Work Text:
Derek sometimes, in the deep, deep, darkest of dark recesses of his mind, wrote poetry.
Angsty poetry.
It’s just that ever since he sort of indirectly got his family killed, he’s had all these feelings, you know?
And he never was very good with them. Most of the time he just sort of stares at the feelings and begs
them to go away because for him it never ends well. And one day, he stumbled across the works of Edgar Allen Poe and thought, ‘Well, now, this I can do.’
And so a poet he became, of the most barren and bereaved type. Laboring after his craft in the dark stillness of the early morning when none thought of him, ever.
In the darkness
I saw a tree
Burning from deep underneath
As it faded away,
It left my heart
A cold, dark place
Where only ashes lay.
Just as Derek was wondering whether adding another reference to burning or ashes would be beneficial to the structure of the poem a voice broke his reverie.
“What’cha doing?” Stiles asked biting into an apple with calculated nonchalance.
“Nothing” Derek growled, maybe he should add more references to ashes.
“I’m pretty sure you know the definition of nothing, and that my friend is certainly not nothing.”
“Shut up.”
“Aww, poor baby, am I ruining your brooding time?”
“Yes!” Peter calls from downstairs.
Once again Derek found himself wishing that dead things would just leave him alone.
Stiles only laughed and settled himself behind Derek, reading the words of the poem over his shoulder.
“Derek, honey, this is really emo.”
“It is what?”
“Emo.”
“No.”
“A place where only ashes lay? What are you, My Chemical Romance?”
“They are not emo.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was just so blinded by the rampant guyliner.”
“Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Yeah, and you do to.”
Derek made a movement as if he were waiting for Stiles to go do those very better things.
“Dude, you have a mouth, and I have a giant boner. Boyfriend privileges, I want a blowjob.”
“Ugh fine.”
“If its good, I might even let you write a poem about it.”
“Stiles, shut up.”
“Oooh, wanna 69?”