Title: The Beast In The Dugout 1/3
Author: apostrophee @ maddys_slash
Word Count: 4,582
Parings: Derek/Stiles, non-con Peter/Stiles, non-con Peter/Derek
Summary: AU. Derek knows that look in his uncle’s eyes. It’s the same needy look uncle Peter used to give Derek before he got too big to play with. Now Uncle Peter is looking at the new kid whose uniform doesn’t quite sit right on his body. All Stiles wanted to do was play baseball, but there is something really weird about Coach Pete.
Rating/Warnings: R, Non-graphic sexual abuse of a child (not glorified in any way, shape or form), coercion, mating, underage
The Beast In The Dugout
Part One: The Beginning
When Stiles first sees him it’s like the world stops. Just for a moment, everything stills, becomes silent and all he can hear is the beating of his heart, the thump-thump-thump underneath his chest cage rattling the bones. He can’t breathe and judging from the look on Derek’s face he too is suffocating.
They stand there for a moment, ten feet apart feeling like ten miles, like maybe they’re actually ten different worlds away from each other. Like the flip of a switch the memories come rushing in. Everything that Stiles has spent the last eight years of his life trying to forget comes pouring in like a tidal wave. Before he knows it, all of the lights in the sky on this beautiful October afternoon begin to dim. He’s falling to the ground as if he’s weightless. The last thing that he thinks before everything turns black is that his dad is going to kill him if he’s late for dinner again.
* * *
All Stiles wanted to do was spend his summer playing video games, but his dad told him he had to get out of the house. He said sitting in front of the television everyday wasn’t healthy. Stiles is eight, he doesn’t entirely understand what the word healthy means, but he knows his mom seems really excited looking at all the different kinds of sneakers. He loves baseball, this should be exciting.
“Why are there spikes?” he asks picking up a shoe poking at the rubber points.
“They’re called cleats,” his mother says. “These, these bad boys are going to help you steal home.” She smiles at him and when he doesn’t smile back she rubs her hand down the front of her dress, twisting the fabric between her thin fingers. Stiles knows from experience that when his mother does that, the whole wiping her hands on her clothes thing, it means she’s about to say something serious.
“Do you really want to play? I know you love watching the games with your dad, but do you actually want to play?”
Stiles bites at his thumbnail looking at the blue and white sneaker in front of him. “I want to pitch like Tom Seaver,” he says. “It’s just. What if I suck?”
Mrs. Stilinski smiles, her brown eyes warm with love and she crouches down until she’s eye level with her son.
“You, baby boy, are amazing,” she says running her hand through his messy mop of brown hair. “Why are you so nervous? You play baseball all the time, only now you’ll be a part of a real team instead of just playing with your buddies in the backyard.”
“Scott won’t be there.” Stiles says. His best friend is his whole life. He tries not to sound like a little kid because he’s not a little kid. He’s almost nine, but he and Scott do everything together and they have ever since first grade.
“I know baby boy, but your friend Jackson will be there and so will Danny. Little league will be fun!”
“I hate Jackson and all Danny does is play with him and nobody else. I wish Scott wasn’t in Arizona.”
“It’s only for a few weeks. He’ll be back soon and then both of you will rule the team.”
Stiles’ ears perk up. There’s no fighting the grin that slides across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah baby boy. You wait and see; this will be the best summer of your life.”
* * *
It’s Scott’s voice that he hears first, that California cool, slightly lazy tone anxiously calling out his name. Everything is still dark, but Stiles doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that there’s a crowd around him. He can feel the heat radiating off of their bodies. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Derek is there too, Derek fucking Hale. Stiles can smell him, that earthy rich scent that’s intrinsically always has just been Derek. He remembers that smell from when he was a kid. It’s a little different now, stronger, but still there.
“I’m okay,” Stiles groans as he opens his eyes. He’s mortified to see all of the people standing around him, easily half of the town or at least the half that is spending their Saturday shopping downtown. He tries to sit up, but then there are hands on his chest, Derek’s hands, and they are holding him down.
“You shouldn’t move,” he says. Derek’s voice is deep, much deeper than Stiles’ remembers, but that’s what happens when you grow up. Derek looks almost exactly the same as he did when he was twelve only instead of being a little chubby, pimply pre-teen, he’s all long and lean now. Stiles doesn’t have to touch him to know that Derek’s body now carries this strength with it that it didn’t have before.
His hair is different too, longer at the top and kind of tapered on the sides, not that bowl cut he used to wear. He’s not wearing the glasses either, those ugly thick red things with the tape down the middle. Derek must have broken those frames at least three times that summer and finally his mother got fed up with replacing them and handed him a roll of masking tape, told him to make due until school started back up.
Mrs. Hale was always so nice to Stiles, but she scared the shit out of him. It was the height, Stiles thinks. She was almost six feet tall and just like Derek had these bright green eyes that would just burn right into you. When she smiled there was always something strained about it, like it pained her to do so. She used to wear her long dark hair in this high, high ponytail that would pull all of her strong features back, the broad nose, the too-thin lips and the high cheek bones all stretched almost inhumanely. She wasn’t a beauty, but there was something interesting about her anyway and she made the best cookies.
She’s dead now, burned up in the Hale house fire eight summers ago that killed three generations of Hales, everyone except for Derek, his older sister and…Coach Pete.
Stiles can feel it, that tightness in his chest, the sensation of the world closing in again. Flashes of light flood and blurs his vision. He starts to hyperventilate and god damn it why is Derek Hale back in town and making Stiles think things and remember that summer, dredging up all of this bullshit?
“Somebody call an ambulance!” Scott yells and he’s right there beside Derek, knees digging into the pavement in front of Miss Lee’s Knick-Knack store.
“No!” Stiles says between gasps. “I’m…fine…I….just gotta…catch…my…breath...” Stiles looks up at Derek. Derek presses his hands down firmer on Stiles’ chest silently telling him not to move.
Stiles’ heart beats faster and faster in his chest. He knows Derek can feel the vibrations and it’s as if Stiles has suddenly become too hot to touch because Derek withdraws his hands in haste.
“Just a panic attack,” he says. “I don’t think you need to call anyone.”
And then Derek is gone, Derek fucking Hale disappears into the crowd.
* * *
Everyone is so good at this game. Stiles wanted to be a pitcher, but stupid Jackson has been on the team longer and he’s already the pitcher. Stupid Danny is the catcher and that was the only other position Stiles wanted to play so now he sits and he waits for something to happen.
Most of the guys on the team or nice enough though. He knows them all. That’s what happens when you grow up in a small town; you tend to know everybody and everybody tends to know you too. Making friends with them isn’t really easy. Stiles likes to keep to himself. He’s not a quiet kid, he’s always moving around, always fidgeting with his clothes or his hat. He talks a lot too. It’s like his body is always ready to move; even if he’s tired it’s like his body has its own mind. Some of the kids make fun of him.
Last month his mother took him to a doctor and now he has to take these pills twice a day that make his stomach hurt. Scott’s mom had suggested it, said that maybe the reason Stiles was doing so badly in school was because he couldn’t sit still long enough to concentrate. Stiles doesn’t think he’s stupid, actually he knows that he’s not so these twice-a-day pills don’t make him feel much different. He knows most of the answers to all of the questions his teacher’s ask; it’s just that it’s hard for him to answer them out loud, in front of people. He hates talking in front of people; he feels like they laugh at him.
Sometimes they do. It’s because he talks too fast or whispers when he should be speaking louder, but then they laugh at him when he does talk louder. Stiles can’t win. Scott never laughs at him though. He’s his best friend and Stiles really wishes he wasn’t spending the first half of the summer in Arizona with his grandmother. Stiles hopes she smells like old people.
“Okay, listen up!” Coach Pete says. “You guys are doing phenomenal. Hartford, remember to keep your chin up and keep your eyes on the ball. When Whitmore is throwing it at you, if you want to hit it, you gotta watch the ball as it comes to you.”
Stiles tunes out the rest of what Coach Pete is saying. There’s something about Coach Pete that Stiles doesn’t really like. He doesn’t hate him or anything, not like how he hates Jackson and the way he’s always pulling Lydia’s pigtails, but there’s something about Coach Pete that makes Stiles feel all weird inside, like his skin doesn’t quite sit right on his body. Or something.
And Coach Pete is always talking to him, always rubbing his shoulders and sitting real close to him when Stiles is in the dugout. Something isn’t right about Coach, but Stiles is eight-almost-nine so maybe he doesn’t really know anything.
The Beacon Hill Beavers haven’t won a game in three seasons. It seems like Stiles spends most of their practice games just sitting in the dugout, watching all of the other kids play. It’s been five days of baseball camp and Stiles has only been up to bat twice. The first time he managed to make it to first before stupid Danny, who decided that he was better at being a shortstop, tagged him out. The second time he completely missed the ball and the whole team laughed at him. They’re stupid anyway.
Coach Pete is sitting next to Stiles again. The team is running drills, going over rotations. Stiles wanted to be a part of that, run, catch and jump with the other kids, but Coach keeps talking to him, telling him things that Stiles doesn’t really understand.
“I see greatness in you,” he says. “You’re going to be something great. We just have to work on you a little bit.” Coach puts his hand on Stiles knee and just keeps it there.
Stiles can feel Coach’s hand shake, it’s a slight tremor, but Stiles can feel it all the same. He looks up at Coach’s face, sees the way his blue eyes look almost like they’re on fire. His mouth is askew, lips parted as if he’s thirsty and his breathing is short. There are beads of sweat that begin to pool at his brow and something in Stiles is telling him to run way, screaming for him to leave the dugout and to tell someone, but what is there to tell? Coach isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s just touching Stiles’ leg, rubbing his hand up and down his thigh, squeezing and smiling at him with his big white teeth. All the better to eat you with, Stiles thinks.
“Peter!” a voice yells from above causing Coach to flinch. He removes his hand, but keeps his eyes on Stiles.
“When I’m coaching Derek, you call me Coach Pete,” he says voice low and steady. “We’ve had this conversation before.”
“I don’t play for you anymore Uncle Peter,” the voice says and Stiles strains his neck trying to catch a glimpse of the boy who’s speaking.
Coach Pete laughs, “Is that so?” He stands and turns toward the voice and damn it why can’t Stiles see him? It’s like there’s a voice, but no person behind it.
“Whatever,” the boy says and now Stiles can see him because he’s hopping down into the dugout. He’s a little odd looking, this Derek person. His body is skinny, his arms long and bony underneath the white t-shirt. He’s all knobby-knees with feet that are too big and a face that’s too chubby for his body. His dark hair is all over the place and he’s tanned, like really tanned, but he still manages to look kind of pale. He’s wearing glasses that are too big for his face and his eyes are bright, bright green. And really pretty Stiles thinks.
He looks at Stiles and Stiles feels all funny in his stomach. Like how he feels when Lydia smiles at him, which only happened once or that time she chose him to play on her kickball team. It’s a strange thrill and Stiles doesn’t understand these feelings because they are new, but Derek is looking at him with an almost horrified panic stare.
Coach sits back down, too close to him, and puts his hand back on Stiles’ leg, squeezing down hard.
“Stiles this is my nephew Derek. Derek, meet my new star player, Stiles.”
Stiles waves at him, but Derek pointedly ignores him, his eyes focused back on Coach Pete.
“Mom needs you. Says it’s important,” he says. His eyes flutter down to where Coach’s hand is gripping Stiles’ leg and Stiles feels like Derek knows something that he doesn’t. He feels exposed, like Derek is somehow looking inside of him.
“If your mother needs me so badly, why didn’t she call me on my cell?”
Derek reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cell phone, throwing it into Peter’s lap.
“You left it on the counter,” he grunts. “It’s important. Says it has to do with the family.”
Stiles can feel Coach Pete tense up before nodding. He pats Stiles’ leg and says, “We’ll finish this later. I’m going to have a nice chat with your folks about how we can help you progress.”
And with one final squeeze to his leg Coach Pete is climbing out of the dugout rounding up the rest of the team to end practice early.
“Hey, kid!” Derek hisses, lurching toward him. Stiles practically jumps out of his skin he’s so frightened. “Go home and don’t come back here!”
Stiles is confused. “Wh..What?” he says.
Derek’s hands are on his shoulders now. He’s so much taller than Stiles, almost a whole foot and his body is so much bigger. Stiles feels so small, but that twist in his stomach makes him want to do something stupid like hug Derek or give him his favorite video game.
That same horrified panic look etches its way back on Derek’s face, like he can read Stiles’ mind and he takes a step back, thick eyebrows raised in alarm.
“Don’t come here again! Stay away, it’s for your own good! If I see you here again, I’ll kick your ass!”
And then Derek Hale is gone. And Stiles can still smell him.
* * *
Stiles mother died when he was ten. She went to pick up dinner and she never made it back home. They say the driver of the truck wasn’t drunk and he was only sending out a text message to his wife. B Hm Sn it said and just like that Stiles didn’t have a mother anymore.
He doesn’t like visiting her grave. His father went all out, bought this massive headstone with a granite Angel perched above it like it was guarding his mother’s spirit, keeping her safe. It terrifies the shit out of Stiles, always has and probably always will.
When he was little, and she had just died, Stiles used to come here every day after school. He’d sit there for hours until his father would come looking for him, frantic out of his mind because the babysitter said he had disappeared from his room. He would talk to her, tell her about his day and how the doctors were giving him all kinds of medicine to help him deal with his concentration and the new feelings they were calling panic attacks.
The first year after the accident the anxiety almost killed him. His father couldn’t talk, all he did was cry and scream and break things and Mrs. McCall was there at his house, crying her eyes out too because Ginger was her friend. Ginger was everyone’s friend.
Stiles didn’t understand any of it. He tried to comfort his dad, but all his dad did was cry and hold on to him so tight, like he was afraid Stiles would fly away or something. And then Stiles’ world turned off and he couldn’t breathe.
“Hey mom,” he says sitting cross-legged. “It’s been a while. I’m sorry it’s just…you know I hate coming here right? I hate it and I feel stupid talking to a rock, but I feel like I need to, ya know? Like I need to tell you everything. I know you probably know what happened, I’m sure you do. I mean you’re in Heaven right? I’m sure being an Angel somehow makes you psychic or gives you some other awesome superpower shit –shit, sorry for saying shit! But I want to tell you what happened and it’s not your fault. I don’t blame you or dad I want you to know that. I mean I did, but I don’t, I never really meant it even when I did. I was just so angry. God, this isn’t coming out right.”
“Hey,” a voice says and Stiles jumps.
“Hi Derek,” he says. He doesn’t turn around. Derek makes no move to sit beside him and Stiles doesn’t know why he’s irritated about that.
“I thought you said you’d never come back.” Stiles’ tone is barely above a whisper and he hates that part of him that makes him feel like that nervous eight-year old kid that’s too afraid to hear his own voice. He’s older now and a little more sure of himself.
“I was twelve. I didn’t know shit.”
“Yeah,” Stiles laughs cruelly. “You knew enough though, huh Derek?”
“I didn’t…I didn’t want those things to happen,” Derek says and now he’s in Stiles’ space, crowding hands on his shoulders, jaw angular, clenched.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Stiles pushes him away. Derek recoils.
“Stiles, I just want to…you need to know something.”
“Save it Derek, I don’t need to know shit. What the fuck are you doing here anywhere? Following me, huh? I guess shit doesn’t change!”
Derek grits his teeth. “You’re not the only one with a loved one buried here,” he grunts.
The warmth of embarrassment and shame burn his cheeks. Stiles shouldn’t be angry, not with Derek. It really wasn’t his fault and Stiles shouldn’t blame him. Even if Derek was bigger, he was a kid too. Just a stupid kid with a sick shit for an uncle.
“Look, I don’t mean to be a dick,” Stiles says. “It’s just I don’t think you should be here. I don’t want you here. Whatever apology you want to give I accept it, okay, just leave me the fuck alone. I don’t want all of this shit coming up again.”
He tries to walk away, but Derek is there, in his face, crowding his space again and damn it this guy just won’t get it.
“You are going to listen to me,” he growls, honest to god growls and Stiles is all ears. “Peter is awake.”
And for the second time that day Stiles’ world becomes black.
* * *
The Hale mansion is huge. It’s like six of Stiles’ house all put into one big and more awesome house. They have three kitchens and eight bathrooms. Eight bathrooms and a swimming pool. Stiles holds onto his backpack as if it’s his lifeline as Coach Pete leads him from room to room. There’s twenty of them.
The Hale clan is huge and they instantly take to Stiles. There’s the twins Abigail and Hannah who are home for the summer. There’s Mrs. Hale and Mr. Hale, a tall pair with reserved smiles who keep offering cookies. There’s Uncle Carl who looks too young to be an uncle. He’s barely older than Derek who is glaring at Stiles from the couch, eyebrows drawn close, usually bright green eyes blazing almost electric blue.
Stiles wants to run to him, tell him that he tried to quit the team, but that he couldn’t because his mother wouldn’t let him. He wants to tell Derek that it was Coach Pete’s idea for him to spend the weekend there while his parents went away, that Coach said they could practice, make Stiles into a stronger player so stupid Jackson would stop making fun of him.
But Stiles doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t get a chance to because Coach Pete is ushering him out of the living room, growling something too low for Stiles to hear.
“This is where you’re going to sleep,” he says.
“What? Wow!” Stiles exclaims. “This bed is so big!” Stiles drops his bag and runs to jump on the massive king-sized bed. This room is huge, way bigger than Stiles’ room at home.
“Right through those doors is my room so if you get scared or you need something, you just walk right through the bathroom and there’s my room.”
“This is so cool!” Stiles exclaims. He’s jumping up and down on the bed, dust from his sneakers getting all over the red and gold duvet cover. If he was doing this at home his mother would have swatted his behind, chastising him for getting the bed dirty, but Coach Pete just laughs and hops on the bed with him.
It’s a little weird at first, this grown man jumping on the bed with him, but soon there’s nothing but giggles and Stiles is collapsing face down on the bed, spreading his arms and legs out as far as they can go. He feels like he’s swimming without any water.
Then there’s Coach’s hand on his back, not just on his back, but up his shirt touching his skin. His hand is so hot that it burns Stiles is too afraid to move. He closes his eyes and buries his face in the pillows trying not to make a sound, but he wants to cry out. Coach rubs his fingers down the bones in his back and the heat is almost unbearable.
“You’re so small,” he says breathlessly pressing fingers into the knobs of Stiles’ spine. “Why are you shaking?”
“I…I…I’m not,” Stiles stutters. He hasn’t stuttered in months. “Why are you touching me?”
Something feels so wrong. It’s like Stiles’ can smell a change in the air. There’s this look in Coach’s eyes, like he’s hungry and just like Derek’s they rage blue. Stiles is mesmerized. There are blue lights blazing from where there should be eyes and he’s moving closer to get a better look. This doesn’t seem real.
Coach’s hands press down on his back and with ease he flips Stiles so he’s face up. His hand moves to Stiles’ belly and he squirms, tries to get away.
“Stay still,” Coach commands.
Stiles freezes when he feels Coach’s lips against his neck. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but then there’s Derek and he’s growling at coach and pushing him off with strength that Stiles wouldn’t think Derek possessed.
Coach laughs, “Hello nephew. Come, join us.”
Stiles sits up, pulling his knees to his chest. What’s going on? He doesn’t understand any of this. He knows something in the air doesn’t smell good, like wires are burning but he can also smell Derek and Derek smells wonderful. He smells like something clean and safe and kind of like fresh cut flowers.
“No, leave him alone!”
Coach Pete looks confused. He sits up, hands resting in his lap. “Stiles,” he says. “Am I bothering you?”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say so he shakes his head with a resolute ‘no’.
“See, he’s fine. Why don’t you come up here with us.” Coach Pete pats the bed.
“No,” Derek says arms crossed against his chest. He’s not wearing his glasses and he’s barefoot. Stiles not sure why he decides to focus on this; but he becomes fixated with the fact that Derek is barefoot.
“Yes, you will come.”
“No! I’ll tell, I swear I will!”
Coach laughs, “You know what will happen if you do that. Now come here.”
Derek bows his head and starts whispering to himself. He’s counting Stiles realizes.
Coach laughs again, the sound making Stiles feel like he should run. He should run, but he’s too afraid to move.
Derek climbs on the bed, but stays at the foot, back turned to them. He has his head in his hands, and he’s counting. Why is he counting?
“Take off your shirt. Show our star player how what happens to little boys who can’t keep their mouths shut.”
Derek is counting: one, two, three, four, five….
He takes his shirt off and Stiles gasps. His chest hurts. There are burns all over Derek’s back. The skin is inflamed, scabbed and peeling, raw and red. It looks painful and from the way Derek’s sitting it must be.
“You see Stiles, Derek thought that he could tell my secrets. He knows better now, isn’t that right Derek?”
Derek keeps counting, but nods his head in agreement.
“Now, Stiles you’re going to keep my secret, right? Now let’s get these shoes off. You’re getting the bed all messy,” Coach Pete says as he pulls Stiles’ sneakers off. Soon after comes Stiles’ pants and the only people whose ever seen him in his underwear like this are his parents. He wants to keep his shirt on because it’s long, but Coach makes him take it off. He tells Derek to lock the door and Stiles knows that something very bad is about to happen.
“Have you ever been kissed before Stiles? On the mouth.”
“Wh..What?” Stiles says, knees pulled closer to his body, arms wrapped around them tight. He’ll be his own anchor.
“Kissed,” Coach says. “Derek here…Derek here is really good at that, aren’t you?”
Derek flinches, honest to god cringes. He’s shaking his head no, fear and humiliation in his eyes. He stops counting and now he’s pleading.
“Please, no. I don’t want to,” he says. “You said no more! You said I was too big! Please don’t!”
“Too big for me,” Coach says, pauses and then, “Not him. Stop the babbling and come here.” Derek must be moving too slow because Coach is out of the bed and yanking Derek pushing him up beside Stiles.
“Just close your eyes,” Derek whispers to Stiles, placing his hand delicately on Stiles’ forearm. “I’m sorry….I’m so sorry.”
And then Derek’s lips are crushing against Stiles.>>>NEXT
- Current Mood: accomplished