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I want you,
I want you so bad
It’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad.
— The Beatles, I Want You (She’s So Heavy)
-----
Stiles doesn’t know why he does it.
Okay, that’s a lie, a horrible, false, blatant lie. He knows exactly why he does it. It’s the reason why he’d barely slept at all last night, why his heart has clung to his ribs all day, struggling to hold on and stay in his chest rather than falling to his feet where someone would stomp on it, just like Derek already has. He’s jealous. Jealous and hurt and bitter and angry and hurt and jealous and fucking hurt.
He hadn’t asked for this-this thing between them. The first time. And not including that time last week when Derek had told him to get on his knees and beg for Derek to come all over his face, and of course Stiles had done it, had wanted to do it. Of course he had.
The point is, Stiles hadn’t asked to start a relationship where Stiles does pretty much whatever Derek tells him to and gets more orgasms—amazing, earth-shattering orgasms—than he’s ever had in his entire life. He hadn’t even known he liked that kind of stuff! Well, everyone knows they like orgasms; he means he hadn’t known he liked the orders and the submitting and the doing anything and everything to please. Until Derek.
And fuck, you know, he could’ve . . . he’d thought . . . When Derek had willingly held his hand in public and walked him to his damn dorm and kissed him, Stiles had thought . . .
He hadn’t asked for it, but he hadn’t wanted it to be taken away from him either.
Seeing Derek with her had been devastating. The way he’d smiled at her, had draped his arm over her shoulders while she held his hand and pressed her lips against his cheek, it all spoke of affection, love, and Stiles—
How’s he supposed to compete with that?
Not that he wants to, because any asshole who’d cheat on his girlfriend like that and who’d lie to his . . . boyfriend . . . boy toy . . . whatever the fuck Stiles is—was—whatever the fuck Stiles was, wasn’t worth fighting for.
No matter how much of him wants to.
So yeah, Stiles knows why he looks at Derek for one incredibly long and bitter second right before he deliberately misses making a goal, even though it’s wide open and it’s his chance to score—both literally and figuratively. But it doesn’t make him feel better to see the shock and confusion and betrayal on Derek’s face, even though he tells himself it does.
-----
Spirits are high in the locker room after the game. They’d won by a good five points even without Stiles’ almost-could-have-been-a-goal-but-wasn’t—not that Stiles would actually have flubbed it if victory had been on the line, because unlike some other lacrosse players he knows, he’s not actually an asshole. There’d only been about thirty seconds left in the game, and he’d known his goal wouldn’t matter one way or the other.
He gets a few “better luck next time” condolences and one “such a loser” comment—that’s right, he’s looking at you, Jackson—but at least no one seems to realize he’d missed on purpose.
At least, no one else anyway, and he doesn’t wait around for Derek to approach him from his Corner of Solitude where he’s giving Stiles the stink-eye, just packs his stuff up and heads out. As far as he’s concerned, he’s done. They’re done. And that’s all he has to say about that.
-----
They’re on the same damn team, so it’s not like Stiles had expected to avoid Derek forever or anything, but he would’ve liked another few days maybe. A few weeks even. The rest of the season would’ve been nice.
“Stiles, stay after practice. I want to talk to you about Saturday’s game.”
“Um, no can do. I’ve got a study group . . .” He trails off, because Derek is still walking, and he’s starting to look ridiculous talking to himself.
Whatever though, because like fuck him. Stiles has better things to do with his time than be at Derek’s beck and call.
-----
Derek tries to get him alone three more times, lingering in the locker room, trying to corner Stiles on the field, even going so far as to show up at his work. Stiles avoids him each and every time.
He doesn’t understand; why is Derek going to all this trouble? Why does it matter? He doesn’t matter to Derek so the slump in his shoulders, the fragile look in his eyes, they just don’t make sense. Is Derek so desperate for sex—
Oh, who the hell is Stiles kidding? There is no way in any sane world that Derek could be hard up for sex. He has a girlfriend for fuck’s sake (and Stiles may or may not spend half of his time trying to forget about her and the other half wishing he knew who she was so he could tell her what a lying, selfish, fuckhole of a bastard boyfriend she has). Even if Derek were single, all he’d have to do is snap his fingers and he’d have a line of potential candidates to choose from, ready and willing to bend over for him. Stiles has got personal experience in this, so he knows, okay?
So it’s bad enough that Derek had been going behind his back—or dating Stiles behind her back, or fuck, just being a fucking lying, cheating jackass. But on top of that, he had to go and make Stiles care, make him want, had to go and break him—not that Stiles will ever let him know he won, that it had hurt to breathe when he’d found out—but now he’s playing games too?
Fuck that. Fuck him. Not. Fucking. Happening.
Which is why when he finds Derek standing outside his dorm, hands in his pockets, nervous and falsely vulnerable, Stiles just—he explodes, all the anger and frustration and pain burning him up from the inside until it has to be let out.
“What do you want, Derek?” he asks, so loud that he’s nearly shouting. He shoves Derek away and is bitterly satisfied to see him stumble back.
“Stiles—what did I—I just—”
And Stiles hates that a part of him wants to believe the lost expression on Derek’s face, wants to let him talk—wants to be convinced—until Stiles takes him back. He hates it, and he hates himself because of it.
“Can’t you take a hint? We’re done. Stop looking at me, stop coming around, stop wasting my time!” he says and wonders when did that happen? When did he become so cruel?
It's a stupid question, though, because he already knows the answer: when Derek made him that way.
“Stiles—”
“You’re pathetic,” he says, the words slipping out. He’s not sure who it’s aimed at, but what does it matter when it applies to them both?
He yanks the door to the building open, and Derek doesn't try to stop him.
-----
Scott takes him out to get drunk, because he is the best friend in the world. They’ve all got pretty good fakes, but to increase their chances of getting in, they head to the bar on the outskirts of town that has a habit of turning a blind eye to minors. Whatever, it’s a college town, and the bar owners have to make their money somehow.
“Bros before hos,” Stiles says after he’s had like, three—no, four—no five—wait, three?—glasses and holds his fist out.
Scott smiles and fist-bumps him, even as he settles his arm more firmly around Allison. It’s all good, though. Allison’s another bro anyway.
“Are you alright, Stiles?” she asks gently.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, because she’s captain of the archery team and while Derek might deserve an arrow in the heart, Allison shouldn’t go to jail because of it.
“Are you sure? It’s just—”
“Hey, Allison!”
It’s unfair that the world doesn’t slow down, or suspenseful music doesn’t start playing. Seriously, life should come with a soundtrack to give a person warning, because they all turn, and there she is. Ms. Blonde and Beautiful. Derek’s girlfriend.
Suddenly all those drinks don’t seem like such a good idea anymore. Damn it, where’s a toilet or a wastebasket or something vaguely bowl-shaped when you need one?
“Oh, hey, Erica!” Allison says, talking louder so Erica can hear her over the din in the bar. “Guys, this is Erica. She’s in my Ec class. Erica, this is my boyfriend, Scott, and that’s Stiles. Want to join us?”
“Hello,” Erica says, smiling and looking sultry and gorgeous, and Stiles kind of wants to scratch her eyes out with a fork. Ugh, fuck, that’s so bloody. What is wrong with him? It’s not her fault.
But maybe he could mess up her hair or something.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m here with a bunch of friends,” she says, waving behind her, “and I don’t think we’d all fit at your table. I just came by to say hi.”
Shit. Is she here with Derek? Is Derek here?
He ignores the conversation in favor of searching the bar for Derek’s familiar profile, which is why he completely doesn’t notice the new arrival until it’s too late.
“. . . boyfriend, Boyd.”
Stiles’ head snaps around. “What?” he says, because that is not Derek’s name, or his face, or his . . . whatever, fuck, none of that is Derek.
Everyone stares at him.
“I said this,” Erica says slowly, her hand tightening around the guy’s arm while he frowns intimidatingly at Stiles, “is my boyfriend, Boyd.”
“B-b-but Derek,” Stiles says, and the roiling feeling in his stomach just keeps getting worse and worse.
“What?”
“C’mon, Derek. Derek Hale?” he asks weakly, because okay, they’re all still staring, and he’s apparently not making that much sense to anyone who doesn’t obsess over Derek ninety percent of the time.
“Ohhh, Derek,” she says, her face lighting up. “You know him?”
“Lacrosse,” he says, although it’s not important, that’s not— “Aren’t you—aren’t the two of you—?”
“What, me and Derek?” She starts to laugh. “Are you serious? Derek’s like my big brother! We’d never—”
His chair makes a horrendous screeching sound as he pushes back from their table.
“Wait, did you say your name is Stiles?” Erica asks, but he doesn’t answer, too busy running for the door.
-----
The problem with rushing blindly from the bar is that Stiles doesn’t actually know where Derek lives. In his defense, almost all of their interactions had been in the locker room, so he’d never had to find out, but he is cursing that fact right now.
He has the taxi drop him off at the main entrance and dials Campus Information, hoping to at least call Derek—not that he knows what to say; not that he’s sure there’s anything he can say—but Derek has apparently asked that his information be kept private. The operator won’t even transfer Stiles’ call, no matter how much he begs or offers to bribe her, and she eventually hangs up on him when he says it’s a matter of national security.
It’s just . . . he hadn’t even given Derek the chance to explain. He hadn’t even told him what was wrong. Derek had tried to find out, but Stiles had been so absofuckinglutely sure that he knew what was going on that he hadn’t bothered to even fucking talk to him.
The expression on Derek’s face the last time they’d seen each other flickers past his eyes, and he clutches at his shirt, the material scraping across his chest.
Derek and Erica had just been so damn close though. Like who kisses someone who isn’t their boyfriend anyway? And okay, yeah, it’d just been a quick peck on the cheek, but they’d been holding hands and walking like they were glued to each other’s sides, and who does that?
Couples, that’s who! And okay, apparently people who compare the other person to family, but damn it. Stiles had seen them with his own two eyes, and maybe he hadn’t walked in on them fucking, but it’d almost been just as bad, because Derek had never shown that much warmth with him, not even the one time they’d kissed in public. There’d been familiarity there, comfort, and Stiles . . . he’d wanted to have that with Derek, to be that for Derek, and to have it ripped away right when he’d thought . . .
It’s almost two in the morning before Stiles finally ends up going back to his dorm room, and he lies on his bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling and waiting for morning to come.
-----
Stiles isn’t stupid enough to go for the direct attack. He already knows that he’s in for a lot of begging and possibly crying, and he’d like to keep his humiliation as private as possible, thanks.
There is a tiny—okay, not tiny so much as more than adequate—big, really—part of him that thinks private humiliation is the best humiliation, but now is not the time, and down, boy, down.
He can’t help it. He’s veered from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other and hit all the speed bumps in between, and he’s sort of riding a hysterical, terrified high right now. Also, he uses humor as a defense mechanism. What can he say, it’s a sickness.
So he follows Derek to his dorm, all stalkery and 007-like, hiding behind trees and buildings and weaving around people in order to stay out of sight. Whatever, on his list of things he’s ashamed of himself for doing over the past week, it doesn’t even make his top five.
He has to ask someone which floor Derek’s on, but all he has to say is that he’s looking for the hot, broody guy who wears leather jackets, hates shaving, and has fuzzy caterpillars for eyebrows, and he gets directed to Derek’s room. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And then it’s the moment of truth.
Stiles wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and takes a deep breath, gearing himself up for battle, when the door opens.
“What do you want, Stiles?”
“How did you—I didn’t even—I was going to—”
“You are not subtle,” Derek says, which, alright, fair, but still.
“What do you want?” Derek repeats, and shit, he can do this.
“Can I come in?” he asks, because, okay, yeah, no, he can’t, and procrastination has always been a beloved friend.
“No.”
They look at each other for a minute, and fuck, Derek looks terrible. For him. For real people, he still looks incredibly gorgeous, but for him and his I-stepped-out-of-alternate-universe-where-bad-hair-days-are-a-sign-of-armageddon-and-even-then-I’d-have-an-awesome-crazy-windswept-thing-going-on, he looks bad. There are bags under his eyes, and his cheekbones look even more pronounced than usual, and he just looks . . . tired. Defeated.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, hands clenching into fists to remind himself that he doesn’t get to touch anymore, that he gave up that right. “I was . . . I was so fucking stupid. I thought—it’s just I saw you—and she was—and you were—” He breaks off, because unfortunately, he can hear himself, and he sounds like a damn idiot. He stares imploringly at Derek, willing him to understand.
Derek’s mouth thins into a hard line, and he starts to close the door in his face.
Stiles slams his hand on the wood and bursts out, “I was jealous, okay? I saw you and Erica, and I thought you were—she kissed you, and I thought—”
He gasps, feet tripping over themselves as Derek drags him inside, shoving him against the door so it bangs shut.
"You thought what? That you owned me? That I wasn't allowed to kiss anyone but you?"
"What?” Stiles says, completely taken aback, because that is definitely not what he’d expected Derek to say. It hurts, and yes, he’d expected pain, but this is kicking him right in the self-esteem issues when it’d already taken all of the courage he could dredge up to come over. What if Derek had been kissing other—
“No!” he says, but it’s aimed at himself, because it’s thinking like that that got him into this mess in the first place. Of course, he’s just said that out loud, so it’s handy that it applies to Derek as well. “I mean, okay so, yes, I thought there was—not ownership exactly, like, I didn’t think I owned you, but I thought there was mutual ownage going on? Like, we were sharing? With each other? But no one else?”
Derek’s expression is a strange mix of disgust and confusion, and shit, had Stiles been wrong? Had Derek not wanted him after all?
Or has Stiles ruined everything?
“I just, I thought I was yours,” he says unsteadily, glancing away so he doesn’t have to see Derek looking at him like that anymore. “And that you were mine.”
It’s seems like forever before Derek finally replies, his voice low and rough. “I was.”
Stiles’ head whips back around, but before he can say anything, Derek takes a step back.
“Go away, Stiles,” he says tiredly.
“What? But you just said—”
“I said ‘I was.’ I’m not anymore.”
Stiles flinches, but he still reaches out. “Wait, okay? Just wait. Don’t do this—don’t—”
Derek easily avoids his hand and increases the distance between them until Stiles is standing all by himself, tense and panicky.
“It was my fault, it was, I know that, but I still—you can’t just turn your emotions off, Derek. I tried, but it didn’t work, and I—”
“Stiles.” It’s just his name. But he’s never heard it sound so hard or unforgiving.
“No! I can make this better! Let me make this better,” he begs, although he has no idea how to do that. He only knows that if he leaves then that’ll be it. No more Derek.
Maybe after everything’s that happened, that’s what should happen, maybe that’s what Stiles deserves. But fuck, it’s not what he wants, not what he’s ever wanted, even when he’d thought Derek was a lying, cheating sack of shit. It’d been tough enough resisting him then, and he’d had righteous fury bolstering his resolve. Stiles doesn’t think he can do it now, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go back to being virtual strangers and not have Derek touch him, to never hear his voice filled with arousal or exasperated fondness again.
He can’t. It’s not possible. He won’t.
“Make it better?” Derek asks derisively, and Stiles looks down but nods jerkily. “How?”
“I don’t know! Whatever you want! Tell me what to do,” he says, wishing he had the courage to move forward but feeling pinned to the door, “and I’ll do it. Just . . . just tell me.”
It’s the wrong thing to say; Stiles knows it immediately by the way Derek’s face seems to shut down.
He tries to think of how he could’ve possibly made things worse when everything gets completely derailed by Derek saying, “Take off your clothes.”
“What?” he asks, because surely he didn’t hear what he thinks he heard.
“You heard me.” Annnnnd apparently he did.
“Wait, that’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” Derek leans against the edge of the desk in his room, arms folded, legs shoulder-width apart. “You follow me to my room; you tell me you want to make it better. Well, c’mon then. Do it. Make it better, Stiles.”
“But I . . .” He trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence.
This—this is okay, right? They’ve done this before, and fine, Stiles hadn’t really intended to solve their problems through orgasms—had he? Had he thought that getting Derek to order him around in bed would erase everything that’s happened?
He tugs off his clothes slowly, but it’s not sexy—well, okay, it is. He’s getting undressed in front of Derek after all. His erection is pretty much guaranteed.
He feels horribly self-conscious, though, in a way that he hasn’t for weeks now when he’s stood in front of Derek, feels small and defenseless, and by the time he’s completely naked, he mostly just wants to put his clothes back on and then wrap an additional three layers around himself on top of that.
The only thing that makes it bearable is the little grunt Derek makes when Stiles is completely bare—like Derek can’t help himself, like it’s torn out of him—and Stiles shudders when he hears it. Whatever else he’s done, Derek still wants him. He’s so grateful he could cry.
“Come here,” Derek orders harshly, and Stiles walks over, wishing he could look Derek in the eyes but too nervous and ashamed to actually do it. “Look at how much you want this,” he says, flicking his fingers against Stiles’ cock and making him gasp.
“How much I want you,” Stiles rasps, not even meaning to correct him but needing to explain why he’s the way he is.
Derek doesn’t respond except to say, “Turn around. Suck on your fingers, and then show me how much you want to make it up to me.”
And Stiles does.
It shouldn’t feel good. The push of his fingers shouldn’t cause him to shiver or ache for Derek or wish for more. It’s meant to be punishment after all. But as he listens to the wet, obscene sounds he makes as he fucks himself and feels Derek’s breath come faster against his skin, heaven help him, each thrust is only pleasure.
By the time Derek tells him to get on his knees, Stiles is a wreck, too hot and too cold, legs shaky, body throbbing with desire. He desperately wants to touch his cock, but Derek hasn’t told him to, and Stiles just wants to be good, wants to prove that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make things right.
He steals a look at Derek’s face as he gets into position, needing to check that it’s working, that they’re going to be okay.
Derek’s cheeks are flushed, and there’s no mistaking the hard line of his cock in his jeans. But his eyes. They’re blank and distant, as if he doesn’t see Stiles at all.
It’s like being punched in the gut, all the air forced out of his lungs and pain radiating all the way down to his finger and toes.
“Don’t,” he whispers, clutching onto Derek. He hides his face against his thigh and wraps his arms around his leg, desperately afraid that Derek is going to make him let go. “I’m sorry.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, but Stiles doesn’t want to hear it.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed. “I know I was an asshole, but don’t look at me like that, don’t—I thought you didn’t want me anymore, and it killed me.”
“I miss you so much,” he says.
“Please, Derek,” he says.
And after one of the longest moments of Stiles’ life, Derek growls, “Damn you, Stiles,” and pulls him up, holding him so tightly it hurts.