Shitty is way too charitable a word for the mood Stiles is in as she pounds on the door to the Hale house. No answer, but “I know you’re in there, dick!” she hollers. The Camaro isn’t here, and the police have combed the area twice already, but Dereka is a creature of habit. She’s probably standing at a window like a ghost haunting her own house, grimly glaring down and hoping Stiles will just go away on her own. Well, tough shit, because Stiles just does not care about any of Dereka’s anything right now. False murder accusations, family tragedy, whatever.
“I’m not leaving until I get some answers,” Stiles warns, because the full moon’s tonight, and Scotty is out of her fucking mind right now. Stiles flashes on Luke Martin’s red, mussed mouth and Scotty’s smirking leer for a moment and goes hot with rage and indignation and hurt all over again. “Open the door,” she demands, kicking at it futilely and then swearing and hopping and clutching her foot.
No response, which is fine by Stiles. Just fine. Breaking and entering, why not. Tit for tat, give the wonderwolf a taste of her own medicine, etc, and besides, the lock is a piece of crap. Cheapo Walmart brand brass that’s crookedly set into the charred frame, which, right. Okay. This house is a shambling wreck because a whole family burned to death in it. That’s actually a little creepy and a lot sad and not something Stiles wants to think about anyway, and then the door is opening and she’s in.
Stiles gets maybe three steps before she’s squeaking and being shoved up against a wall, hard. Dereka must have been working out, or running, or something, because she’s sweating, and holy walloping weres, she’s in just a sports bra. That’s - a lot of bare, glistening skin, Jesus, and Stiles spends plenty of time in the girls’ locker room. But still. Cripes.
“What are you doing here?” Dereka growls, hand bunching in Stiles’s lacrosse jersey, and oh, hey, Stiles’s feet are no longer on the floor, that’s cool. She has actually been lifted off the ground. They’re nose to nose, and Dereka is breathing heavily, eyes flashing. Stiles had not thought this plan through, as such, had just been carried along by outrage and emotion and now she is having a number of regrets about that.
“You should really get better locks,” Stiles says, tongue tripping over itself, because Dereka’s teeth could be on her throat at any second. Her heart beats faster, and oh crap, Dereka can hear that, if the way her eyes dilate and her nostrils flare is any indication. Sound less like prey, Stiles counsels herself frantically, but who is she kidding, she is basically a delicious fuzzy woodland creature, shit. “Any, uh, fool with a credit card could get in here lickety split, and then, um. Where would you be? Hopefully not in a murderous rage, ahaha. Please don’t eat me.”
Dereka stares at her a moment longer, then gives Stiles a little shake and drops her, turning around. “Get out of here, Stiles.” She’s pinching the bridge of her nose, like Stiles is just such an imposition, hassle, annoyance, what a bother. Nothing to take seriously, just that stupid kid again, Stiles Stilinski. Last picked, last wanted, last everything. Anger prickles through her again, anger and shame and embarrassment, fear - a crazy mélange of emotions she has no idea what to do with. Dereka is the only werewolf besides Scotty she knows, and Stiles knows she’s not actually a psychotic killer, and -- okay, okay, so Dereka has plenty of reasons to not want to be around either of the dynamic duo right now, but...
Scotty had kissed Luke. Scotty. Her Scotty, her best friend, her – she can’t even process a world where Scotty would do that to her.
“What’s wrong?” Dereka grates out, and oh good, she’s looking at Stiles now, now that Stiles is having some sort of mini-delayed meltdown.
“Nothing,” Stiles says defiantly, and scrubs her sleeve over her face. She’s probably come over all blotchy and red with emotion, and there’s Dereka – perfect skin and stony expression and nary a freckle or mole on her. Stiles is surrounded by perfect, gorgeous human and werebeings and she herself is just – never going to kiss Luke Martin, or probably anyone. She’s going to die alone in a cave, with her cats, after she gets cats. She should probably buy cats, that’s how these things go, right? She can’t actually die alone, that’d be too pathetic, even for her. “Just, Scotty’s. Acting strange.” Her voice, embarrassingly, breaks a little on the last word, and Dereka’s suddenly closer.
That’s one of the many, many alarming things about Dereka Hale, to go with her tendency to blithely trespass on private property - and, okay, maybe Stiles can’t point any fingers about breaking into places, but she at least has a complete and thorough understanding of personal space that Dereka just doesn’t. One moment she’s looming grumpily in the shadows, the next she’s nose to nose with you, all intense eyes and warm breath and just, really really close. Stiles is not used to being this close to people, not any people that aren’t her family or Scotty, and Dereka is, it has to be said, intimidatingly gorgeous, in a totally different way than Jacqueline Whittemore’s put-together polish and poise. Dereka is hot, rough and effortless, like everything soft has been burned away. Intense, and primal. Wild.
“What happened?” Dereka asks intently, eyes burning, and Stiles realizes that A) she’s zoned out a little on Dereka’s red, red mouth, which, embarrassing, and B) Dereka must think something worse has happened with Scotty than a little heavy make-outtery in the principal’s office. That’s – okay, that’s some perspective, there. Things could be worse. Scotty hasn’t ripped out anyone’s throat, she’s just ripped out Stiles’s heart and gnashed it between her wolfy teeth and spit it out and then danced on it, no big. That’s not important. Stiles isn’t important. Stiles, she reflects, is maybe being a little overdramatic. Dial it back, Stilinski. Shake it off. Focus.
“Nothing, it’s just – okay, she also smashed the shit out of Dani on the field, but the important thing here is - she kissed someone. Not Addison. Someone she shouldn’t – anyway, she’s not, like, killing anyone. Yet. But is that normal? To be a total and complete dick on the day of the night of the full moon, because, I mean. You’re not really a great baseline for that.” Dereka relaxed slightly after the first sentence, but now she’s just looking at Stiles, eyebrows drawn together slightly, but otherwise giving Stiles absolutely nothing to go on. “Because you’re always a dick? I can’t really see a difference from normal so far, here.”
“Funny,” Dereka snarls, and then gets her hand in Stiles’s hair, tugging her head back and baring her neck, and Stiles’s brain kind of shuts off in terror. Dereka leans in and inhales deeply, then asks, in a low rumbling voice, “Who’d Scotty kiss? You?”
It takes a moment for Stiles to register the question, because Dereka’s lips are brushing over her throat as she talks. Lips. A mouth, on Stiles, even if it’s a mouth with sharp teeth that could kill her. Then she thinks of it being Scotty’s mouth on her, and oh.
“Holy shit, no,” Stiles says, and then Dereka hums curiously, nosing up to Stiles’s hairline. What. What. What is happening. Brain thoroughly offline, Stiles’s mouth takes over. “Not that I don’t like the ladies, hypothetically. I mean, some guys like it, right? Girls kissing. So I’ve thought maybe that - maybe that would at least get Luke to notice me. But Scotty, she wouldn’t, she’s not. Um. And not that that’s the only reason I would kiss a girl! I mean, I’m no Katy Perry, right? But that could be a perk. To the many other perks. Of kissing someone who’s got, um.” Don’t look down at her breasts, don’t look at her breasts – oh god, yes, yep. Those are some really fantastic, really close boobs. “Perks.” Stop talking, Stiles.
“Mmm,” Dereka hums against her throat, sending really embarrassing shivers and heat through Stiles’s entire body. And apparently the theoretical bisexuality Stiles has hypothetically been kind of sort of pondering is now totally non-theoretical. Experimental data suggests it is a bone-hard (except not, hah) fact. Stiles wants Dereka, intensely female and incredibly gorgeous, wants her to lean in and kiss her. Wants that a lot. Because that’s apparently her type – boys or girls who are light years out of her league, and prone to toying with their victims.
Dereka’s got a hand on the wall over Stiles’s head and is leaning in over her still, and her other hand is playing with Stiles’s hair – her gross, sweaty, post-practice hair, because even if she’s not playing on the field, Stiles still has to run suicides with the team.
“It’s just, Scotty definitely shouldn’t have ever kissed my – this person,” Stiles continues faintly, trying to ignore how raw and weird and vulnerable she feels, but even her outrage over Luke is more distant than it should be in the face of this physical onslaught. She feels her eyes getting huge as Dereka keeps tugging lightly at the short curls of her hair, leaning in and breathing in the Eau de Sexual Frustration that has to be wafting around by now.
But of course Dereka is in no way about to actually kiss her, no matter what this looks or feels like. There is no way that Dereka’s anything but unimpressed with Stiles’s general everything – like everyone else Stiles knows, so Stiles ignores the thought, tries to beat it to death and bury it and hide it in some dark ditch in the back of her mind where Dereka can't sniff it out. Stiles needs to get back on topic. The topic is not whatever weird werewolf power trip Dereka’s on right now. Yes, she’s hot, whatever, Stiles has eyes. But Scotty is being a raging bitchmonster, and Stiles needs to know what to do about it. End of story.
“Look,” Stiles grates out, trying to ignore the embarrassing way her body is reacting and focus. “Scotty knows how I feel – she’d never do that to me. She never would have, before. Why would she do that? What’s going on?”
It aches, and some of it comes out in her voice, plaintive and raw, and Stiles has to close her eyes on the shame of it, whether or not Dereka will take advantage of her distraction to rip her jugular open, or -- whatever. Stiles doesn’t have a lot of people, in her life, and Scotty is important. It’s important, and it’s like – it’s like being bitten by a familiar, beloved puppy. It’s a betrayal from an unexpected source, and it hurts.
There’s a swift, sudden inhale of breath and Dereka makes a rough noise and pushes Stiles into the wall, crowding in closer and practically blanketing Stiles with her body. And, oh god. Breasts, boobs. Boobs on boobs. Boob contact. Stiles’s mind is luckily used to mental whiplash, but this is a bit much. The look on Dereka’s face doesn’t help explain anything – it’s not one of the four Stiles has catalogued in the past (murderous rage, Easter Island Monolith, possibly hungry, and probably dying). It’s something less delineated, harder to quantify. Surprise, maybe? Does Dereka have five facial expressions? Holy shit.
Stiles opens her mouth, probably to say something intensely, mind-bogglingly stupid, so maybe it’s for the best that Dereka cuts her off with a growl before she can say anything more than her name. Except then she’s stalking away, which, no, wait. That was not the goal. What was the goal? At any rate, it’s what’s happening, Dereka’s face more mobile than Stiles has ever seen it as she puts some distance between the two of them. Stiles’s neck feels cold.
“The full moon makes it difficult for Scotty to control her impulses,” Dereka snaps out, her eyes right on Stiles as she paces. Dereka’s stares are often tangible, weighty things, but this is somehow a new brand of stare, one that Stiles doesn’t know what to do with. “If she goes into it in a certain mindset, angry, she’ll instinctively destroy things. All kinds of things,” she clarifies, before Stiles can ask. Friendships, lacrosse nets, lockers, flesh. Sure, fine. All things Stiles had suspected, but…
“But you’re not destroying anything, and you’re, uh. Are you angry, you’re angry, aren’t you?” You’re always angry, she doesn’t say, but she really wonders what this look on Dereka’s face means now. Murderous… hunger?
“I can control myself,” Dereka rasps, voice low and rumbling, then she out of nowhere does one of her annoyingly acrobatic stair leaps. Gnah, thighs. Ass. No, wait, Dereka’s getting away, disappearing into the shadows of the second floor, and Stiles still doesn’t have any answers, doesn’t have anything except a more intense degree of sexual frustration and confusion then she came in with, which, thanks for nothing, werewolf.
“Wait! But how does Scotty control herself?” Stiles hollers after her, frustrated, and follows, tripping over her own feet and basically the opposite of sex on two legs. Gangly, awkward, useless. Frightened. Furious. “What do we do tonight? It will be worse, then, won’t it?”
“Yes,” Dereka says simply, an echo from the darkness on the second floor somewhere, and what is that? What kind of answer is that? Stiles clutches at her own head and tries to marshal her patience.
“Why are you like this?” she yells, and waves a hand at Dereka’s general unhelpfulness, at the shambles of the house around them. “Why can’t you just answer a question, and stop creeping, and be – be normal for once?” She’s pounding up the stairs after Dereka, because fuck patience, and when she loses her footing on a broken board and reaches to steady herself on a non-existent piece of railing, she’s almost resigned to the upcoming pain and humiliating impact. That’s just how her life goes. And huh, maybe that’s why Dereka’s always with the lemur jumping. Maybe the stairs here don’t actually function.
Instead of pain and impact, though, there’s a roar and a twist and gravity reverses and she’s pinned to the floor, unharmed but breathless, with Dereka’s eyes flashing above her.
“Bwuh?” Stiles says intelligently.
“You idiot!” Dereka yells, the werewolf kind of yell that rattles bones, but she’s checking the back of Stiles’s head and her hands are careful, gentle, and she’s nuzzling Stiles’s cheek. And then, abruptly, like a brick to the back of the head, Stiles reaches a conclusion about what’s been going on this entire visit.
“Oh my god, you want me!” she shrieks, shocked, because she’d been sure there was mostly hate with a side of amused condescension between them, up until this excessively weird, excessively confusing night. “That wasn’t sexy taunting, that was -- sexy restraint, oh my god. You don’t want to eat me, or, uh. Not like that. Um.” Oh god, think less southward thoughts before you do something incredibly embarrassing with your hips, Stiles! Her mind, useful as always, comes out with, “You want me,” daring Dereka to deny it. She doesn’t. “You want me?”
All her flabbergasted squeaking probably isn’t attractive, as such, but Stiles can’t help herself and Dereka is still on top of her, thumbing her jawline and staring down at her mouth with a pinched, unhappy look that Stiles is adding to the catalogue of facial expressions under the subset of ‘possibly hungry.’
“Not the point, Stiles,” Dereka growls finally, and shakes herself all over before hauling Stiles back to her feet, whereupon she starts circling Stiles like a crazy person, poking her limbs and sniffing.
“That is so the point,” Stiles declares, still reeling. “And what are you - are you checking for injuries?” A grunt seems to indicate yes, which, will wonders never cease? “You’ve never cared before,” and that gets her a lot of bared teeth so she backpedals quickly. “I’m fine, stop brooding, wolfwoman. No, no, don’t run away and ninja back upstairs, I will just come after you again and we’ll be a horrible repeating loop of tumbling and I’ll eventually throw up on you. I am very persistent.”
“You are persistent,” Dereka admits, looking pained. Oh, okay, this is crazy, Stiles is advancing on Dereka Hale, who is backing up and looking increasingly alarmed. Like Stiles has some sort of power here, in this situation. It’s heady, and Stiles can’t help but take another wondering step forward, licking her lips and watching Dereka’s face twitch.
“Can I get the restraints now? For Scotty? So you can leave?”
Dereka couldn’t have explained that’s what she was doing before she disappeared upstairs the first time? “We have got to work on your communication skills, puppy,” Stiles says, then valiantly refrains from squeaking again when Dereka snarls and snaps her teeth at her. “Just, um. I never know what you’re thinking, or doing, so maybe you could… use your words? Is Scotty going to be, um. In the mood for sex tonight? Should I steer clear? Get a taser? Is that what’s going on? Is it a horny moon?”
Stiles had looked up basically everything lunar-related she could find, and she remembers the names that seemed alarming - hunter’s moon, blood moon, worm moon, beaver - heh - moon. And hunger moon. But she just, she doesn’t know enough, doesn’t know where to look or how to parse fact from bullshit fiction, and Dereka does. Stiles glares at the recalcitrant werewolf in question, and pointedly cocks her hips and bites down on her lower lip and tries to remember everything sultry and seductive she’s seen Jacqueline and Dani and the other girls at school do. Stiles is totally willing to sexwhammy Dereka in the name of gathering more intelligence.
“I just did use words, Stiles,” Dereka retorts, clearly frustrated, and oh, uh. Maybe taunting a possibly-horny, definitely-cranky werewolf with licking of lips isn’t the best idea, because Dereka’s eyes are flashing blue and her canines are showing, lengthening. It’s weirdly, horribly hot, and oh god, Dereka must be able to smell Stiles’s arousal, because she growls, this low thrumming sound, and then backflips or something equally arcane and bendy and acrobatic up onto the top landing again. Dammit. “Stay there,” she yells down, glaring at her from a safe distance. “The stairs are broken.”
“Oh, thanks, dude, that’s just swell,” Stiles mutters, and rubs a hand over her face. “Great wording. Really top notch. Three whole sentences.” This is going to be a work in progress, obviously.
She takes the opportunity while Dereka is gone to sniff at herself - maybe she’d rolled in a dead thing by mistake, or someone had put something smelly and arousing to dogs in her locker? But it’s just herself, musky-rich with sweat and the faint residue of laundry and shampoo and deodorant. Maybe with a hint of piquant ketchup from the Incident at Lunch. But nothing new, nothing that should have incited a werewolf to snuzzling, she's almost sure.
So, the moon. Affects wolves in more than violent ways? Huh, and Dereka had... kind of implied that earlier, hadn’t she? While Stiles was still having a very justified bitchfit over the Luke-thing. So, going into the full moon right on the tails of a break-up with one’s true high school love is... bad.
Great. Tonight is going to be awesome. Stiles bites her thumbnail and ponders the many, many ways Scotty is going to make this up to her, and then jumps and swears when a bunch of fucking chains appear at her feet with a clatter that could wake fucking Marley. She makes indignant, wordless noises for a minute more, clutching her heart and craning her neck to make sure more metal projectiles aren’t forthcoming.
“Do you live to fuck with my heart rate?” she yells up at the glowing blue points of light still lurking around upstairs.
“It’s the little things,” a voice says back, desert dry, and oh god, Dereka Hale, making a joke. That’s -- no, Stiles refuses to process. Today has been mindbending enough without entering in the possibility of Dereka having a sense of humor. Sarcasm is Stiles’s schtick, monosyllabic brooding is Dereka’s, and never the twain shall meet. Maybe.
“Look,” she says, toeing the rusty pile of metal links distastefully. “I’ve got handcuffs at home, that should work, right?” She doesn’t especially want to haul around a heavy noisy pile of tetanus, and how would she convince Scotty to try the Marley ‘n ‘ Scrooge act if Scotty was still acting like a giant fanged douchenozzle? Chains aren’t exactly stealth. Better to go swift and deadly.
“You’ve got handcuffs. At home,” Dereka says flatly, leaning over what’s left of the second floor railing and staring down at her. Stiles rolls her eyes.
“Sheriff’s daughter, hello, of course. I mean, I guess I could be getting up to all kinds of kinky shit in my room, but oh, wait, you’d know. Since you are there. Constantly. Like, seriously, constantly, should I start putting a sock on the windowsill if I’m having alone time?”
“I’d be able to smell it anyway,” Dereka says, and Stiles kind of whites out for a moment, and only comes back to herself when Dereka’s teeth flash bright in the growing gloom. “Stiles. Go.” There’s a pause where they both stare at each other, and somehow, somehow Stiles just knows that Dereka’s hearing her heartbeat thudding and smelling how embarrassingly much Stiles likes that honestly should-be-really-creepy idea. Um.
“Good talk,” Stiles manages finally, and finds the doorknob behind her. “We’ll, uh. We should do it again. Sometime. A non-moon-time. Gotta keep in practice, keep those vocal cords... oiled.”
Silence. Okay. Okay. Stiles can take a hint, but then a voice comes out of the deepening shadows.
“I’ll be around tonight,” Dereka says, closer this time, and the fucker can move so quietly when she wants to. “If you need me.”
She wants me, Stiles thinks, giddy and shocked and the hurt of this afternoon slightly, moderately cushioned. She maybe, maybe even likes me. Granted, it’s not Luke Martin, it’s a terrifying werewolf, and Stiles still hasn’t worked out the mechanics of liking girls, or, uh. Doing things with them, pantslessly, but still. Baby steps. "Let’s not get carried away, Stilinski,” she says to herself as she tromps out to her Jeep, wrestling the door open. If she thinks she hears a laugh - an actual laugh, on the breeze, well. Stiles has got to get her game face on. She’ll think about lupine senses later.
And maybe leave her window open while she does.