Yes, 'Brite' is intentional (anyone else remember those Lite-Brite things). Also, I don't have time for this shit. I've got a WIP fighting me rn. Very loosely inspired by spiekiel's 'i'll be the one you won't forget' (AO3 works/1257295). Also, go read everything of theirs because it's amazing and I am.

When Derek walked into his kitchen one nondescript Sunday morning, he was, understandably, surprised and annoyed to find a stranger staring blankly at his stove. Even if it was an attractive stranger.

The only thing the kid was wearing was clubbing pants and shoes. And paint. Brighter-than-the-sun streaks of neon paint across his chest and face and probably his back too. And, when Derek got close enough to see, eyeliner and glitter. At that range, it also got easier to make out the blown-wide pupils and the flush over his cheeks.

Derek glanced towards the closed and locked front door, wondered how he'd even got into his apartment in the first place, then asked "Can I help you?" Because he might work out for fun and could probably bench-press the kid with one arm, but you can never underestimate someone who's high. Especially with a knife block in arm's reach.

Dazed brown eyes turned towards him and blinked slowly.

"Was gonna make breakfast but I can't remember how to use my hands," the boy slurred. The boy who still looked like he was in high school. Derek glanced at his hands and found both lacked the black X for under-21s. Okay, so, less 'boy' and more certifiably legal (hopefully) 'twink'. A twink with natural freshly-fucked hair.

It was far too early for this shit.

Derek stared at him and the man stared back, swaying almost imperceptibly on his feet. Well, this wasn't going to go anywhere if he didn't take it there.

"Do you mind if I check your pockets for ID? Or a phone?" he asked, taking a slow step forward. The man's head head wiggled from side-to-side like he had no control of his neck. Which he probably didn't. The fact that he was standing and standing as still as he was was probably a miracle.

He took a step right into the man's space and tried to keep his pocket-search less grope-y and more perfunctory. Luckily, his search turned up a state ID (with a first name he had no idea how to pronounce), a cell phone blinking low battery and well over a hundred messages (and missed phone calls), and a lock-pick kit, of all things, though it explained how his door still looked locked.

The messages from 'Scotty', 'My Queen', and 'Allison' all started as warnings about some assholes dropping roofies indiscriminately into unprotected drinks, and steadily dissolved into furiously concerned demands to "answer your fucking phone you over-caffeinated half-wit", courtesy of the Queen. Her messages managed to sound high-maintenance and snappy even over text.

Then there was the messages from 'Dad' which started with the same demand to answer as the other three's had, which were interspersed with threats to "fall off your ridiculous 'heart healthy diet'", and ended with a notice that an APB had been put out on him.

With a deep sigh, Derek hit the call icon on 'Dad'.

"Stiles! Stiles where the hell are you!"

Derek winced at the shout and moved the phone to his non-traumatized ear.

"Um, hi. My name's Derek and I think your son was roofied and broke into my apartment last night."

THREE DAYS LATER

The knock on his door was the second one he'd received this week and two times as many as he'd received all year, and the first one had only happened because the Sheriff had come to pick up the son who'd managed to pick Derek's lock of all locks while high off his ass.

He swung open the door and was surprised to find said son, regretfully fully clothed this time, standing on the other side with a flushed face and a fresh pizza.

"Hi I'm really sorry I broke into your house while I was high oh Jesus no one said how hot you were and I wanted to thank you for turning me into my dad and not ravaging me though I probably wouldn't have minded if you did except I wouldn't have been able to remember it and I didn't know how to repay you so I figured hey everyone likes pizza so here's a pepperoni on me which you can eat off me if you want and hell you should probably just take this so I can go before I literally throw myself at-"

Derek nearly yanked the pizza from Stiles' hands in an instinctive move to startle him into silence. It worked, but then they were just left with the silence and the pizza between them.

"I feel like I should be offended that you think I'd take advantage of someone who's obviously high," he said, hiding a smile at the way Stiles cringed finally dropped the weird almost staring contest they had going on, "but I think I can forgive you if you come in and help me eat this pizza."

Stiles' head whipped towards him and Derek's sucked in a quick breath at the bright smile that had manifested below the blush.

"I think I can do that."

FINIS

Reblog the thing (themadkatter13fanfiction tumblr, post/137444791398). Tscüß. :3