when it don’t come easy
They need to stop doing this.
Well, Stiles needs to stop doing this. Needs to say no. Needs to find a hammer and some nails and pound his bedroom window closed with like thirty of those pointy little bastards. Needs to get himself under control and quit pretending Derek’s been coming here for the last two weeks for anything other then a quick and easy fuck.
Stiles needs to have a talk with his self-esteem, man up and shut this - whatever the hell this is - down before he gets hurt. Again.
Derek’s hands are grasping his ass and pushing their hips together and okay, wow, that's - that really feels good.
Tomorrow. He’ll definitely say something to Derek tomorrow. Or not, because these times with Derek have been highlight of his sexual evolution, even eclipsing the quick and dirty hand job Amy Fletcher might've given him when he was fifteen.
He sighs against Derek’s mouth, shivering as calloused fingertips dip under his T-shirt and trail over his hip bones, dragging down at his zipper. They’re going to have to talk soon anyway, an acceptance letter to USF is sitting on the coffee table along with brochures for student housing.
Maybe, just maybe if Derek would come to his house like a normal person and actually ring the doorbell and sit on the couch then he’d see the letter and they’d be able to talk. Stiles could tell him about the guilt eating at him knowing it’s his mom’s insurance (blood) money paying for his college education and Derek could put his hand on his back and hold him close until Stiles felt better.
Like, you know, a couple, which they most definitely are not.
Stiles isn’t proud, will readily admit there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for Derek. He’s in love, knows he’s in so over his head for this big bad wolf that he’d forget it all, leaving Beacon Hills, going away, all of it, if only he’d ask.
All Derek would have to do is ask. Which will never happen, so there's that. Nothing to worry about.
“Stop thinking,” the werewolf growls. Derek does that thing with his mouth and tongue against the skin of Stiles’s neck sending thoughts of college and his future flying out the window.
“Did you tell him?”
Scott looks up at him with a quick nod, and then away. So there you go. He’s tried so many times to tell Derek these past few months, but all Broody McBroodypants wanted to do was fuck him or yell at him about the stupid, insane shit that Derek should know by now Stiles will always do.
Stiles breathes deeply through his nose and sucks in his bottom lip, grasping the steering wheel in his hands so hard his knuckles pop. Something cold tightens like a fist around his heart, ice crystals racing along his veins and raising goose pimples on his skin. “Did he at least say anything?”
Scott fidgets and scratches at the back of his head. “Just asked when you were leaving.”
“That’s it? Did he even ask where I was going?”
Scott shakes his head, playing with the zipper on his jacket. A rushing noise fills Stiles’s brain, loud and painful, like the world's worst brain freeze. Annnnnd he’s done. As quick as a finger snap, Stiles is over it. The numerous scars Derek inflicted on his heart over the last six months pulse and break open once more. Derek doesn’t even care enough to ask -
Stiles makes a sudden sharp U-turn, going up over the curb and barely misses getting sideswiped by a passing SUV when he pulls back into the street.
“Dude,” Scott shouts, his hands flying up to brace against the roof. “What the hell are you doing?”
Stiles stops the Jeep and leans across Scott to pop open the door. “Get out. You can walk the rest of the way to Derek's. I’m going home to pack.”
“No,” Stiles says, leaning forward until his forehead is resting against the steering wheel. He blinks against the sting creeping up his sinuses. “I can’t, Scott. I can’t go there tonight and pretend there’s nothing between us while he ignores me or tears me apart like he always does. I’m good enough to fuck,” Stiles gestures wildly with his hands and ignores Scott’s flinch, “but not good enough for him to even wonder what college I’m going to. So, I’m not doing this anymore. I leave in two days and all he had to do was -”
Stiles stops and runs a hand down his face. “Just forget it.”
“You know how he is,” Scott begins, hand on the door.
Stiles looks up, cradling his steering wheel and stares into the headlights coming in the opposite direction, nodding. “Don’t,” Stiles says. “Just don’t defend him okay?”
He knows exactly how Derek is, been memorizing his moods and facial expressions and yeah - damn it - even his growls for the last two years. Stiles would bet he knows Derek even better then he knows anyone else besides Scott. “You’re going to be late for the meeting.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re not coming. You’ve never missed a pack meeting.”
“Well, I’ll be missing them all the time once I’m in San Francisco,” Stiles says with a snide smile, running a hand over his hair. “No time to start missing them like the present, right?”
Stiles figures if he ignores the sound of knuckles rapping at his window long enough, they’ll eventually go away. He rolls his eyes and rubs his temples, knowing it's wishful thinking.
“Open the window, Stiles.” Derek’s voice sounds hollow against the glass.
Stiles lays on his back and stares at the shadows dancing across his ceiling. “Go away, Derek.”
“I’m giving you to the count of three. If you don’t open this window by then I will shove it through the wall and down your throat. Try and explain that one to your father.”
Stiles smiles in spite of himself and throws an arm over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Damn it, Stiles. One.”
Stiles throws his hands up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, ignoring the glow of red eyes against his window panes. “Seriously, what do you want? If it’s just a booty call, you’ve been cut off. Done. We're done. Your last call was Tuesday night,” Stiles makes a shooing gesture. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
“I want you to let me in. Two.”
With a sigh, Stiles stands and walks to the window. He puts both hands against the frame, leaning forward and staring at Derek through the glass. “Or what? You'll huff and you'll puff and blow my house down? We have nothing to say to one another.”
“Open the window, Stiles.”
“I’m not doing this. You need to go back to your puppies. We’re not together - if that’s what they’re calling just fucking these days - you’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“Three,” Derek says and starts pushing on the frame.
Stiles throws his hands up when the entire window moves towards him. “Jesus, fuck, Derek,” he shouts, throwing the lock open and sitting back down on his bed with a huff. “If you break my house, I'm taking your fucking Camaro to school as payment."
He ignores the sound of Derek sliding open the window and climbing through. Anger flows off the werewolf, prickly like a barbed wire fence. “Where were you tonight? You want to explain to me why I had to hear it from Scott you’re leaving? When were you planning to tell me?”
Stiles throws back his head and laughs because the irony of Derek being mad at him is just priceless. Like a fucking MasterCard commercial.
“Damn it, Stiles,” Derek grabs his upper arms and pulls him to his feet. He shakes Stiles roughly, the feel of Derek’s claws against his skin sobering his laughter instantly. Stiles can feel his heart pick up, pulse thundering in his ears like thunder.
“I tried to tell you ten different times and every time I opened my mouth you put something in it. Want a recap? Let's see. There was your tongue and your fingers a few times, or hey, my personal favorite at least five of the times I tried, your cock. Do you want me to tick the times off on my fingers for you? Because I remember each one.”
Derek ducks his head, breathing heavy, his claws retracting, his thumbs ghosting over his skin. Stiles tries and fails not to shiver.
“There’s only so many times I can try before I get it. You don’t want to talk to me and that’s fine. Whatever. We’ve never been nothing else but fuck buddies, right?” Stiles is such a lying liar who lies and knows Derek can tell but he doesn’t care. If Derek chooses to ignore the lies, well then, he’s only got to be here until tomorrow afternoon. Most of his stuff is already packed in Rubbermaid containers and sitting by the front door. Just waiting for his Dad to sleep off his night shift and then they’ll be on their way south.
“Just what do you want from me?” Derek asks, voice rough, looking down at the carpet.
Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to memorize Derek’s scent: sweat, werewolf musk, pine trees, ground earth, rosemary and mint shampoo. “Nothing.” Stiles says. Derek flinches like it hurts and Stiles realizes it’s because he knows it's the truth.
What he would’ve liked was promises of Skype sex and writing long winded emails full of pining for Derek. Maybe visits every other week and kicking his roommate out or long lazy afternoons in motel room beds. But what he most definitely would’ve liked was being able to tell people he had a boyfriend back home.
Now? Not going to happen.
Derek pushes him away roughly and Stiles falls backwards on his bed. He raises himself onto his elbows as Derek paces next to his bed. “I can’t be what you want me to be, Stiles.”
Stiles watches Derek stop and kneel down, folding up into himself, all six foot three trying to squash into a little ball. Stiles swallows, throat suddenly tight. “What is it you think I want you to be?”
Derek looks up and the pain in his eyes makes the breath catch in Stiles’s throat. “Good,” Derek says, spreading his hands. “You want me to be good, and I’m not. I’ll never be good for you.”
And the thing is, Stiles knows he’s right. They’ll never win any couple of the year awards, especially as long as Scott and Allison stay together. Which they will, Stiles is sure, because he’s never met anyone who deserved their happily ever after more than those two, especially after Allison’s crazy mother and grandfather tried to kill everyone.
Stiles knows Derek will never be good for him. Derek will always be quick to judge and quick to jump to (usually wrong) conclusions. They’ll infuriate each other at every turn, Stiles with his never stopping mouth, Derek with his fists and growliness. Not to mention, Stiles really isn’t good at the whole submissive thing, but then again he’s never really tried, because where’s the fun in that? They’ll argue, yell and shove each other - well, Derek will do the shoving, Stiles will have the bruises - but maybe, just maybe they could've been good together.
Stiles stands up from the bed slowly like he’s approaching a wounded animal and drops to his knees. He entwines his hand with Derek’s and puts it to the werewolf's chest, flattening it over his heart. “I don’t care if you’re good,” Stiles says, looking up into Derek’s eyes.
“Then what do you want?”
“I just wanted to be yours.”
Derek sighs and closes his eyes. “You are mine, you’ve always been mine.”
Stiles tries to not grin like a fool, because even though his body is singing at the words, he’s still furious as fuck at Derek. Because, seriously? Would it have been so freaking hard for Derek to have said this like, oh, he doesn’t know, maybe months ago?
“No," Stiles says, dropping his hand from Derek's chest like it burns.
Derek looks stunned, hurt, wary. "What?"
And Stiles is happy to see it. But he's not - okay, he's maybe a lot happy to see it. Like really, really a lot. Especially considering it's probably the same look Stiles wore on his face every time Derek yelled at him. Revenge, thy be sweet. "Did I stutter? What part are you having trouble with? Is it the I'm not yours part?"
"But," Derek begins and Stiles holds up a hand, knowing Derek thought all he had to say was that Stiles belonged to him and Stiles would melt and come crawling back and he's right, Stiles is close, but so glad his self-esteem finally decided to make an appearance. He needs to get a few things off his chest first.
"You're an asshole. Of the finest quality asshole I have ever met," Stiles says, falling back onto his butt and folding his legs. He runs a hand down his face. "And I am not your verbal punching bag, the shit you spew is not cool just because you don't have the balls to yell at your pack like you do me. So here's a news flash for you: I will not change. I will always be this way: spastic, very annoying and probably always hyped up on too much Adderall. So if you want to get with this," Stiles makes a motion at his chest, "you're going to have to be the one who changes, not me."
Derek takes a deep breath through his nose and Stiles smiles at the constipated I-am-trying-very-hard-not-to-kill-you look falling over his features. "Aw, there's the werewolf I fell in love with," Stiles says. "I thought he was gone forever."
Blinking at Stiles, Derek uncurls his fists, his mouth falling open. "You're in love with me?"
"No," Stiles says, face burning. Why does he always have diarrhea of the mouth?
"You are," Derek says, tilting his head, looking down at Stiles in - and okay, maybe Stiles is entering an alternate reality because the look on Derek's face is most definitely wonder and - oh, God, Stiles is in so much trouble - vulnerability. Stiles curses to himself and wishes fervently Kate Argent was standing right in front of him, so he could kill her again. With his blunt fingernails digging into her throat. Slowly.
"One does not simply fall out of love so quickly."
"Oh my God. Fine, Boromir, yes. I love you. Happy? But it doesn't matter because you. Are. Not. In. Love. With. Me. So you can start with the soul-crushing laughter any time now." Stiles figures maybe if he enunciates very clearly, Derek will get it and leave and then he can go back to laying on his bed and moping. Heartbroken moping right before leaving for college? Awesome.
Derek falls to his hands and kneels, crawling into Stiles's space, eyes flashing red. He brings his hand to Stiles's cheek and raises Stiles's head, looking down into his eyes. He swipes a thumb across Stiles's lip and an involuntary moan escapes his mouth at the drag. Derek swallows and whispers, "Maybe I do love you, but I just really suck at being a human being."
Stiles's skin is most definitely not tingling. Nope. Not even a little bit and he doesn't even know why he's trying to lie to himself, because now Derek is sniffing the skin on his neck, gently kissing and licking, blowing little shivers up Stiles's spine. "You most definitely suck at being a human being. But here's an idea, I can give you human lessons. From San Francisco, where I am going to be living after tomorrow. So, don't do this if you're not being serious right now," Stiles says with a gasp, tilting his head to the side so Derek can get at the place where his neck meets his shoulder, the place that never fails to make Stiles pull a stiffy in his pants. "Don't say that and then treat me like shit tomorrow. Because then I will have to kill you dead."
Derek pulls back and gives him an amused look. "For normal people it's a day's drive away. I can make it in half," Derek grins, that slightly feral and so very sexy grin that gives Stiles goose pimples and makes him quake in his skin with desire. "And by the time I'm done with you, the whole town will know you're mine."
"But I'm not yours,” Stiles says with shiver because the idea of Derek marking him is apparently really, really hot. “At least as far as the pack is concerned, so you need to get on that. I mean, even though it would be nice, I don’t need you to shout it from the roof tops that you love me -”
Derek groans and curls his hand around the back of his Stiles’s neck, bringing him up for a kiss. Stiles waits until Derek drags his mouth over his jawline, nipping at the stubble there before speaking again. “I’d settle for allowing me to introduce you to my dad as my boyfriend.”
Derek pulls back and deadpans, “Your father has a gun.”
Stiles pushes Derek onto the floor and climbs on top of him, straddling his hips. He cups Derek’s cock and balls through his jeans, running his thumb down the growing length. “Hurt me like this again, fucker and you’ll be eating the wolfsbane bullet I shoot you with. I’ll even help my dad bury your body.”
Derek groans, smiling hot and sexy, reaching up and pulling Stiles down for a dirty, slick kiss. Stiles’s heart thumps, open wounds suturing closed when Derek whispers against his mouth, “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”