Give me inexperienced Derek Hale! Give me a Derek Hale who has issues with vulnerability. Give me a Derek Hale who has only slept with Kate, Jennifer, and Braeden because he was too traumatized in New York to go beyond flirting. Give me a Derek Hale who knows how to use his looks to get what he wants but shies away from touch. Give me a Derek Hale that feels alienated from his own body. Give me a Derek Hale with a complicated relationship to sex and power!
lowkey writing a sapphic sterek fic with all of this while they cross country road trip back to beacon hills to help at the end of s6
first little bit is below the cut if you wanna check it out
“Stiles?” An achingly familiar voice hisses from the darkness to her right; followed by an unmistakable flash of alpha red eyes and the shadowed emergence of the most beautiful woman Stiles had ever seen. And, she can definitively say that now that she’s been out in the world and met people outside of Beacon County. Stiles had yet to find a person that could compare to that of Deren Hale. Her dark hair which used to hang in loose waves at her shoulders was now woven into a tight braid with small strands framing her intense, crimson stare as her eyes faded back to their familiar swirl of hazel.
“Stiles!” Deren’s quiet snarl brings her out of her reviere, and—with perfectly arched eyebrows raised—demands, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“H—hey, Deren!” She meant for it to come out suave, but she misses by a mile.
Deren rolls her eyes and a disgusted look flashes over her face as she sneers, “And, what the hell are you doing in an FBI ves—”
She abruptly cuts the insult off when her ear twitches and the unmistakable, ‘This is the FBI, drop your weapons, we have you surrounded,’ blares through the building.
“Yeah…” Stiles sarcastically drags the first part of her sentence as realization dawns on Deren’s face. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about,” she finishes with a smirk that used to earn her an unamused eyebrow raise.
Instead, her eyes flash red again when the shouting increases from the targeted section of the factory. Then the unmistakable click of guns has Deren tackling the human as the deafening pops begin to reverberate around them. Stiles is shoved hard into the wall at her back and crumbles when her body is engulfed by an alpha werewolf shielding her from danger.
The oh so familiar butterflies start a rave in her chest. So much for beating that high school crush. She thinks wryly.
Stiles’s heart nearly beats through her ribs at the adrenaline—okay, yes and also from the bombshell werewolf taking up all kinds of her personal space—but her anxiety eases when she notices that Deren’s breaths are coming as quick as her own. The frantic look that crosses her gorgeous face—a look Stiles aches to soothe—while the wolf thoroughly assesses her wellbeing. Her hands rise on impulse before she pauses, then lays them back at her sides. Deren had been clear she wasn’t comfortable with Stiles’s touch all those months ago.
Evidently, satisfied that the human is not dying, Deren’s guarded snark seeps back into her tone as she bites out, “Still does not explain your presence in another life-threatening situation.”
“Careful, Shakira,” she teases back, feeling the rust melt off the she-wolf’s old nickname. When Stiles is only met with another exasperated eye roll, she continues undeterred. “Someone might start to think you care about—Ah! Fuck—!” Pain lances through Stiles’s left foot—sharp, hot, and intense.
Before she can utter another agonized sound, Deren’s hand clamps down on her mouth and the wolf hisses, “Shhh—do you want them to find us?” And Stiles definitely doesn’t take advantage of her words being safely stifled under a soft, warm palm to say something very immature in response.
With a renewed sense of urgency, the vice-like grip lowers to haul the injured human up by her vest as a strong arm slips beneath her knees to maneuver them into a bridal carry. As they rise, Stiles’s heart swells at the care Deren takes to not jostle her newly injured—GSW, maybe?—toe. The wolf’s eyes flash red as she huffs a piece of hair out of her face before asking, “Which way?” She immediately follows the direction of Stiles’s pointed finger.
The alpha’s face melted into the unreadable stoic mask that had intrigued Stiles when they met. Usually, she could get a pretty good read on people after a couple interactions—re: Matt, Donovan, and Theo—but Deren had taken a while to crack. However, all it took was one glimpse at the anguish carefully sealed behind the guarded expression and demeanor to convince her. Honestly, she didn’t know how Deren had managed to pull herself up again and again in the face of devastating trauma after devastating trauma. No person should have to endure loss on such a widespread scale. If people knew a fraction of what really happened to the Hales, no one would dare blame her for the standoffish attitude and RBF stares.
That was the thing, though; Deren has every right to be absolutely bitter and cruel, but she’s not. Could she be a raging bitch sometimes? Sure, but so can everyone. That doesn’t change the fact Stiles had seen a softness in the way the alpha cared for her pack. From the confidence she’d instilled in Erica when she had shown her how to walk in heels, to the sense of belonging for Boyd. Not to mention the safe haven she provided Isaac after his father’s murder. She didn’t let the losses of the past keep her from caring for those in the present, even if she rarely showed it. She never let the violence inflicted on her life pass through her to someone undeserving. Stiles had stayed awake until the sun had risen again thinking about how much violence it took to become so gentle.
“Stiles!” Deren’s low growl finally snaps her back to reality. She could wax poetic on all the reasons she’d been head over heels for the wolf when they weren’t almost to the Camaro idling smoothly in the loading dock of the factory. “Are you even listening to me?”
After an embarrassing squeak, she finds her voice again and goes for an affronted tone, “Excuse me for zoning out in pain from my bullet wound!” Deren just frowns. “Not all of us get fast recovery times.”
At the reminder, her frown shifts back to an annoyed look, “Again, what the fuck are you doing here?” When they reach the passenger door of the Camaro, Deren carefully sets Stiles on her uninjured foot before opening the door; her eyebrows gesturing for her to sit. “And how the hell did my car–” her voice ticks up with the question before stopping with realization. “You still have a copy of the key.” It isn’t a question exactly, but the mystified incredulity there isn’t lost on Stiles.
For fucks sake, Stilinski. There will be absolutely no over-analization of every phrase from the alpha.
Stubbornly, Stiles remains standing with her arms crossed over her chest and exhales with an exasperated sigh. She keeps her voice monotonous with just a tinge of condescension, “The loading dock I had your getaway car waiting in has a south facing exit that is two stoplights from an on ramp to the interstate. Couple miles and you’ll be at a junction with another interstate. We could be headed in any cardinal direction within minutes!”
“I didn’t need you to—”
“And,” Stiles asserts firmly, silencing any protest, “since I already got us a head start, they won’t be focused on the exits yet.” Deren tries to speak again—unsuccessfully. “A head start that is getting smaller and smaller—by the way—so we kinda need to go now before they realize one of their carefully collected fugitives got through their elaborate little trap and is still at large!” She pauses for a breath and meets Deren’s eyes. “But as much as I missed our little back and forth, I would rather it not be the reason we either die or go to prison. So can we just go and you can bitch me out later?”
Stiles finally allows her lungs to fill with the air she began to crave three sentences ago then hastily lowers herself into the sexy, black car when Deren sighs and instinctively cups a hand around her head before she hits it on the door frame. The wolf sighs with a huff and shuts the door before either of them can see the blush creeping up the other’s face. Then Stiles is graced with the hypnotizing sway of hips in the rearview mirror, trailing away behind the Camaro and back to the driver's seat, so Stiles buckles up and then Deren’s grip curls around the steering wheel, the leather groaning in a satisfying creak.
She shifts the car into gear with a red flash of her eyes and a dubious smirk, then snarls, “Hold on.” The squeal of tires on the coated concrete echoes around the oversized garage as Deren floors it–not slowing at either light between them and the interstate when they are careening into the northern-bound lanes and shooting through the junction to continue their path up the eastern-seaboard.
Deren slides through the lanes of traffic with practiced ease; the gears shifting in timed precision while Stiles mindlessly watches her shift through the gears, noting the way her thigh ripples in the dim light of the dash when she engages the clutch. Stiles is for sure not using Deren’s hotness as a way to distract from her aching toe, but thinking about it has a small groan escaping her lips unbidden.
“Jesus, Stiles,” Deren’s tone isn’t harsh, but there is some thickness to it that Stiles’s pain-addled brain can’t decipher at the present as their gazes finally lock in a loaded stare for the first time since The Incident at La Iglesia in Mexico. Ya’know, before Deren disappeared to search for Nate Argent, with Brandon of all people. Super hot, super cool, super age-appropriate, gun-wielding Brandon. Yeah, definitely before that, but right after Stiles had lamented the thought that no one who truly knew Deren Hale and all the pain she had been through was there to hold her as she lay dying because fucking Nate had transformed her best friend into yet another more badass–yet, unrecognizable–mythical creature!
God, if she never went back to Mexico, it would be too damn soon.
The blazing sun heating the transport van like an oven and Deren’s blazing mouth on hers–blessedly alive. Full-shift realized and faded back into human features. Gaping wounds sealed now by bright pink lines lightening by the minute. Hands roaming every inch of exposed skin as they devoured each others’ mouths, searching for any injury the other could have concealed. Considering Deren’s clothes hadn’t survived the full shift, there wasn’t much left to Stiles’s imagination while they kissed with fierce desperation. That was until fucking Brandon had opened the prison transport van and found his situationship naked, straddling some random mouthy teenager still in high school.
Deren had jumped back so fast, Stiles hadn’t even processed fully what was happening until her concerned palm was being shoved away. A hissed 'don't touch me’ followed by a shooing motion had Stiles flailing out the back of the van as the door slammed closed in her face. Her forehead resting against it in defeat. She knew Deren and her chronic shame, especially the shame she seemed to harbor about Stiles. This was gonna be a major setback in their tenuous understanding of their intense feelings for each other.
Surprisingly, the first pair of eyes she found belonged to an oddly sympathetic Brandon, who looked away as soon as they acknowledged each other. Which, weird, but okay–that wasn’t really the pressing matter on Stiles’s mind as she had pulled herself out of the dirt.
Scott had tried to get the full story out of her on the trip home, but Stiles had been too heart-broken to tell him everything she had kept from him and pretended to sleep the majority of the drive. She knew that every wolf knew she was awake the entire time and oozing sadness, but none of them pressed the issue. When Deren had driven off in the Toyota with the US Marshal/mercenary, Stiles got a lot of looks–some knowing, others putting pieces together from her scent… and the aroma apparently still present in the transport van.
It had been a really humbling trip south of the border for Stiles, so humbling, she didn’t even chuckle at the easy innuendo.
A cleared throat pulls Stiles from her memories and back to the current escape she’s orchestrating. “What were you doing there?” The question is whispered between them like maybe Deren hopes she won’t hear. Which, really? Very mature.
She huffs before answering with plenty of snark, “Some people just say, ‘thank you.’” Easily pulling a little over a year’s worth of bitterness into her voice.
“Stiles—”
The tone sends a small shiver down Stiles’s spine before she quips, “Oh you mean, what was I doing there saving your furry ass from the FBI or do you mean what was I doing there with the getaway car and detailed escape route?” She tried to keep her tone even when she she mentioned Deren’s ass, but hey, you can’t have a high school, bi-awakening because of someone’s ass and not be slightly affected when talking about said ass—especially when said ass was in torn leggings that were truly doing the lord’s work right beside her. Judging by the way Deren’s nostrils flared a bit, the wolf had noticed.
Evidently, choosing to ignore her sensitive nose, Deren tries, “I could have—”
“Oh, what’s that? You had an exit strategy. Which is why you were here completely alone. With absolutely no one to help or, hell, to even watch for—oh, I don’t know—the cops!” Stiles argues, just a bit petulantly, because she knows it really annoys Deren when she does. As the wolf silently clenches her jaw and breathes deeply in annoyance, it is difficult for Stiles to suppress the grin blooming across her mouth at how easily she still could rile Deren’s impeccable calm even after their time apart. She couldn’t help adding a barb, “I thought people were supposed to get wiser as they got older.”
“As the walking contradiction to that ideology, I can see where you got confused,” the reply comes quick and even.
“No matter how nice you dress it up, ‘no you’ is still a shitty comeback, Deren,” Stiles chides with a smirk and swears the ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of that perfect pout.
“Stop avoiding the question.”
“Some people would’ve just said thank you,” Stiles is defensive, but after their last conversation or–more aptly–lack thereof, she can’t afford not to be.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little busy—” her reply was ground out between her perfect bunny teeth. “—evading the law.”
“With my evasion plan!” She yelled, exasperation finally prevailing.
“Fine! Yes, Stiles, with your evasion route. With your plan. With your retained copy of my Camaro’s keys! Yes, to all of it! Whatever! But, why? What are you doing here?”
Stiles threw her hands up in a frustrated flutter. “What am I doing here? Really? You want me to sit back, relax, maybe grab some popcorn while the FBI puts so many bullets in you that even your werewolf healing wouldn’t help?!” She knows it comes out a bit hysterical at this point, but she truly had never talked about it. She tried with Scott, weeks after they had gotten home, but he’d seen Deren alive, well, and full-shifted; he hadn’t wanted to ‘think so negatively’ by talking about it. Now that the opportunity was here, all she could do was hang on until her brain finally stopped spewing her guts all over the car. “You already asked me to leave you to die once,” her voice cracked embarrassingly so she dropped it to a whisper. “I listened to you then, but now I just can’t—I can’t do nothing to help you. Not again.”
Deren’s nostrils flare and her jaw ticks in tension, but after a few seconds her grip on the steering wheel loosens and a delicately manicured hand comes to rest on Stiles’s pale forearm. She can only stare as black lines of pain snake up her wolf’s toned arms and she whispers back, “Thank you.”
Deren’s quiet sincerity actually has Stiles speechless for once (which she will later say was from Deren pulling too much pain with her alpha strength). They sit in comfortable silence for a bit as Deren speeds off the interstate and down long winding roads until they come to an abandoned quarry. Leave it to Deren to always find the broodiest of hiding places.
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