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For hellonheelson
This is unbeta'd so I apologise for any mistakes.
Let me know what you think
Stiles swallowed painfully and averted his gaze to the floor. It shouldn't hurt as much as it did, to see Derek Hale, all gorgeous in leather and smiling so wildly at the blushing girl. It was supposed to be a pack bonding day – bowling this time, something that was insisted upon when Isaac admitted he'd never been before – and instead, Derek had abandoned them to flirt shamelessly with the smiling redhead who had booked their lane the hour previous.
He tried to keep his expression neutral and disinterested, hiding his true feelings which, admittedly wasn't really worth the effort since he knew the werewolves could probably smell the distress on him anyway, and he tried not to flinch when the girl's laugh reached his ears. It was like fucking bells.
He shouldn't be this affected, he told himself, no matter how pointless it was. Derek didn't feel the same way about him, he reminded himself bitterly, he'd been incredibly clear about that. So clear in fact that every single hopeful wish or blatant fantasy had been destroyed completely. It was almost sad to realise how much of his day was actually made up by those things.
Derek had barely looked in his direction since Stiles had finally built up the courage to tell Derek that he may actually have fallen in love with him and his grumpy assed attitude, and how maybe there could be something more between them, and had proceeded to be shut down so bluntly that he wasn't sure whether it was possible to recover.
Maybe that was why the ache in his chest was enough to make him feel queasy. Because he knew that Derek was doing this on purpose, trying to prove a point that Stiles didn't need to witness to understand. He was straight, attracted to women, he got that. He didn't need to see it. The alpha just didn't flirt with people. He was all growls and harsh words and stupidly attractive scowls and even better (and rarer) smiles that only appeared around his pack. But this Derek, this wide grinning man with soft words and a welcoming exterior – this was an act, or maybe it was the real him. Maybe the Derek that he showed everyone else was his shield. Yup, he'd succeeded in making himself feel worse. Congratulations Stiles, he mocked.
Lydia sat down elegantly in the empty space beside him on the lane. She'd just bowled and seemed to enjoy watching Jackson and Scott squabble over the scores. She brushed her hair delicately over her shoulder. Stiles turned to focus his attention on her, a welcomed distraction from what was increasing the heavy weight on his chest. He couldn't say that he and Lydia had become the best of friends, but he was certain they were close. Lydia (and perhaps Erica) had been the only person he had trusted with his Derek dilemma and she, in turn, had shared the issues she had with Jackson as they worked to return their relationship to its former glory. She crossed her legs and straightened her skirt over her milky thighs and shot a distasteful look over her shoulder that had become legendary for making teenagers crumble nervously to their knees.
And it's being directed at…Derek?
"She's not even a real redhead," Lydia commented casually, as if it made any sense at all. But then again, maybe it did. Maybe he was just missing something.
"I'm sorry?" Stiles questioned confused.
"Her hair, it's definitely dyed," she elaborated.
Stiles glanced at the girl briefly, not really wanting to stare at the probably lovely girl for longer than absolutely necessary. "Her roots are showing," he uttered weakly.
Lydia rolled her eyes. "Oh come on Stiles, you can do better than that," she complained, "She's flirting with Derek."
"Derek's a fully grown man. He can flirt with whoever he wants," he hated that reminder.
"Trust me, bitching about other girls is the most therapeutic way to deal with rejection," she explained professionally. "I'm a seasoned expert at it."
He didn't doubt that. Still, he was unsure. Lydia gave him an encouraging smile and nudged him gently, "Go on, try it. It's not that difficult. I can pick out at least a dozen infractions already."
He knew she was just being nice, but it still made him smile. It was nice to know that there was someone rooting for him, even if no one else was. At least, that's how he reasoned with himself, when he sighed heavily and reluctantly turned his gaze back to the couple. Stills standing way too close, still talking under their breath with smiling lips, still laughing at jokes Stiles doubted were that funny. Derek reached out to touch her hand, rough fingertips tracing the contours of her hand, and suddenly, bitching became that much easier.
"Her left eyes wonky," he blurted out.
"Her nose is huge," Lydia contributed, "She must have near death experiences when she gets sick."
"Her teeth are gapped," he continued, "and god, are those sweat patches?"
Lydia's nose wrinkled. "As if that outfit needs anymore stains. It already looks like a menu for the cheapest diner ever."
Stiles hated to think that this was actually making him feel better. The girl had no idea what was being said about her and, as someone who had been the topic of many bitching fests during his life time – and he was sure there were many he didn't know about because, really, it wasn't a secret that he annoyed people – he hated to become that kind of petty person that he had always despised. But Lydia was right. It felt so good. Just once, he could pretend that Derek was making some kind of stupid, irreversible mistake by rejecting Stiles. So, for the moment at least, he pushed the thoughts of hypocrisy and guilt to the back of his mind and enjoyed the simple pleasures of being mean.
Then suddenly there was a shadow looming over him; Lydia fell silent and looked contrite, and Stiles stomach dropped uncomfortably.
When he turned around hesitantly, Derek was glowering down at him, his jaw tense and eyes hard in a way that both gave away so much and nothing at all. Yes, this was the Derek Hale he knew. The one who was constantly angered by Stiles' presence; the Derek he knew how to deal with. He decided not to focus on how sad that sounded. He swallowed nervously.
"Get up," Derek grunted out.
When Stiles didn't move fast enough for the alpha's liking, a hand roughly grabbed his collar and dragged him roughly from the seat, lifting from practically off his feet for a moment. he let out an (incredibly manly) yelp, drawing eyes in his direction, and froze when he heard the sound of claws shredding his plaid shirt, way too close to his ear for safety.
Stiles saw Scott frown deeply at the action and take a step forward, opening his mouth as if he were about to object and for one fleeting moment, Stiles felt this overwhelming relief that he was going to be saved – and then Derek growled warningly, eyes flashing red, and all those feelings left him as Scott reluctantly turned back to the bowling game still in progress. Jackson smirked his amusement and Erica tilted her head in confusion as Lydia approached her side, pulling her closer to whisper something in her ear. Probably a note to start planning his funeral. Isaac stared after him in a way that made him look like a little kid who was about to lose his favourite toy. Stiles definitely did not like that simile. Boyd, as always, just looked passive.
Well, fuck them too. What's the point in being friends with superpowered werewolves if they can't protect you against attractive, sour and probably a little murderous Alphas?
If Derek was concerned about the looks they were receiving, he didn't show it. He just continued forward pointedly, eyes straight ahead, pulling the defenceless human behind him. Stiles thought for a moment that someone may actually do something – you know, stand up to question what the hell was happening – but no, of course not. Because bowling was such an important game that even a teenager being dragged away by a clearly dangerous man was to be ignored. Figured.
Derek pulled Stiles out of the entertainment complex and into the parking lot where his sleek black Camero stood against all the Ford Fiestas and seven-seater cars. He didn't say a word as opened the door and forced Stiles into the passengers. The teen shifted awkwardly in his seat, fingers sliding over the seat belt shakily, and he kept his gaze on his lap. He heard the drivers' side door open and close as Derek climbed into the car; heard the key turn in the ignition a second before the car started, vibrating under his body; heard the squeaking of tires against asphalt as Derek pulled them one of the road.
He wanted to ask where they were going.
He didn't dare.
Derek's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He wasn't even angry, not really, and perhaps that's what really annoyed him. Because he should be angry. Anna (at least, that's what he thought her name was, maybe it was Annabel? Abigail? Angela?) was a nice girl, sweet and smart and pretty, and yet Stiles had been so horrible about her, something so unlike him.
Normally, Derek wouldn't have minded; he could care less about the childish dealings of teenagers, but for some reason, god, it bugged him.
Maybe it was because he knew what had caused the change in Stiles' attitude, the blame fully placed upon himself. he had, after all, known what he was doing when he had smiled widely at the redhead as she came off her shift and, okay, it wasn't the nicest thing he had ever done to someone else. In fact, as he glanced at the hunched over teenager beside him, the stench of sadness and pain and heartache filling the car, it seemed downright cruel.
He hadn't meant to hurt Stiles, never wanted to make the boy cry and be the one to cause the horribly heavy weight on his chest, or cause the depressed cloud that seemed to be following him around and, fuck, wasn't that the problem? Because he shouldn't have those feelings, not about Stiles. He shouldn't care, but he did, much more than he'd care to admit, even to himself. There had never been any evidence that he had ever been attracted to a guy, but then again, he'd never met Stiles before. This gorgeous, talkative, annoying teenager, who cares so much about everyone, even if he tries not to show it, and wears his emotions so obvious on his sleeve. He'd never noticed how often the brunet had been there, filling and warming the ice he protected himself with, until he had left with a blank expression on his face, smothering the heartbreak that was welling up inside of him, and the room had suddenly seemed that much colder.
But he couldn't return those feelings. The pang in his chest told him otherwise. Yes, he could return those feelings – perhaps he already did – but he wouldn't let himself because despite everything they had done through over the past year and no matter how mature Stiles liked to believe he was, he was a kid.
'He's 18 in 3 weeks,' the traitorous voice in the back of his mind reminded him, 'no longer a child.'
When Derek pulled the car to a stop, it was on a small off-road. It was far enough away from the main room that it gave them some kind of resemblance to privacy, although for Stiles, it was more privacy for Derek to rip his throat out and hide the body. His eyes darted around him frantically, marking all escape routes.
"We need to talk," Derek stated firmly. He didn't even look in Stiles' direction – didn't really trust himself to, to be honest – continuing to stare out of the window.
Stiles swallowed heavily. "Look, I didn't mean to…I was just…" he huffed out a breath, "I understand that you don't…like me like that, okay? I get it, I do, but, god, Derek, you can't expect me to just get over it that quickly and just be okay with you fl-flirting with someone else in front of me. It's not fair…"
The distress he could hear in the teenager's voice made Derek wince. His grip flexed on the steering wheel before falling into his lap. "I know…" he said, his voice low.
"Then what do you want from me Derek?" Stiles sighed, defeated, as he rubbed the corners of his eyes with his forefingers and thumb. He just looked tired, of everything, and Derek pretended like he didn't want to howl in pain at the sight.
Instead, he chuckled darkly. "I think that's the problem…" he muttered, more to himself.
Stiles threw his arms up into the air in frustration. "Are you incapable of answering a question directly? Does everything have to be cryptic with you?" he demanded, "I'll ask again, slower, so you can keep up: what. Do you. Want. From me?"
"So many things Stiles, just…" he finally admitted, trailing off and shaking his head. 'Things that would get me arrested Stiles, because, god, just look at you…'
Stiles eyed him warily, distrusting, and yeah, Derek deserved that. "What do you mean?" his voice quavered as he tried to keep his emotions out of it. Not that it mattered. Derek could smell everything: the fear of the future, the sadness of the present, and the hope of what might happen.
"I mean, I was…wrong…" his teeth gritted over the word. Wrong. He hated that word. He hated it so much. Because he was wrong, always wrong. As usual, he squashed down on that feeling and tried to focus on Stiles and the words he needed to get out. He wondered which was more daunting. He continued purposefully anyway. "What I said before…about you…"
"You're an immature kid Stiles. You, me, us, it's never going to happen, okay? So, just get that idea out of your head. Now, go find some other annoying kid to try your charms on because it's not working on me, okay?"
Stiles' chest tightened at the memory of the words, but it was something he had learnt to ignore. The words had circled around his head, a constant reminder that Derek could have said something much worse. That he was only trying to be nice about how he really felt about Stiles. And now Derek was in front of him and telling him something that, well, something that Stiles didn't really want to get his hopes up about, only to have them dashed. He wasn't sure he had the strength.
"Wha…what do you mean?" he said, his voice croaked and cracked with emotion.
Derek locked his jaw stubbornly. "You know what I mean Stiles…"
"No, you don't get to do that. You need to say the words. I-I need to hear them Derek," Stiles practically begged. His hands reached out and clutched the larger ones of the alpha desperately. "Say it Derek, or I get out of this car and you let me get over you."
Derek hesitated and watched the pleading desperation in his hazel eyes, hidden behind a breaking shield of caution. "You're still a kid," he started weakly.
He saw Stiles' shoulders drop and beaten acceptance fill his stare, and Derek could feel the exact moment that he began to pull away, hand slipping from over his. The cold left behind jolted him, a frightening shock, and Derek clutched at the limb tighter.
"And that's what makes what I want so terrible," he continued hurriedly, as if he knew that if he couldn't get the words out fast enough, Stiles would leave. Stiles froze and Derek didn't dare to look away from their clasped hands, less he lose his nerve. "God, I'm straight. I've always been attracted to women, it's never been an issue before – and then you come along and completely fuck that up with your wonderful smiles and witty banter and this ability to make everyone like you, even when they don't want to. Apparently, especially when they don't want to. And I tried to ignore it, I did, but every time I see you, I just want to push you up against the wall and kiss and bite and mark your skin until everyone knows who you belong to."
Stiles licked his lips. "And w-who do I belong to?" he stammered out the question, his voice breathless. He could hardly believe this was happening. In fact, maybe it wasn't. Maybe he was just dreaming. He would have pinched himself if Derek didn't have just a firm hold on him – and if he could actually work up the will to let go himself, and that definitely wasn't going to happen.
And then Derek growled out the answer, something that made Stiles' heart pick up speed dramatically and a beaming smile break out across his face.
"Me!" the voice was rough and animalistic, and eyes flashed red as if both the wolf side had taken control and was raged to know that Stiles' thought he belonged to anyone else.
Stiles wanted to jump and dance and whoop and celebrate, let everyone know that Derek Hale wanted him (although it took him long enough to say it) – but he didn't get the chance because said werewolf had already reached across the width of the car and dragged Stiles closer by the front of his shirt so he could press their lips together into a hard and brutal kiss. Yeah, this works too, Stiles agreed.
He whined into the kiss, the noise muffled by lips, and his hands grappled to hold onto Derek's broad shoulders. The leather of his jacket had some purchase and he clung to it desperately. The kiss was…definitely not what he expected, to be honest. It was too instinct-driven, claiming and marking with sharp nips that would also definitely bruise and Stiles didn't even realise that the stories of getting bruised lips was actually true until that moment. Derek didn't loosen his grip on Stiles' shirt. The hold was tighter even, as if afraid he would try and break away and that was seriously the last thing on Stiles' mind right now.
He didn't know when he'd been pulled onto Derek's lap but when they finally parted, panting harshly and Stiles' blinking dazedly, his legs had been slung over Derek's thighs. Stiles couldn't resist wiggling in place slightly, and felt this rush of pride when he made Derek moan. Good. He created a rhythm – admittedly, an awkward one that was filled with teenage uncertainty, but there was definitely the rocking of hips and Derek seemed to move involuntarily against him and, yup, he was definitely hard. And oh, god…
And then it suddenly stopped. Derek had an inhumanly strong grip on his hips and struggled to control his breathing, fangs elongated over his bottom lip. Stiles made a noise of confusion and tried to move against the hold. No such luck.
"Oh, come on what…?" he began to complain.
"You're still a kid," Derek repeated what he had said earlier and Stiles didn't even bother suppressing his high-pitched noise of objection.
"No, seriously dude, come on! You don't get to do say all that, kiss me and then say that I'm still a kid. I mean what the fuck?" Stiles was fully prepared to drift into a fully-fledged rant that would tell Derek exactly where he could stick his mind games, and then the grip on his hips tightening warning and, oh, there was hints of claws there and yes, Stiles wasn't going to speak anymore. He clamped down on his lips automatically.
"You're eighteen in 3 weeks," Derek explained slowly, "We have to wait until then to, uh, do anything that I could get arrested for."
"My dad wouldn't arrest you," Stiles tried to assure, but, really, he didn't know that for certain. His dad had become…more protective than usual these past couple of weeks and well, maybe he shouldn't push his luck – or Derek's, for that matter, and boy, that man didn't have much of it.
"3 weeks," Derek stated firmly.
Stiles looked like he wanted to fight that statement but, after a moment, he sighed in begrudging agreement. He folded his arms across his chest and pouted. "Fine, 3 weeks." He paused thoughtfully, "We can still make out though, right?"