Right, okay, I’m
going to grab my clothes, then, and I guess, text me when your car isn’t on
fire anymore? I...if you need a ride sometime this weekend, just let me know. I
feel kind of bad about all this.” 
“Don’t. Just do yourself a favor and head out,” he says, phone in hand. 
Stiles nods, ducks into the laundry room for his clothes, and when he comes
back out, Derek’s got the phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes, I’d like to report an emergency….My car is on fire….” Stiles winces at
how done he sounds and squeezes his shoulder lightly before heading out. To the
elevator. Downstairs. Outside. 
Yeah, that’s really on fire. 
He can hear it, too. Crackling over a soft roar, little bursts as Stiles
powerwalks to his Jeep. Ducks inside to avoid the smoke because who knows what
kind of weird hazardous shit is getting spewed into the air. 
Twenty minutes later, he’s home. His dad is on the couch with a beer. 
“Hey, I was just about to eat, actually—”
“Someone set Derek’s car on fire,” Stiles says quickly; his dad is halfway out
of his chair in a second. “Completely up in flames.”
“Did he hear anything?” he asks. “Don’t they have some kind of—” he waves at
his ear “—thing?”
“I don’t know. It must’ve started before we woke up or something, I don’t
know.” He realizes, by his dad’s frown, that he’s said something bad. It takes
him a second to realize what it was.
“Why were you and Derek both asleep at his place? That’s not a normal thing.
People don’t nap together, Stiles, not unless they’ve been doing other things
together.” Stiles is kind of freaked by that a little, and his dad looks weary.
“Have you had any sort of intercourse with Derek Hale?” his dad asks and he
chokes. 
“No. God, Dad, we’re not sleeping together, okay? We were just chilling and we
fell asleep. That’s all.”
“Look, Stiles,” his dad says, much more gently, “I know that you’re dating him.
I know that couples move a lot faster these days, but I got the impression it
was a pretty recent thing.” 
Stiles buries his face in his hands because this on top of Derek’s car on top
of the shit he’s not thinking of from earlier this afternoon, it’s all too
much. “Yeah, okay, we’re together or whatever, but it’s not like that. We were
just kind of cuddling and then we fell asleep on accident.”
“He’s a cuddler?” his dad asks with a very skeptical look. 
“Yeah,” Stiles says with a smirk. “I know, he doesn’t look like it, but he’s a
teddy bear, I swear. Gives good hugs, too.” 
“Please never tell me any further details about your physical relationship with
him.” 
Stiles grins. “I won’t. Now can we get back to the part where someone torched
hit Toyota? I mean, I thought it was an eyesore, too, but arson is a little
far, you know?”
His dad nods, slowly going more and more tense. “Stiles, you know that Julia
Bacari’s body was found at that tree stump, right? Well, they got tire tracks.
Midsize vehicle. They just put in for a warrant today to check Derek’s tires.”
“Oh shit,” Stiles breathes as the implication hits him. “They’re going to think
he was trying to get rid of evidence. It’s not going to help at all. He parked
away from the building, too. Away from all the other cars. That’s going to look
so freaking suspicious, godammit.” 
Fuck, he needs to talk to Derek. They need to find a way to sort this all out
because it’s starting to look suspicious as fuck. Especially since Stiles was
there. After he was at the station. 
“We need to find out if there’s parking lot security cameras at Derek’s
building,” Stiles says. “Because if they see me there after I came to visit
you, it’s only a matter of time before someone remembers that I was at the
station earlier today. That I didn’t stay long, and that you weren’t there when
I first got there. Crap crap crap, this is bad, this is so bad.” 
“You need to stop communicating with him. When they run his phone records, how
much of you are they going to see?” Stiles bites his lip, rubbing his face like
that’ll make this all go away. “We need to figure out someone else to pin
Bacari’s murder on. ASAP. Do you know who actually did it?”
Stiles shakes his head. “The only two people I can think of are Peter and
Deucalion. No one’s seen anything of Deucalion, and, well, let’s be honest: it
was probably Peter. He’s actually evil and kind of scary, or he was, when he
wasn’t de-powered. But he’s also legally dead, so I don’t know how, exactly,
that helps us. Especially since both of them are werewolves anyway.” 
His dad frowns, thinking, and Stiles’ phone buzzes an incoming text in his
pocket. He pulls it out, thinking it’ll be Derek, but it’s not. It’s fucking
Rafa. Come over.
Sure, he doesn’t know that this is a fucking terrible time, but it’s a fucking
terrible time. Can’t he sends back quickly, shoving his phone back in his
pocket right away. His dad is thinking and doesn’t seem to have landed on
anything yet. 
“Let’s have dinner,” he says after a minute. “And then we’re going to figure
something out.” 
Stiles nods, phone buzzing again. Rafa again. Call me tonight.
He tucks it away without responding and follows his dad into the kitchen. 
It was supposed to get better. After they eliminate a threat, it’s supposed to
get easier, but this is worse. It’s just getting worse and worse. 
There’s no text from Derek even after they’ve done dishes, and it doesn’t help
that Stiles knows that if he were arrested again, they’d confiscate his phone
so he couldn’t text. His dad opens up a new bottle of whiskey, so Stiles goes
upstairs to wait for Derek’s text instead of watching him drink until he passes
out.
By the time Stiles has fallen asleep, the text still hasn’t come.
End Notes
     THE PLOT THICKENS DUNDUNDUNNNN
     i know guys, very few people expected a plot from this, but i
     apparently have a weird compulsive disorder where i can't write plot-
     less things.
     anyway, u can come say hi on tumblr if u want, cuties! xxoo
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