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I can smell it on your skin (I bet I can taste it in your blood)

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Stiles’ cover is blown the day Derek gets hit by Allison’s arrow.

It’s nothing serious, no more than what usually happens when they’re all running around and practicing like they always seem to do these days. In retrospect, considering the consequences of what Derek’s injury brought forth, Stiles surprises himself by thinking he would have preferred Derek to get actually hurt. At least that way he would have been concerned about it instead of totally, inappropriately turned on by the sight of Derek tearing off his t-shirt and the arrow from his naked, sweaty side.

If Allison’s arrow had hit Derek, say, in the side of his head Stiles would have flung himself toward him with the others and they would have all started buzzing around in nervous worry for at least ten seconds before they all remembered a werewolf – even more, an Alphacould heal himself no problem; they would have laid back and enjoyed the show, and Derek would only have grumbled a little about it while his flesh knitted itself together or whatever it is it actually happens when a werewolf works his healing magic.

As it is, Derek is perfectly fine. So much so that he doesn’t even wince when he takes in his injury and Allison doesn’t flinch to ask if he’s okay before she starts shooting after her boyfriend with entirely too much enthusiasm.

Everyone goes on about their business like nothing’s happened, but not Stiles.

Not Stiles, because Derek is not in any real danger and he’s peeling off his shredded t-shirt like it’s August and not the middle of a freezing November.

Derek is not dying and the warmth of his body sizzles all around him in clouds of condensation, the muscles of his abdomen clenching with the effort to slow his breathing now that he’s not running breathlessly through the forest. His life is not threatened in the least and Stiles sits there, hard in his jeans and mouth hanging slightly open as his throat tightens, as his eyes follow the movement of Derek’s fingers around the lips of his wound, the little flow of blood.

The arrow point falls from Derek’s hand and into the bed of the forest. It’s almost soundless but it shakes Stiles out of his fantasy; the very vivid image of himself on his knees right there, one hand holding his own cock and his mouth on Derek’s stomach sucking a darker stain on the clean, newly-healed skin. His eyes travel up Derek’s body and there he is, looking at Stiles with a pinched expression, a dark frown to his eyes and his mouth curved in what Stiles assumes can only be barely concealed annoyance.

Stiles’ dick jumps against the barrier of his jeans and at the same time Derek’s nostrils flare imperceptibly.

His cover is blown, Stiles is officially fucked.

 


 

From that moment on Stiles decides to be extra careful.

He starts bringing more search material to the training sessions; stops concentrating on the wolf’s running techniques and pack strategy when hunting rabbits and starts digging into magic, mythology or anything that could justify his newfound interest in not accidentally get a hard-on over Derek. Especially not when Derek is right there to smell it off him.

It’s not that difficult, not really. Stiles just needs to be extra careful and not have any type of sexy thoughts when he’s doing his duty as pack mascot and cheering them up, answering their questions and generally finding solutions to their problems. It’s not that difficult, not really.

He’s only a sixteen year old virgin dealing daily with his burgeoning attraction for a dude who’s remarkably comfortable being half-naked most of the year, no biggie. Eh.

He bets people would be intrigued by the sheer amount of focus Stiles puts on Derek’s naked form for someone who’s admittedly been fighting — and often losing — a ten year battle with ADD, but he guesses he can always chalk it up to Adderall if hard pressed. A lot of things could be the fault of a tablet too many in his daily dosage.

Anyway, it’s not Stiles’ fault if Derek is attractive, and it’s not like the guy does anything to hide it either, so Stiles thinks he’s really being the responsible one — the adult, if you want — here and really believes his deflecting plan is working.

He manages to avoid embarrassing situations for two whole weeks going through an anthology of Celtic mythology and a book on Korean Magic, and in all that time Derek blissfully spares Stiles of any comment regarding the arrow/hard-on/sniffing incident.

Stiles almost believes his secret his safe, and just like that he becomes sloppy again.

 



When he doesn’t try as hard to not think about Derek Stiles almost thinks he’s finally to the point when the idea of Derek is so far into the back of his mind that it is not a problem anymore.

Of course, that is when he eventually thinks of Derek, about the way his shoulders flex when he’s pushing furniture around — and why did he decide that redecorating his house in a wifebeater was a good idea? — or about the way his hair spikes when he runs his hand through it, frustrated with his pack and with an ever present scowl on his face.

It’s inevitable, and the only way Stiles has to preserve his secret, to protect himself, is to distract himself even more.

It’s not like Stiles is in any way avoiding the pack or avoiding his duties; he still does most of the research when they need it and he stills finds a way to know about everything that’s happening and how they can overcome their enemy of the week. He just...he just starts to keep a respectful distance, something no one would ever notice in normal group of actual, non-supernatural people. You know, the kind that don’t think puppy-piling is a legit way to fall asleep.

He stops arriving early to meetings and leaving late after helping Derek put away the leftover chips and sodas; he stops going by Derek’s house in the afternoon to do his homework while his father is on shift, and he stops deluding himself he did it just to wait for Scott to drop by after seeing Allison.

But most of all, Stiles stop sitting idly by and starts running.

Specifically, running on his own, away from the others and exactly at the same time as most of the pack trainings take place. He runs for miles and miles, first for forty-five minutes then for an hour and a half, until he gets back exhausted and sweaty, t-shirt glued to his body and heart beating rabbit-fast against his ribcage.

He figures that way, even if he concedes himself a moment to catch Derek fighting Erica off, the arch of his back smooth and perfect in the early evening light of the forest, Derek won’t be able to see beyond the stench of sweat and the labored breath of physical exertion. Derek won’t look at him with disgust and won’t sneer at him and his ridiculous crush.

That way, even if Stiles can’t get himself to completely abandon the idea of watching Derek even if it’s only for five minutes, even if it could kill him to be faced with the hopeless reality of it, he can still tell himself that he is safe; that it won’t all come back to bite him in the ass and hurt him like part of him fears it will eventually still happen.

 



He’s been sticking to his new plan for two weeks now, and apart for the anxiousness of being caught by Derek it seems that it’s working. Derek didn’t question him the couple of times he found Stiles looking at him too intensely and Stiles is sure his crush will go away any time now.

All he needs is to run a couple dozen more miles a week and everything will be better.

He knows it would be beneficial to his plan to maybe change the location for his runs, but he’s confident this is just a temporary thing. At the same time, Stiles is not really prepared to completely let go of his attraction, and if that means that he tends to stick around Derek’s house then so be it.

The more he runs the more he sweats anyway, and as gross as that might be, Stiles feels safer knowing there’s something protecting him from Derek’s senses more than usual.

 



Three weeks into his new routine something happens that motivates Stiles even more.

He’s holding off his run in favor of a pretty important, definitely unavoidable translation from Latin he and Lydia have been working on since school let out. They bring the books back to Derek’s house and continue working on it while the werewolves discuss arrangements for the next full moon, and every so often Stiles’ focus slides away from declensions — seriously, Latin, why? — to Derek’s back as he’s busy talking to Boyd about something probably really violent and gory. Stiles actually has no idea what they’re talking about but Boyd looks tense and Derek is always tense, and they don’t seem to have much in common other than their monthly problem so —

— Stiles doesn’t really care, because Derek’s back is flexing with the movement of his arms and even through the t-shirt the movement of his muscles is kind of hypnotic: his neck does this thing when he turns his head towards Boyd that makes a long line of skin stand out and Stiles really, really can’t right now.

He’s probably been staring for a while when he realizes that Lydia is looking at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Stiles knows that there’s a question there waiting to be asked and he doesn’t really want to answer; he’s not ready — never will be if he has a say in it — for his secret to be out, so he shakes his head and pleads for silence with his eyes. Lydia, bless her heart and her receptive nature, just nods and looks back to their book. Stiles sighs in relief.

In the end Lydia’s discretion doesn’t help him much, because the next time he looks up from the text Derek is looking at him. There’s an angry scowl on his face and the look of someone who’s been deeply offended by Stiles’ untoward behavior. Stiles looks away so fast he gives his eyes whiplash and tries to calm down his skipping heart, but Derek says nothing. When it’s time to go he bids Stiles goodbye without even looking at him.

It’s not like Derek is the warmest person ever, but Stiles is kind of hurt anyway. His body is a traitorous bitch, yes, but that doesn’t mean he should be the one to be blamed.

If it were up to him, he probably wouldn’t have chosen Derek to be the object of his affections, what with it how it seems that lately he’s grating on the guy’s nerves more than usual and the — of course — totally unavailable and way-better-than-you status.

He knows, intellectually, that when Derek looks at him and practically screams what are you looking at’ with his perfect set of irritated eyebrows that he should let go; knows that even if Derek hasn’t said anything yet his attitude suggests that he’s aware of something going on with Stiles. It’s in the way he avoids his gaze when Stiles is not careful enough to do it himself, or the way Derek snaps at him for no good reason but to rile Stiles up he would back off and move away when he’s unconsciously moved closer.

Even with his determination to the nines Stiles knows he needs to step back further, cover his tracks and get away when he still has his dignity pretty much intact.

Self preservation is an innate quality in humans as well as animals, right? So how difficult can it be?

 


 

From then on running through the forest on his own becomes a favorite activity other than a necessary evil; Stiles even prefers it to lacrosse because now he doesn’t need to wait for anybody to get hurt to just get into the action. He can just leave his Jeep at Derek’s, watch the others get settled for their own training and then leave as they fight their doggy fights and come back ninety minutes later sweaty and tired to collect his car.

Running more than usual has been ever so slightly changing his body, too, refining his leg muscles and giving him much more resistance, and he knows that if he keeps this up for a couple more months he’ll be able to be a better asset to the pack in general. This added benefit gives Stiles more motivation to push himself than the idea of being caught, ridiculed and rejected by Derek, because it is one thing to have your heart broken because a guy doesn’t like you and another to be left behind by your pack because you’re not as strong as a supernatural creature.

So he runs and pushes himself more and more, feeling the warmth on his face and the burn in his legs as he climbs a steep little hill and jumps over a stray log on the way to the little creek on the east side of Derek’s house. He has his track mastered up to a science, only adding a few extra turns once in a while when he feels like he needs to burn the extra energy. Usually it's when Derek looks at him with insistence for no particular reason, or when he decides to be more perfect than Stiles really needs him to to get him out of his mind.

His feet tap the ground in an increasing rhythm until he crosses the small river jumping from stone to stone, miraculously not dropping in the water because Stiles is like this: totally coordinated unless he has a witness. His breath comes out in hot, frantic puffs of air as he turns around what seems to him to be the biggest, oldest oak tree he’s seen in the forest until now, and he narrowly avoids faceplanting by its feet only because by now he knows he has strategically put roots to avoid.

It’s like he’s the master and the forest is his bitch, because Stiles could run around here with his eyes closed by night and he would still be able to make it back to Derek’s house no problem.

He spares a second to wonder why this close to it he can’t hear Scott’s voice screaming and laughing as Allison tries to pierce him through the leg, or Isaac and Boyd taunting each other as they spar, when of course he starts thinking about Derek again and how he might be in the process of taking Jackson to the floor with his own weight right now.

The idea of it, of being pinned by Derek’s body to the ground, no way to move and no way to struggle free does something to Stiles’ heart that has nothing to do with the pace of his jog or the percentage of the slope he’s climbing to get back. It gives him the kind of heavy, excited feeling that he always gets when he thinks about Derek’s skin on his own, and his heart constrict depressingly with the realization that the only way he could feel that was if he actually fought Derek one to one and that...

...Stiles could live without that kind of humiliation, thanks.

He shudders at the thought of being helplessly hard against Derek’s thigh as he presses him to the ground, the surprised expression on Derek’s face as he would feel it.

Stiles can’t even put a name to the kind of mortification Derek’s answering dismissal would make him feel, so he decides to add another two miles to his run and hope Derek will be done with training and otherwise occupied when he comes back.

 


 

When Stiles finally gets back to Derek’s house his Jeep is the only car still there. Allison has probably given Scott a lift; Lydia was with Jackson and Isaac still occasionally uses Derek’s Camaro to drive himself, Boyd and Erica from here to the warehouse where they’re still staying until Derek finishes up his guest room renovations.

The yard around the house is completely silent and there’s not a light inside, so Stiles figures he’s pretty much safe into letting himself inside with the spare keys he carries for emergencies and just steal a bottle of water. It’s not like it’ll take him more than a couple of minutes anyway, and he’s so dehydrated he’s probably even stopped sweating half a mile ago.

He slows his pace and walks up to the house, opening the big, wooden door with no effort and stepping inside. It’s not as dark as he thought it would be, and when he checks the clock he realizes that even though he’s been gone for close to two hours it isn’t later than seven.

He wonders vaguely why nobody waited for him to get back, but Stiles shrugs the answers off on his way to the kitchen, dismissing this line of thought before he can fall into his insecurities like always. It was a pretty good run and he’s in a pretty good mood so there’s really no reason to actively ruin it; if he can just walk in, have a drink of water and walk out without crossing paths with a freshly showered Derek he’ll consider this a success.

Of course, Stiles has not been a very successful young man ‘til now, and this is why when he steps into the kitchen Derek is there, blessedly full clothed if still a bit ruffled from fighting off most of his pack. He’s leaning by the fridge and staring at the doorway so when Stiles walks in his eyes zero in on him in the space of a second, angry scowl already in place.

Stiles stops, momentarily thrown away because this, this is exactly the kind of situation he’s been trying to avoid.

He’s been killing himself running to not be forced to end up face to face with Derek more than absolutely necessary and then here he is, alone and sweaty and generally disgusting with Derek just there, looking like he’s out of some kind of porn fueled dream.

“Uh—” Stiles stammers, because now he’s inside the house and he can’t just turn around and walk away without even trying to explain why. “I—Hey! I was just—I need some water...”

Derek keeps looking at him from head to toe, his frown deepening as he huffs an impatient breath and turns around, opens the fridge and takes a bottle out. He throws it in Stiles’ direction and Stiles catches it a bit clumsily — because, yeah, Stiles — until his hand steadies and he opens up the Gatorade to drink two big gulps out of it.

He tries to buy himself time, because Derek is still looking at him and not talking, but there is only so much Stiles can drink without needing to breathe.

“Ahhhh—” He exaggerates once he’s done, putting the bottle on the table and leaving it there, “—that was amazing, dude! Since when do you drink Gatorade? I didn’t know werewolves needed the extra intake of carbs after sport and anyway do you even dehydrate? Does Scott? He doesn’t even seem to break into a sweat he’s so cool about it. I mean, if I were a werewolf I would at least fake the fatigue to not be so obvious but Scott just—”

“Stiles.” Derek interrupts him and Stiles simultaneously realizes he’s babbling and stops, looking around at anything but Derek and feeling incredibly awkward for no good reason.

It could be that he actually knows that werewolves do lose liquids to transpiration when under effort because he’s been observing Derek’s reaction to physical strain so studiously for the last months that he had to, quite literally, distance himself before he ended up making a fool of himself. Or it could simply be that Derek is still scowling at him and Stiles doesn’t really know why. It’s not like he did anything to deserve it.

Or at least he thinks he didn’t.

He gave Derek all his detailed research he made of neighboring packs, and he even made graphics — color coded — and maps — satellite scans with little werewolves stickers, thank you — to help Derek localize them. He did an excellent work if he can say so himself, so he doesn’t really see why Derek might be angry at him.

Maybe he didn’t like Stiles pointing out the Beacon Hills pack with a pink wolf? It was a totally awesome idea though, really classy and kind of funny if you thought about it because Derek was like the epitome of masculinity and nobody would ever dare say otherwise so why would he be bothered by something as inconsequential as a color that society arbitrarily attributed to little girls? Derek should be a little more sure of himself and his virility if that’s really what has him all frowny faced at Stiles, because really, it’s not like he lacks the presence or the importance of a very imposing manly man.

He doesn’t.

Stiles knows.

He actually looks particularly fine and kind of extremely hunky as he is now in the scarce light of early evening, and Stiles feels himself starting to slip already in that alarming zone where his stupid, depressing attraction might manifest itself by way of unwanted stirring of the loins or violent flushing he’s not too inclined to push under Derek’s literal and figurative nose.  

“Stiles,” Derek repeats and Stiles finally snaps his eyes back to him and tries to focus.

Unfortunately his attention deficit is not really affected by his runs, so it’s not like he ever gets tired of being distracted.

Anyway.

“Yup!” He says, completely excited and so fake he’s surprised Derek doesn’t call him on it.

Derek takes a deep breath and talks again, voice hard and stopping any attempt Stiles might have done to lighten up the mood. “Can you tell me where you have been until now?”

“Uh—running?” It’s the world's stupidest question, because Derek knows exactly what it was he was doing for the past two hours.

“Yes, I noticed.” Derek’s eyes slid again up and down his body and make Stiles feel even more self-conscious about his appearance; his traitorous dick seems to appreciate the attention though, and it jumps happily at the idea Derek might be checking him out for whatever reason. Derek doesn’t look interested in the least, though, and his expression doesn’t soften as he continues. “You were supposed to be back forty-five minutes ago.”

Stiles makes a dismissive gesture of his hand, smiling uncertainly. “Yeahhh, well... I know you guys can get caught up into your totally cool, badass trainings, so I figured if I took a couple of detours and came back a bit late I would still find you all here.”

Which is a total lie because Stiles was so worked up over Derek these days that he was sincerely hoping to be able to sneak home unnoticed, or at least come back just in time to slip into his car when the others did and say his goodbyes from the safe protection of his Jeep’s cab.

Mhh, maybe next time he should time it like that.

“The pack was worried.” Derek says, and he sounds so serious Stiles doesn’t even try to doubt him. “I had to assure them more than once that I could hear you in the woods — safe — before I convinced them not to worry and go back home.”

Stiles swallows guiltily; the last thing he wants is for his friends to be concerned about him. Scott has already tried more than once to get him to talk about what was plaguing him, but there was no way

Stiles could tell him. If the humiliation of liking Lydia Martin for the better part of ten years taught him anything was that being attracted to someone so out of your league you can’t even afford the tickets to watch the game is a little bit less painful when your best friend isn’t looking at you with pity in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean for them to worry, I swear. I’m sorry.” He says, because he is. He really is. This thing he has for Derek is his problem and his alone; he shouldn’t be bringing it into the pack. Then the rest of Derek’s phrase hits him and Stiles breath stutters. “You could uh — you could hear me even all the way into the forest?”

“Yes.” Derek says, and Stiles startles at the sharpness of his tone. “Your heartbeat is awfully loud.” He says it like it’s some kind of curse, and Stiles deflates a little, dejected.

“Sorry dude, I didn’t want to distract you or anything. Next time I can go running at the public park? That way you’ll all know I’m safe and you won’t have the annoying sound in the background and...” Stiles trails off, because he’s not really in the mood to say that maybe that could be better for him too. That it could be the perfect excuse to take some time off from all this. From Derek and his presence and the constant heartache Stiles tries not to think too much about.

Derek takes a step forward as Stiles moves to the door and speaks again. “Anyway, I think— yeah, I need to go now. I stink and I don’t want to offend another one of your senses any more than I already did so if you don’t mind—”

But apparently Derek does mind because as soon as Stiles goes for another step he plants himself in front of him, blocking his way and cornering him against the counter.

Which is not, in so many ways, what Stiles needs right now.

“Derek.” He says exasperatedly, because he really, really can’t right now.

The idea of Derek being able to hear his heartbeat so far away is so scary and makes him feel so exposed he just wants to go; at the same time, though, it makes him wonder what it would be like to be able to feel Derek’s heart, its subtle variations and the way it pulses in his body with all the power of its inhuman strength.

Of course, the next step in Stiles mind is to imagine how Derek’s heart would feel beating right against Stiles naked chest and now, now Stiles really needs to go.

“I need to go,” he says, but Derek just crowds him more, his arms bracketing Stiles body on each side, hands gripping the counter until Stiles can see Derek’s knuckles turning white. He can see the muscles of his forearms tensing, his biceps round and firm under the stretch of his t-shirt. He clears his throat, and when he finally dares to look at Derek in the eyes he finds him so much closer than he ever was before.

Way too much closer, if you ask Stiles and his poor, battered self-control.

“Is there something you need to talk to me about?” Derek asks, like he’s not just a couple of inches away from Stiles’ body; like they’re not breathing the same air. Like Stiles is not listening to his words so much as feeling them as they’re exhaled upon the flesh of his own lips.

“Uh—” His heart beats faster, and for a moment there he stupidly wishes the sound to be so deafening and fastidious to Derek’s ears that he will let him go. “I swear, for once in my life I don’t think I have anything to tell. To anybody. In general! Or you..specifically, you know?”

But he feels himself blush so hard he’s sure he’s radiating heat directly on Derek’s face Derek nods like he’s been listening to him but Stiles could swear Derek’s eyes are a bit too glazed over for him to believe he’s been paying any attention.

Derek takes another step forward, his hands inching closer to Stiles’ side until they’re touching him.

Touching Stiles! In a non-threatening, non-menacing way!

He barely resists his eyes from falling closed and a groan from clawing out his throat when Derek’s fingers latch over his waist, his thumbs stroking a slow, circular path around the protruding bones of his hips until Stiles is weak-kneed and panting softly; until all he can breathe is Derek and it all scares and excites him way too much.

He feels his breath come out shallowly, his lungs working overtime to get much needed oxygen to his brain, and Stiles suddenly curses his jogging pants because really, there’s no hope they’re gonna hide anything at this point.

Derek seems to read his mind — or as his nostrils flare Stiles is just pretty sure he can actually smell him loud and clear over the smell of sweat and forest — and he smiles wickedly, his left leg moving and pushing between Stiles’ so the next thing Stiles knows his dick is resting hot and heavy over Derek’s firm thigh.

Stiles is going to pass out.

Any minute now.

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, and he’s impossibly, unbearably close now. He dips his head to the side and Stiles yelps when he feels a wet pressure on his neck, a sweet, slow suction that makes his hips snap forward unconsciously until his cock can press into Derek’s flesh even more. “Are you sure?”

Stiles would tell him yes, yes he’s sure. There’s nothing to talk about because this can’t be really happening. These kind of things don’t happen to him, not with people like Derek or — or with anybody else for that matter. Stiles is not that type of person, the type that gets hot guys all over into his personal space and gets to keep ‘em there, too. No. There must be something else here he’s not really aware of because Derek—

— Derek can not possibly be kissing the side of his neck now. Licking a messy line up to his jaw until he meets the tender flesh of his ear.

Derek.

 Derek’s hands are not still touching his skin, burning through it until Stiles feels branded deep inside, until he’s sure he has bruises even though Derek’s touch is soft, barely there, more ticklish than anything.

Derek is—

—Derek is not really doing this because this doesn’t happen to Stiles.

“Derek—” Stiles murmurs, and if it comes out insecure and afraid, he hopes Derek won’t notice. “—what.”

Derek hums happily against the side of Stiles’ head, stroking it with his own face, scraping his stubbled cheek over Stiles’. It’s weird, scratchy but still soft enough to not leave behind a burn too intense, and Stiles trembles with the effort of keeping still.

His eyes close and he takes a big breath to make himself speak again; to demand an answer to all this, to understand what exactly is happening here. It takes him a second to inhale and half of it for Derek’s mouth to latch onto his, soft and demanding and so wet and unexpected.  

Stiles groans deep into his body, Derek’s pressing into him until they’re chest to chest and Stiles is steadily, unapologetically humping his leg. Derek moans into Stiles mouth as he sucks on Stiles’ tongue, filthy like nothing Stiles’ has ever seen before and so good, so good Stiles could cry.

He feels Derek hard against him, insistent as Stiles himself must feel as they rut slowly against each other, kissing deep and inelegantly as Stiles finally feels brave enough to touch Derek back.

His fingers weave through Derek’s hair, messy and still a bit sweaty from earlier and Stiles idly thinks how gross he himself probably is, dirt and perspiration and the smell of all of his emotions for Derek to taste. The thought makes him push himself harder against Derek and he whines, grips Derek’s hair tighter and pulls his head back to get a better look at him.

Derek’s eyes open and Stiles has never seen him look so wild, not even when he’s red-eyed and deadly set on killing. He looks at Stiles like he is his, and Stiles can’t really fault his reasoning anyway. He looks at him for a second, and then Derek’s hands come up to frame Stiles face and keep him still as he— as he licks Stiles from the little dip of his chin up across his lips, parted and wet and still tingling from their kisses. He keeps going until he can lick the point of Stiles' nose and the straight line of it and Stiles whimpers as he thinks about Derek’s tongue licking up a similar line from the weight of his balls to the point of his dick.

He shakes with want, and he can’t — he can’t believe this.

“I can’t believe this,” he murmurs into Derek’s neck as he kisses it sweetly, almost reverently. Because Stiles has been wanting this for so long and he just—”I really, really can’t believe it.”

Derek shushes him as he’s busy sucking at the side of Stiles neck again, his hips and leg working Stiles steadily.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, because really he can’t seem to be able to not look a gift horse in the mouth, “Derek. Why now—why. Why?”

Derek murmurs something but it’s so deep into the secret spots of his body — places not even Stiles knew about — and he can’t catch it. He asks Derek again around a groan, riding his thigh a teeny tiny bit more frantically.

Stiles is going to make a fool of himself and come into his pants in half a minute. But it will be worth it, because it’s Derek making him come, Derek kissing him and stroking the back of his hair, relaxing him into this.

“You wanted this,” Derek says, and Stiles nods. Of course he does. He has been wanting this for a long time and Derek should know he’s consenting to anything he might want from him. “You wanted this, you wanted me. I could smell it on you.”

Stiles is mortified, because he knew. He tried his best to be subtle, but it was all for naught. “Yeah,” he whispers. There’s no use in lying when Derek can feel the evidence warm, hot and probably just a bit too wet against him.

“And you were trying to stop it—” Derek kisses him once, goes on to suck a hickey on the other side of Stiles neck. “You started to miss pack meetings, to run on your own during training.You never stopped by after dinner anymore; you barely paid attention to our strategies.”

Stiles nods and laugh self-deprecatingly, because like this, out of Derek’s mouth? It sounds even more pathetic than he thought. “I thought I was being subtle.”

“For the most part,” Derek hums into his neck, “the rest of the pack didn’t seem to notice. But I did and I couldn’t figure out what the problem was.”

Stiles smiles at the frustrated sound Derek makes. “The problem was that I didn’t know how to approach this,” Stiles says softly. It’s maybe too much honesty but he doesn’t care.

“You should have just said,” Derek huffs out impatiently, and a second later he’s kissing Stiles again, his teeth trapping his lower lip as he sucks on it. “The sooner this happened the sooner you’d get it out of your system,” he finishes as he finds Stiles’ mouth again.

It’s a testament to how much Stiles wants Derek and how much he wants to believe this is real that he doesn’t register Derek’s words right away. He keeps kissing him with all the passion of someone who’s first real kiss turned out to be with someone as hot as Derek Hale, and that in turn evolved into the hottest make out session in the world.

But then, then Stiles’ brain comes back online and what Derek means hits him like a ton of bricks. He feels a chill run down his spine and the bottom of his stomach drops at the same time as his heart constricts painfully.

It’s such a horrible, definite sensation that it’s enough for Stiles to find the strength to push Derek away. Away from his mouth, his body, his everything.

Derek makes a disappointed sound and when he opens his eyes again he looks confused. Really turned on but still confused.

“What did you say?” Stiles asks, and the tone of his voice is chilling. Even Derek seems to notice, because he doesn’t even try to get close again.

“Stiles,” he says gently, but Stiles is not taking any of it.

“What. did. you. say?” He repeats slowly, like he would to a child. He feels anger building up in the empty place his arousal left behind, and he grips at it, uses it as a shield. “Answer me, Derek.”

“You’re sixteen,” Derek says as if it explains everything.

“I am. What has this got to do with—”

“—And you’re horny. It was distracting you, it was putting you off the game.” Derek concludes like Stiles never tried to interrupt him.

“I don’t understand...” Stiles voice is trembling with rage, his eyes burning with humiliation.

“You’re no use to me like that. I need you on top of your game, and you were refusing to train with us. You were avoiding our meetings! I figured—”

“You figured what? That a pity fuck would help me? That’s what you figured?” Stiles understands the chances of Derek actually wanting him, but he never thought thiswould happen.

“Stiles,” Derek tries, and he looks genuinely sorry.

Stiles doesn’t care. “What did you think? That I just needed you to fuck me once and then all would be back to what it was? That all this,” Stiles shouts, gesturing to his chest like Derek can see the depth of all that Stiles feels for him, “would just go away and leave me alone?

Derek looks at him with wide eyes; his hands are held up, palm to Stiles like he’s afraid Stiles will attack him. Like he fears Stiles’ rage. “You are sixteen.” He repeats and really, if that means anything in Derek’s language Stiles doesn’t know.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Stiles knows his muscles will hurt from the way they’re coiled tight in tension, his fists balled and his jaw set.

“It means you don’t know shit about what you want. You may think you know but —”

“Fuck you,” Stiles spits and Derek recoils with the force of it. He physically takes a step back and Stiles hurts so much in this moment he never thought it would be possible. In the back of his mind he wishes he never got to kiss Derek in the first place; that he never knew the feel of him because to know it like this? It’s both mortifying and humiliating and just plain wrong.

He laughs bitterly because here his heart is breaking in front of the very person Stiles never wanted to know and all he can feel is the shame of having been so perfectly manipulated. “Fuck you, Derek,” he repeats, but it sounds defeated, half as angry as before.

It’s not Derek’s fault if he doesn’t feel that way; he probably thought he was doing right by his pack, by Stiles, doing this. But it ishis fault to assume Stiles was not mature enough to know what he wanted.

“Stiles,” Derek tries again, softer. His face is showing more emotion than it ever did before, and Stiles can’t even look at him.

“No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to assume what it is that I want. You don’t get to treat me like a cheap fuck and then pretend I can still listen to you talk.”

“Look at me,” Derek says, and if Stiles wasn’t so close to the breaking point he might even think Derek’s pleading.

“No! I don’t deserve this!” He shouts again, his anger coming back, burning his eyes on his way out and falling on his skin, wet and hot and ridiculously young. “I am worth more than this, you fucker. I’m awesome, I’m the fucking Batman,” Stiles laughs, and it comes out wet and broken. “I saved your life! More than once even! We’re fucking equals Derek! So what is it, really? You couldn’t handle the spastic kid wanting to have sex with you? If you didn’t want anything to do with me you should have left me well alone then. It would have gone away; I would have made itgo away, one way or another. I’m not stupid! It’s not like I thought—It’s not like I wasn’t making an effort already! I was working on it...”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and any other time Stiles would have pointed out how he never heard Derek say he was sorry about anything before. “Stiles, please, calm down. Your heart is—”

But Stiles doesn’t want to calm down. He feels his breathing pick up, each inhale more shallow and rapid than the one before as his laugh dies down. His head feels light and his heart—his heart feels like it’s gonna burst out of his own soul it’s beating so hard. It’s like a wild thing in his chest, scared and hurt and—

—panicky.

Stiles is having a panic attack.

Derek is looking at him with an horrified expression on his face, like he’s scared Stiles is gonna die right there in his kitchen. Stiles almost laughs hysterically again at that because how ridiculous would that be, uh?

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t laugh because he needs the air to keep himself conscious and he can already see the bright little stars at the edge of his vision come closer, bring the darkness with them. He brushes a hand over his eyes and it comes away wet, so wet Stiles wonders how long he’s been crying and making a mess of himself in front of Derek.

He shakes head and it feels too light.

He needs to go. He needs to go right now back to his Jeep. He needs to lie down and look up and breathe deep and forget for a moment what happened, what brought this forth. He needs to forget for a second that he’s not enough, that he’s not worth more than a pity fuck to Derek and that he almost gave up his virginity believing it would mean something. He needs to lose the panic and get back to the anger, to the rage of knowing he’s worth more than this, more than Derek Hale offering to sleep with him so he would just be able to focus on his pack again.

Fuck Derek.

Fuck Derek looking at him with terror in his eyes like he cares what happens to Stiles. Like it would mean something to him other than the passing inconvenience of finding someone else to do their research.

Fuck Derek and his lips moving like he’s speaking, like he’s trying to calm Stiles down with soft words and gentle whispers.

Stiles doesn’t want to know what he’s saying; doesn’t want to care. He wouldn’t believe a word anyway and so what’s the use in even listening?

He takes a step back, holds his hands up when Derek follows.

“Don’t you dare. I need to get out of here,” he says.

“What you need is to calm the fuck down, Stiles.” Derek’s words are hard but the tone is soothing; Derek’s eyes are sad, and Stiles feels like there’s a bit too much pity in them.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but I can’t do that with you here. I need to go to my car.”

“You can’t drive like this,” Derek says, voice suddenly sharp.

“I won’t. I will calm down in ten minutes once I have a safe place to lie down...”

“You can lie down on my couch,” Derek offers.

Stiles laughs bitterly. “I don’t want to stay here a moment longer, especially not with you in the same room.”

Derek’s eyes harden, an angry scowl appearing on his face. “That is uncalled for. I wouldn’t ever hurt you,” he says.

“That’s bull and you fucking know it.” Stiles can’t do this any longer.

“Stiles, I’m trying to protect you here!” Derek shouts, and Stiles startles so much he actually jumps. He looks up into Derek’s eyes and Derek looks as surprised at his outburst as Stiles is, which doesn’t make much sense.

“I need to go,” Stiles murmurs for the last time.

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he turns around. Doesn’t check if Derek’s looking at him as he gets out of the kitchen and out of the front door.

He gets into his Jeep and lies down on the front seats, tries to calm down. He thinks about anything and nothing, thinks about something peaceful and innocuous like a midnight sky. When he feels his heart rate slow and his breathing settle down, when his vision clears and he’s sure the worst is over he sits up, puts the seatbelt on and starts the car.

He briefly spares a thought to Derek leaving him alone as he asked, and then remembers that he probably had been listening to Stiles’ heart the whole time he was out there breathing deep. He shakes the thought away and once he’s far away from Derek’s house and close enough to the street but not yet on it, Stiles stops the car again and thinks that at least his dad his out for a night shift at work and he'll have time to wallow in his misery once he gets home.

It doesn’t do him any good, but it’s still something.  

 


 

“I can't stop hearing it.”

Stiles jumps as he gets out of his bathroom; he clutches the towel to his chest, tries not to have a heart attack.

“What the actual fuck, Derek.” He walks barefoot to his dresser, picks a pair of pants and puts them on, doesn't spare Derek a glance. He doesn't need to be any more vulnerable than he already feels and in any case it doesn't take much to guess what Derek looks like at the moment: dark, brooding and probably scowling from the tone of his voice.

Well fuck him, Stiles doesn't have time for his shit.

“Go away,” he says, and of course Derek doesn't move.

“Stiles.”

Stiles puts a dark green hoodie on and whirls around, facing him. “What Derek? What the fuck do you want now?”

“I want you to calm down, that's what I want!” Derek hisses, and Stiles is livid with rage now.

“Well that's rich; that's really fucking rich coming from you because first of all? Don't you fucking dare and second? I don't even know what the fuck you're talking about because look at me, I'm so zen I could be Mr Miyagi's fucking Yoda for all the breathe-in breathe-out shit I've been doing these past few hours just to stop myself and not drive up to your house and try to break my hand against your face. So please, Derek, fuck off and leave me alone?”

“I can't,” Derek growls and Stiles sighs at the lack of more forthcoming information.

“Look,” he says, suddenly defeated, “we're cool, okay? I still don't get why you wouldn't want a piece of this,” he gestures to his body, “because I shouldn't even state the obvious and say what an amazing catch I am but hey! I just did it anyway and you should fucking know it already but anyway... I don't care what you think and how it probably is how I talk too fast or move too much or hell, how I'm a fucking weirdo that needs pills just to stand still one moment and focus on saving all your werewolf-asses — I don't know and I don't care! But rest assured I've already heard it all before. All of it, more than once even. Sometimes even to my face and let me tell you, that's one special brand of attention that you get. But if it hadn't been for you and your stupid dedication to your pack I would never have known what I was missing; I never would have told you and I would have just let it die on its own. And that was okay. That was fucking peachy! But now...Now I...Just — I don't know, Derek, but if you ever thought of us as friends, if you ever thought of me as more than just a random kid that ended up in your group of extra cool betas, please, please consider leaving me alone? Just for a while, just until I can get rid of this.” Stiles concludes with an aborted motion of his hands toward his chest, face flushed from lack of air and feeling a little bit less heavy after vomiting it all.

Derek doesn't say anything for a moment, his eyes locked on Stiles' now that he's let it all out and Stiles wonders if this is the time he'll be finally mauled to death. If this is the time he finally pushed Derek too far.

But Derek doesn't attack him, though he does looks upset; not angry, precisely, but the frown over his eyes deepens, and his mouth curls unhappily downwards until Stiles takes an unconscious step backwards.

“Derek,” he starts again but Derek stops him with a snarl.

“If I could, believe me, I would have left you well enough alone by now,” he grits out through his teeth. His eyes find Stiles', and they're wide, trembling between blue-green and red. “It's what I tried to do just earlier, when the way you smelled just became too much for me.”

Stiles lets out an undignified sound at that, but Derek doesn't let him take the word, barreling forward. “I thought if I gave you what you wanted you would let it go; but of course not, because you're you and you couldn't make it simple!” Derek laughs humorlessly, and it looks weird on him, a fake, frustrated mask of a laugh that makes Stiles recoil and look away for a second. “I hear your heartbeat, Stiles!” Derek growls, a little more desperate. “All the fucking time! I don't know what to do with it, with this, and I don't know how to stop it!”

Derek is breathing heavily, spitting his words and his frustration in Stiles' face as he takes another step towards him. Stiles stands still, petrified on the spot, and he can't think clearly enough to even try and understand what Derek's telling him.

“The way you smell... I can ignore that. It's not simple, but I can. But the way your heart beats inside of you? That follows me everywhere. I can't even try and pretend I don't hear it because otherwise it just gets stronger, like it needs to be heard by me and only me.” Derek barks out another bitter laugh, hand raking through his hair. “I don't know why it's like this, Stiles. I have ideas, yeah, but I don't know for sure. It's just— you're so young. You couldn't possibly want this; not now, not with me. I hoped it was just you being a horny kid, but—“

“—but what?” Stiles croaks, and he's equal parts afraid to hear the answer and already sure he knows it. Derek is close now, closer than before as he talked and kept walking towards Stiles.

“—but the way your heart was beating so loud when you felt like I didn't want you—I don't know, it kind of snapped something and I haven't been able to ignore it since. Not in the background like it was before, but louder. I literally can't ignore it.” Derek looks lost and pissed and Stiles doesn't know what to say, not really.

He doesn't really understand apart from the fact that Derek is so close now, so close that Stiles can look at him and see every frustrated line etched on his face, every little twitch of anger in his eyes. He takes a deep breath to calm down.

“What are you saying?”

Derek looks away, and if his frown could get any deeper Stiles would be afraid he got stuck like that forever. But it only lasts a second before his head whips around and he's staring at Stiles accusingly, one angry finger pointing at his face.

“You have feelings for me!” He grits out like the thought personally offends him.

Stiles would like to say something clever like no shit Sherlock, your werewolf senses really are something special or maybe be offended by the tone Derek's using, like Stiles' having feelings for him is an inconvenience in his master plan to rule the world like the major sour puss he is, but what he does instead is slump his shoulders and nod, heart beating wildly in his chest at the realization that he doesn't want to lie or be cocky about this.

He just wants things to be clear so they can finally move on.

Derek nods, too, murmurs a quiet fuck and turns around, walks quietly to the bed and sits down.

“Fuck,” he says again.

And just like that, Stiles is angry again. He's furious, blinded by rightful indignation because—

“Really, Derek? Really?”

Derek doesn't have the time to look up and answer that Stiles' on him, straddling his legs and gripping him by the hair. He pushes Derek's head back, looks him in the eyes and even though all he wants to do is beat his handsome face into a pulp Stiles takes a deep breath and says “You're a fucker,” before he dives in and kisses him.

Derek is still for a moment, muscles coiled tight uncomfortably as Stiles makes a mess of his mouth and lips, bites him and licks him and sucks on his tongue with all the anger he can sum up until finally, finally he feels Derek's hands come up to grip his waist and pull him towards his chest. Derek kisses him back softly, almost tentatively compared to the fury of Stiles' kiss, pressing Stiles' body into his own as he sighs into Stiles mouth like he just lost not only a battle but the whole freakin' war. He groans deep in his throat holding Stiles for all he's worth and Stiles presses him down, kisses him harder.

“You don't get to do that,” he breathes against Derek's mouth once he lets him go. They're both panting wetly into the space between them, Stiles weight on Derek's lap and his hands still on Derek's face. “You don't get to act like it's a curse, like you don't want it too.”

Derek only looks at him, lips parted and red, and Stiles kisses him again, softer this time. He grinds down, lets Derek feel him through the barrier of their jeans, rolls his hips in a sweet sweet rhythm until he almost goes crosseyed with want. “You know. You can smell it on me; you can fucking hear it. Why can't you just accept it for what it is?”

Derek's hands travel up his spine and Stiles shivers with how careful they feel.

“You don't understand,” he says, bitter but he keeps touching Stiles, his neck, his face. He keeps kissing him.

“I understand just fine,” Stiles says. He lets his own fingers travel down the length of Derek's body, slip under his black t-shirt until he can feel his skin hot and burning. “I've been wanting this for months, Derek, months. Now, either you take my hands off you and get out and we never talk about this — ever — again, or” he scrapes his nails along Derek's abdomen, pressing down on his lap even more, “you get over yourself and your self-deprecating crap and get things going.”

There's a beat of silence in which Derek looks like he's seriously considering picking Stiles up and throwing him out the window, but then something shifts in his eyes, something dark and warm and wanting and Stiles knows he can breathe again.

He smiles happily, forgets for the moment how they got here, all the misunderstandings and the hurt because they just can't seem to act like normal people, and he thinks about how he and Derek are apparently connected, how there's something here more than simple lust and it's not only from Stiles' side.

“You actually do like me,” Stiles whispers, smug and grinning, “You actually might even love me, you crazy bastard!”

Derek rolls his eyes and it's not exactly the answer Stiles was looking for but then Derek kisses him, and at least he's still there, still touching Stiles' back, running his hands up and down until they settle on the back of his ass and press firmly against him. Derek is not assenting but he's not negating either, and Stiles doesn't push it further; he moans into Derek's mouth when he feels his hips push up against his body, Derek's cock hot and hard between his legs and pushing behind Stiles' balls through two pair of pants too many. It's glorious, kissing him like this and rolling in time with it, and Derek's skin is warm under his fingertips, the muscles of his stomach rippling under the strain of the upward thrusts of his hips.

It occurs to Stiles that if they keep this going, if Derek lets him ride him like this — slow and sweet and intense like fuck— Stiles is gonna come all over himself inside his pants. He's not completely against the idea, because an orgasm is an orgasm and you just don't say no to that, but what he wants, what he really really wants right now is feel Derek against him, possibly coming all over him for a change.

Derek is sucking happily at his neck when Stiles tries to slide back a little, and he laughs when Derek's arms strengthen their hold and don't let him move an inch.

“Dude,” he chuckles, “I just want some space to whip my dick out; it's fucking killing me.”

Derek groans, a deep rumble in his throat that Stiles can feel like it's inside his own body they're so close, and he bites Stiles’ neck hard, soothing it with his tongue just after as he speaks against it.

“Fuck Stiles, you can't say shit like that.”

Stiles can, and Stiles will, because right about now all he wants to do is bring Derek down with him with the movement of his hips; he keeps riding him slowly as Derek fake-fucks him with steady, drawn out thrusts, and what he said must have really gotten through to Derek because one moment his nails are digging into Stiles' ass and the next his hand is fumbling with Stiles' zipper, opening up his jeans and freeing him from the confines of his boxers.

“Yeah—“ Stiles moans, head falling back. Derek follows and swallows the sound in a kiss so dirty it's indecent.

“You're gonna come all over me,” Derek whispers, and it's half command and half awed wonder, like he can't believe he's doing this. His hand wraps warm and rough around Stiles’ dick and yeah, that's exactly what Stiles wants right now. He holds onto Derek's shoulders, shifts about his lap a bit until he's almost climbing over Derek in an attempt to hump him as he fucks into his hand; through it all he just keeps sucking on Derek's tongue, filthy and inelegant and undoubtedly obscene.

Derek jerks him off hard and fast, his arm trapped between them in what must be an uncomfortable fit; but Stiles doesn't even care, because the tip of his cock keeps bumping against soft skin and — and just the thought of Derek slipping his t-shirt higher up so Stiles could slide his cock against his belly has Stiles shivering and cursing, pleasure coiling down at the base of his spine and ready to let go.

“Derek,” he pants helplessly against Derek's lips because yeah, he wants this, has wanted it for ages but he's still a virgin and this is still a first for him. Derek holds him closer with his other arm, his hand slipping slowly inside the back of his open jeans to grip and push him firmly. “Derek, fuck, I'm gonna—“

“Yes.”

Stiles opens his eyes briefly and there Derek is, looking at him with his clear green eyes, open and warm and blown to shit they're so full of want. The slide of Derek's cock against his ass is a long, hard line and it's almost enough, almost—

Derek doesn't look away as one of his fingers slides in the crack of Stiles' ass, the gentle press of it against him giving Stiles one last push.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfu—“ Stiles' whispers as he comes, messy and wet between them as Derek hugs him to his chest, bites down on the gentle curve where neck meets shoulder and growls inside his flesh, fierce and violent and trembling as Stiles shivers through his orgasm.

This is new, this is something else, something Stiles never felt before, the force of it overwhelming as he realizes that he can feel Derek pulsing underneath him, fucking helplessly against him as Stiles spurts all over Derek's hand and stomach.

His heart is beating like he wants to explode, thumping against his chest, against Derek's chest and– and Stiles can feel Derek's heart too. It's not as rabbit-fast as his own, not as frantic and hyperactive, but it's strong, adrenaline-fueled and undeniable under their rapid breaths.

Stiles wonders for a second why he never heard it before when he realizes it's only in his head and it's already coming down to just a soft background noise. He raises his head from where it was smashed against Derek's neck. Derek's face is flushed, his hair a mess of dark locks about his face and his eyes bright and clear; he looks away when Stiles opens his mouth to speak and Stiles squirms when Derek's hand involuntarily squeezes his softening dick.

“You came in your pants.”

Derek huffs a laugh, “I did.”

Stiles smiles big and happy, but sobers after a second. “I can hear you too, now, you know” he whispers.

“I know.” Derek looks at him again, uncertain but oddly relaxed. “I don't know how this works but I know you can feel it too now.”

“Is it always like this?” Stiles wouldn't mind it too much, but he already has trouble concentrating on a good day, let alone if he has to live his life with Derek's heartbeat in his head.

Derek thinks about it for a moment; he frees his hand from Stiles' jeans, twines it into Stiles' sweater as he tries to make sense of something. He looks even more beautiful than usual with his post-bliss face and there's some sort of relaxed abandon in the way he moves that makes Stiles' want to crawl around him and sleep. He lets his weight press even more into Derek's chest, hugging him even through the mess of come between them. Derek takes away his hand, and Stiles' cock feels bereft of it for a moment.

“No. I mean, I can always hear it, but that's because I'm a werewolf and that's my nature. I hear everyone's heartbeat on a certain extend but yours the only one I can single out. It only became much louder after you stormed out from my place. It's because you were upset or something. I think it only gets louder when there's some significant emotion going on between us.” Stiles smiles smugly at that and Derek realizes what he said and coughs awkwardly. “You get what I mean.”

“Dude, you can totally admit that this was significant, I won't hold it against you. I mean, it's hard to resist when you have all of this awesome sitting on your lap.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grumbles, but there's no real heat there.

“Aww come on, just admit it!”

“Get off me.”

“No.”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“I need something to clean myself up. You made a mess.”

“Says the one who came into his pants.”

“Stiles, get off.”

“But I just did!”

“Move!”

“Dude, we're fucking destined for each other. No way I'm letting go of you now.”

“Go away.”

“No.”

“Stiles.”

“I said no.”

“...”

“...”

“Fine.”

“...”

“Oh for the love of god!”

“Shut up and let me cuddle you, I totally earned it.”