Omega Recs

His breathing is so loud it drowns out the thump of bass from the floor below.

Stiles can’t– It’s been fucking months. Months of So, Derek… we’re in the same lab group, huh? And: hey, if you’re interested, I’ve got a bunch of  resources on Schwartz’ field work I could go over with you, in my dorm room, where my roommate is definitely out of state for the weekend. Not to mention: soooo Derek I was thinking, uh I don’t really fully understand what Professor Fallon was getting at in the last seminar, think you could shed some light on it for me? Over coffee?

Derek Hale is the most brain-stewingly hot science nerd Stiles has laid eyes on in his entire nineteen years of existence. And he’s met a lot. A lot. Even Jenna Montgomery from space camp in eighth grade, who was the owner of the first boob Stiles ever touched has been eclipsed by Derek No You Can’t Try On My Glasses Hale. Derek I Stroke My Stubble When I’m Doing Complicated Calculations Hale disagrees with Stiles on pretty much every theoretical debate opened to the floor, develops a stutter when he’s astounded by someone’s perceived stupidity and remembers your pizza topping combination despite hearing it only once when ordering in for group study sessions. Stiles didn’t stand a chance.

Derek is also the most oblivious.

Did he mention months? Stiles has never been commended on his subtlety. His dad joked once that there would never come a time when he’d get the wrong birthday gift, since he all but published a coupon in the local paper for whatever it was. So Stiles knew it wasn’t something lacking on his end. However, Derek I Must Not Have Been This Hot In High School Hale had innocently rebuked every single one of Stiles’ come-ons with replies like yes I know I was there when they called out our group members and I have the internet and library access too, Stiles and Lydia said I could read her notes -you can have them after I guess.

Honestly.

So. Stiles had resorted to doing things the old fashioned way: keg party and Usher.

Hey, it worked.

“You can’t have that,” Stiles yanks away a meatball sub from Derek, puts a turkey wholegrain in front of him, instead.

“I’m sorry,” Derek looks up at him, put out by Stiles interrupting his and Scott’s Fraiser re-run afternoon with tasty sandwiches, and then not letting him eat the one he wants. “Did you make a ruling on what I can and can’t eat, and not run it by me?”

“You know it gives you heartburn, dude,” Stiles flops down on the couch beside him, drapes his legs over Derek’s lap, “I’m doing you a favor.”

Scott takes a huge bite of his own sandwich, “You get heartburn?”

Derek pulls a face at the food on view in Scott’s mouth and then glares at Stiles, “No, that was one time.”

“I thought you were dying,” Stiles points out, “You acted like you were dying.”

"I’d never experienced it before! I had a right to panic.”

“You wouldn’t let go of my hand for like twelve blocks, man,” Stiles points at the turkey sandwich, “Eat that, and you won’t have to hold my hand.”

“Like that’s really such a hardship for him,” Scott mumbles.

Stiles flicks a piece of cucumber at him. Derek turns the television up so Stiles can hear properly.

happy (belated) birthday literaryoblivion! i hope you like this <3 you are amazing and wonderful and ilu.

–

Stiles faces the cameras, waves his hand and smiles like he’s been trained his whole life to do. His back aches from the stiff posture, and he resists the urge to run his hands through his hair. A reporter asks him a question about his father’s upcoming peace summit, and Stiles automatically recites the answers.

Remember to smile. Remember the answers. Remember to be charming like Mom taught me.

The reporter thanks him, and Stiles continues down the line, answering more questions about the summit, but also superficial questions like who he was rooting for in the World Cup and what’s the worst thing about being the son of a king. “Never getting good curly fries,” Stiles answers, which isn’t what the reporter expects. “I never get to just run through a drive thru and get fries, and the one time I did, the workers were so nervous my fries were burnt.”

“Couldn’t they just make them for you at the castle?” the reporter asks.

Stiles grins and winks at her. “Just not the same.”

Be charming. Be funny. “You don’t have to be Prince William,” his mother had told him. “You don’t always have to be serious.”

His bodyguards stand by watchfully as Stiles takes photos with a few people, and then he faces the cameras again. His fingers self-consciously go to the waist of his dress pants, because they feel too tight, too restricting. But Lydia had insisted that his outfit was perfectly tailored. “This is what you pay me for, Stiles,” she’d huffed. “Now let me do my job.”

He trusts Lydia with everything, from his clothes and hair to booking his appointments, but that doesn’t make him feel any less constricted and ridiculous in these tight-fitting pants. He misses the days when he could wear oversized khakis and hoodies, despite the fact that he was heir to the throne. Sometimes, he thinks turning eighteen had been the worst thing to happen to him.

Stiles walks towards the car waiting for him on the curb. He waves for the remaining cameras, shouts out a few one-word answers to reporters’ questions, watches as his bodyguards keep more eager reporters from rushing him. At the car, he turns and gives one final, regal wave before slipping inside.

He takes a deep breath once the door’s closed. Without the adrenaline that comes with being in the public eye, his hands start to shake violently.

His driver, Isaac, turns around to look at him. “Are you okay, your highness?”

Stiles concentrates on his breathing – in out in out in out – the panic ebbing, though the shaking doesn’t stop. “I’m fine, Isaac.” He shoots him a weary smile. “Let’s go home.”

Derek is ignoring Stiles’ texts.  Well, technically he’s reading them-he’s just not responding to them.  Even though he’s upset, Derek still can’t quite resist seeing what Stiles has to say.

His phone beeps again for the fifth time in the past minute.  “What’s wrong,” the text says.

“Tell me,” the next message reads, less than 3 seconds later.

Then, “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

Derek continues to not respond, and his phone finally goes quiet for a few blessed minutes (for the first time in an hour). He puts it on the coffee table as he sinks back against the couch and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sadness that’s been creeping in since earlier that day.

Derek is what one would call an expert lurker. Stiles - and also Scott - can attest to the fact that the guy takes loitering in secret to the next level. He’s only gotten better at it, in fact, since they’ve known him.

Which is why the sandwich Stiles just dedicated an entire fifteen minutes to making has now ended up mostly on the couch, and there’s a soggy cling of lettuce on his pants.

Fuck Derek and his sneaking.

“What the hell, man?! You can’t just waltz into someone’s house–”

“I didn’t waltz–”

“–and interrupt their hallowed sandwich haven. Not cool.” Seriously. He had like three different types of cheese in it from the false bottom in the fridge.

Derek doesn’t answer. He does come to a stop in front of the TV and cross his arms. Menacingly. There’s a sigh, too.

“You need to stop.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles huffs, fishing bits of olive out of the crease between the couch cushions.

“I’m pretty sure Aleesha at the coffee place on my street spat in my latte this morning.”

Stiles pulls a face. “That’s gross, dude. She should get fired.” He raises his brows. “Wait, is that why you’re over here before noon giving me judgemental biceps? Lack of coffee?”

Derek uncrosses his arms, hesitating, before raising an accusatory finger at him.

“You told her I have three illegitimate kids in two different states.” He turns his hand to hold it palm-up. “You think it’s funny that the latest town gossip is that I’m an absentee father?" 

Stiles sort of thought that the rescue effort would end once, you know, they rescued Derek, but of course it didn’t work out like that.  Because they might have gotten him out of that hell-church, but it is absolutely not okay that Derek is suddenly adorably teenaged.

 Stiles can’t stop staring in delight at how very adorably teenaged Derek is. “You are seriously the cutest. This is so rad. Can I pinch your cheeks?”

 He reaches out but Derek flinches back and gives Stiles the baby version of Derek’s get the hell away from me if you want to keep your limbs intact look.  It’s in no way a deterrent and in every way a source of absolute delight.

 “Do you ever shut the hell up?”  Derek bitches.  His voice is young and reedy and in no way the grumpy growl that Stiles is used to.  

 “This is just the greatest thing,” Stiles says, snapping a few more photos for posterity.  

 “It’s not,” Derek says. “This is the most humiliating thing.”  He glares moodily out the window.

 “This is the great equalizer, my friend,” Stiles corrects. “You got to see me in my awkward coltish phase. Now I get to see you when you were…”  He trails off, because baby Derek isn’t, like, hideous or dorky-looking or even unfortunately proportioned.  He’s just shorter and skinnier and less hairy, which is ironic given the whole werewolf thing.  He’s also hot, in a far more accessible way than Derek normally is, but Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to tell him that.

 Mostly it’s a delight because it’s the first funny terrible thing that’s happened to Derek, and after the clusterfuck that’s been the last year of their lives, Stiles absolutely needs this sort of comic book villainous action in his life, instead of all-consuming evil and human sacrifice and whatnot.

(Full disclosure: I do this to people sometimes. I’m sorry.)

Stiles has this bad habit of walking up behind people and jabbing them in the sides with his fingers. He gets bored and he’s the type of person who likes touching other people and the way people react can be hilarious - can being the operative word there. It makes Scott giggle when he does it, which is the cutest noise Stiles has ever heard, so he does it a lot, mostly absent-mindedly when he’s joining a group of people. It’s almost his way of saying “Hey, I’m here,” without actually saying it. 

For all that Scott laughs, though, it doesn’t go over all that well with the rest of his friends. Allison kind of keels to one side and then turns around and calmly informs him that if he ever does that again, she’ll be sorry to do it, but she’ll shoot him at close range without hesitating. Lydia doesn’t appear to notice, but she takes a tiny step backward, bringing the point of her heel slowly and deliberately down on the middle of Stiles’ foot. He doesn’t need much more of a warning than that. Isaac jumps like he’s been shot and spills popcorn all over Derek’s loft. He gives Stiles such an angry look about the loss of food that Stiles doesn’t do it again. 

Stiles approaches Derek deliberately after he eventually runs through everyone else because he knows Derek will get pissed and Stiles is, if nothing, the king of irritating people. He’s not afraid of Derek like he used to be, anyway; they’ve had this sort of antagonistic friendship going on for a while now and Stiles knows how to push his boundaries without running the risk of getting mauled. 

[For Madi and her anon question here, but I’m flipping the prompt a little and doing Stiles attempting to tutor Derek in Spanish. High school AU, scene inspired by 10 Things I Hate About You.]

Stiles scoots a little closer to Derek as they sit at the dining room table in the Hale family home. “Okay, so now we’re doing conjugation…” he says, trying to make sense of what all the different tenses are. This was a terrible idea, he can’t believe he told Derek Hale he could tutor him in Spanish when Stiles isn’t even taking Spanish. Stiles is even more surprised that hot, popular jock Derek agreed to the tutoring sessions. 

They’ve been working at it for weeks, and it’s been…well, it’s been worth it to sit next to Derek and smell his hair and joke with him about Mr. Harris’ attempt at a goatee. Derek actually nodded at him when they passed each other in the halls the other day, like they were actually friends.

Stiles stares at the list of verbs that are currently hurting his brain, and then Derek leans a little closer. His arm is on the back of Stiles’ chair, the warmth searing across Stiles’ back. Yeah, it’s so worth it.

Stiles muddles through the Spanish as best he can; he doesn’t know if Derek’s getting any better, though. 

“¿Cuándo vas a pedirme que sea tu novio?" Derek mutters next to him. 

"What was that?” Stiles looks up, and Derek is shaking his head. 

“Muy guapo e intelligente, pero terrible en los idiomas,” Derek says, the words flowing smoothly out of his mouth.

Stiles just gapes at him. “Okay, um I guess you’re getting the hang of it." 

Derek tilts his chin at that cocky angle that just does things to Stiles, like he’s contemplating something. He’s sitting impossibly close; Stiles can see every eyelash, every fleck of gold in his hazel eyes. 

"Bésame,” Derek says, caramel voice dropping to a whisper. 

Stiles’ heart pounds rapidly, he doesn’t know what that means, he has no idea what is going on, did Derek know Spanish all along? Is he making fun of him for his lame tutoring attempts—

Oh. This is a kiss. Stiles gasps a little in surprise, but then kisses back eagerly. Derek’s lips are soft and perfect, and Stiles sighs a little happily. 

“Idiota,” Derek says, fondly.

“Hey,” Stiles says. 

“I’m president of the Spanish club,” Derek says. “I can’t believe you honestly thought I needed tutoring. We could have been doing this for weeks." 

Stiles flushes with embarrassment. "I didn’t know that, okay? I never thought you’d be into me!" 

Derek shrugs. "I’ve been inviting you to my house afterschool so we could ‘study’ together, what do you think that means?”

Oh.

Stiles grins cheekily. “Okay, then.” He points to his lips. “Más?" 

~

¿Cuándo vas a pedirme que sea tu novio? When are you going to ask me to be your boyfriend?

Muy guapo e intelligente, pero terrible en los idiomas. Very good looking and smart, but terrible at languages.

Bésame. Kiss me.

Idiota. Idiot.

“Oh my god, Derek, don’t stop— ‘m’close.”

"Yeah?”

“Yeah, please.”

Derek stills above Stiles, leans down to kiss behind his ear, “Tell me.”

Stiles scrunches up his face, confused as to why Derek has stopped sex to have a conversation.

“Just let me touch it." 

"No, Stiles, stop it,” Derek tries to swerve away from Stiles’ grabby hands, but there’s little room to maneuver in the little rental car that Scott had gotten for the trip to Mexico. 

Stiles is contorted in the front passenger seat, twisted around so he can reach and attempt to pat the shaggy growth from Derek’s face, the hot sun blazing down on them through the sunroof that won’t close.

Lydia raises her eyebrow from where she’s sitting next to Derek in the backseat. “Please tell me you’re not going to do this the entire drive back to Beacon Hills,” she says. 

“Stiles, sit your ass down,” Scott says from the driver’s seat, trying to pay attention to the road. “The other drivers are looking at us funny. I think that kid in the Camry thinks you’re starting a mooning contest with him. I really don’t think–”

“Yeah, well it’s a contest he’s gonna lose,” Stiles says, reaching for his zipper. 

“NO,” everyone else in the car says in unison. 

“You guys wouldn’t know fun if it bit you,” Stiles says, complaining. He reaches an arm back towards Derek’s face, wiggling his fingers. “Come on, it’s just so fluffy." 

"Yeah, well, I was kidnapped for two months, shaving wasn’t really a priority,” Derek says, deadpan. 

“Beard,” Stiles whines. “It’s like an old-growth forest. I bet you have an entire ecosystem in there. I want to touch it. Please?" 

"We’re not even at the border yet,” Lydia says, in annoyance. 

Scott grips the steering wheel in frustration. “Derek, just let him play with your beard so we can get some peace and quiet." 

"Fine,” Derek says reluctantly. 

Stiles makes a pleased noise and Derek doesn’t move, allowing him to run his fingers along his face, tangling his fingers in the scruff, scratching under his chin a little. Okay, it actually kind of feels nice, and Derek leans into the touch a little. 

Stiles lets go, leaning back, flushing a bright red. He turns around, sitting in the seat proper, and it’s silent in the car for a few minutes, while Derek is trying to figure out how he feels about this, until Lydia speaks up.