Disclaimer: See initial chapter
A/N: The prompt used was - eating ice cream; this is from Derek's point of view (apparently this needed to be from his point of view), the sheriff makes an appearance. Features fluff and angst, and kissing, as well as ice cream. I hope you enjoy it.
It's obscene. There's no other word for it, but Derek can't take his eyes off of Stiles. The boy is a sticky mess of melted rocky road, chocolate chip cookie dough, marshmallow creme, and hot fudge. Fingers practically glued together, lips and tongue coated with the messy combination.
He declines the proffered spoon piled high with ice cream when Stiles shoves it in his face, ignores the boy's frown, and feels like he needs to take a walk, stretch his legs, get as far away from the sticky mess that is currently his boyfriend before he loses it completely, and does something drastic, like haul the boy upstairs and drop him in the shower, or lick him clean.
A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Derek tenses, closes his eyes, suppresses the urge to growl, fakes a smile instead as the sheriff leans close, squeezes his shoulder in something that feels like commiseration rather than a threat. Though if the sheriff knew where his thoughts had been, Derek doubts that the man would stop at squeezing his shoulder. He may have given Derek permission to date his son, but that doesn't mean the permission extends to carrying out Derek's lascivious thoughts involving Stiles as a hot, gooey mess that he washes clean with his tongue.
"He's always been a messy eater," the sheriff says, and Stiles scowls at his father, mouth full of ice cream, pouting, and reaching for the photo album that the sheriff plops down in front of Derek. The sheriff bats Stiles' hands away and delivers his son a look that causes the boy to sigh loudly and lean back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and eyes narrowed in a promise of payback.
The book's open, and there's a picture of Stiles. He's maybe two, three years old tops, and there's a mad grin on his face. He's naked. Covered from head to toe in a mess of spaghetti (noodles dangling from his ears), chocolate sauce, and, Derek peers closer, nose almost pressed to the childhood photo of his boyfriend, squints, because he can't quite make out what that gooey substance all over the two year old is.
"Is that...peanut butter?" Derek asks, casting a horrified look over his shoulder at Stiles' father who has a solemn look on his face.
"And chocolate chip cookie crumbs," the sheriff says, reaching over Derek's shoulder to point out the crumbs in the toddler's belly button. "We left him alone for two, maybe three minutes, and..."
"I was two and a half years old," Stiles says, voice pitching as he defends himself, melted ice cream flying from the spoon that he jabs in their direction. A dollop of ice cream lands on the photo, and the sheriff wipes it off.
Derek's fingers itch with the sudden urge to pull out his cellphone and take a picture of Stiles as he is now, mouth covered in ice cream and hot fudge, lips turned downward in a pout, fingers curled possessively around the sundae dish as though he anticipates it being stolen away from him. The sheriff beats him to it. Snaps off several photos, catching Stiles' pout, his scowl, the narrowing of his eyes, his launch across the table that puts Derek in the middle of the father/son altercation that ends in stickiness and laughter and an ache of longing in his chest.
In that moment, he misses his family. Misses wild runs through the forest that inevitably ended in some kind of chase where Derek would wind up much as he is now - pinned at the bottom of what his mother had affectionately termed a 'puppy pile' - laughing until there were tears in his eyes.
The kiss comes naturally, and, though Stiles' mouth is sticky and overly sweet, and the boy twines his messy fingers through Derek's hair, leaving it tacky and making it stick up in places, it's a kiss that leaves him hungering for more, even while it is oddly satisfying. Like he's had, not only dessert, but an entire meal, yet it's only whet his appetite. The ache in his chest is a little less, though.
Free Reader Tip #14: Wolves are sentimental saps. Don't let them tell you otherwise, and don't let them fool themselves. It's your duty as a human to keep them from becoming too broody. They need you more than they let on. And they secretly love ice cream, especially when it's on the lips, or abs, of someone they love. (These are my wolf's exact words; okay, almost exact words, I cleaned them up some. You know, for posterity's sake, and for the little kids, not that little kids should be reading this or anything, because this is not for little kids. Strictly adult material here, folks. Go read The Cat in the Hat, or Danny and the Dinosaur, or Where the Wild Things Are. Books are good for you. So are chocolate, and ice cream, and...lazy Sunday mornings.)
When they come up for breath, it's just the two of them, the sheriff has snuck away to the living room, having first retrieved the precious photo album, saving it from the threat of stickiness. Stiles has somehow managed to work his way onto Derek's lap, long legs dangling over the sides of the chair, sticky hands wrapped around the back of Derek's neck, fingers kneading at the tension there.
It's comfortable, and Stiles tastes like sugar on steroids. Derek has a feeling that he's going to like getting to know the different flavors of Stiles, wants him covered head to toe in something sweet and savory, something that he can spend hours licking off of his boy.