
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/555158.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Lydia_Martin/Stiles_Stilinski, Stiles
      Stilinski/OMC, Stiles_Stilinski/OFC, Derek_Hale/OMC
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Lydia_Martin, Allison_Argent,
      Erica_Reyes, Vernon_Boyd, Isaac_Lahey, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Infidelity, Desperate_Sex, Jealousy, Scent_Marking, Biting,
      Hand_Jobs, Aggressive!Stiles, Future_Fic, Sterek-centric, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-05 Words: 5438
****** I Think It's Best We Both Forget ******
by Howling
Summary
     The worst part of it is that he knows he should feel uncertain; that
     the gnawing guilt in his chest is a warning that’s meant to give him
     pause. But he doesn’t feel uncertain at all.

             Well, maybe I’m a crook for stealing your heart away
                 And maybe I’m a crook for not caring for it
                 Yeah, maybe I’m a bad, bad, bad… bad person
                              Well, baby I know.
                             So I think it’s best
                                We both forget
                             Before we dwell on it
                         The way you held me so tight
                             All through the night
                           ‘til it was near morning
                             -Of Monsters and Men
                                Love_Love_Love
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
The first time Stiles has sex with Derek, it’s three days after his seventeenth
birthday and a month after he’s started dating Lydia.  They’ve just survived an
encounter with the remaining members of the Alpha pack and somehow Stiles ends
up alone with Derek in the burnt-out shell of the Hale house.  Derek’s shirt is
torn and bloodied and there are streaks of mud on the long slope of his arm. 
Both of them are soaked to the bone.  Between the chill in the air and the
adrenaline pumping through his body, Stiles can’t stop shivering.
Derek takes him upstairs to loan him dry clothes, and somehow Stiles ends up
kissing him.  It’s quick and impulsive and Stiles instantly regrets it –
doesn’t even know why he does it except that Derek is standing close enough to
touch and for a brief, insane moment he actually wants to touch him.
In his head, he blames it on the adrenaline, and the fact that he’s cold and
Derek radiates heat like a furnace.  Out loud, he never gets the chance,
because Derek kisses him back.
They don’t say a word to each other the entire time.  Stiles comes twice – once
while Derek grinds him against the wall and once while he sucks him off on the
bed – before Derek tears off their remaining clothes and pushes Stiles onto his
knees.  When Stiles glances back, Derek gives him a look that’s all-at-once
starving and broken.  And that almost ruins everything, because Stiles can’t
deal with seeing his own guilt reflected in Derek’s eyes – and because Stiles
is scared and wrecked and he knows that if he really starts to think about what
they’re doing, he won’t be able to do it.
He hates Derek, in that moment, for daring to act human.  For being
vulnerable.  And he hates the way that Derek tilts his head and asks, silently,
for permission.  Because it’s the right thing to do, and Stiles doesn’t want
that image of Derek in his mind.  He doesn’t want to see him as a decent
person.  Mostly, he can’t stand the thoughts that are roiling around in his
head, and he hates Derek for making him look at them and acknowledge that this
is something that he wants.  But it is something that he wants – recklessly and
against reason – so he parts his lips and nods.
Afterwards, Stiles is sore in about a hundred different places.  He leaves
without saying goodbye, and doesn’t check to see if Derek watches him go.
                                     -oOo-
A week later, he and Lydia have sex for the first (and only) time.
Four days after, they break up.  Scott knows that something is off, but if he
guesses the reason, he never says anything.  Stiles spends the next few months
mourning a relationship he never really had, because it’s hard to let go of a
dream when you’ve held onto it like a life-preserver for nine years. 
He has exactly one conversation with Derek about their encounter.  It happens
after they finally chase the alphas out of town.  Stiles is lonely and
frustrated and a little drunk when he drives out to see Derek at his house. 
Derek takes one look at him, shoves him into the passenger seat, steals the
keys and drives him back home.  They sit in front of Stiles’ empty house for a
couple of minutes before Derek looks at him and says, “It shouldn’t have
happened, and it’s not going to happen again.”
And for a long time, it doesn’t. 
                                     -oOo-
Things are awkward at first.  Months pass where they barely speak to each other
about anything that isn’t pack business.  They stop fighting, which should be a
relief but somehow isn’t.  Once, they end up pressed against each other behind
a tree while a gang of hunters pass by, and the two of them share an aborted
spark of heat before Derek pushes Stiles aside and jogs to catch up with the
others.
By the time senior year rolls around, they’ve started to fall back into their
routine, but there’s a tension between them that never entirely goes away.
Stiles comes out to Scott.  Then, reluctantly – his dad.  Partway through the
year, he starts dating a guy that Lydia hooks him up with, but the chemistry
between them is never much warmer than comfortable.  The first time he and Alex
fool around, Stiles tells him he’s only been with Lydia.  Some days it doesn’t
even feel like a lie.
Then three months after graduation, Derek shows up at Stiles’ window.  It’s two
days before Stiles is set to move halfway across the country with Scott and
Allison to start his life as a college-borne adult, and the last thing Stiles
wants to deal with is some supernatural emergency, but before he can say
anything to this effect Derek surges forward and kisses him.
It’s a ravenous thing, the way they kiss.  And the bone-deep ache of need that
Stiles had thought long-buried flares to life as if no time had passed at all.
The evening disappears far too quickly.  Dusk winds its way into night before
they finally give in to exhaustion and sprawl in a tangle of limbs and sweat
and sticky-sex.  They don’t talk for a while, and Stiles thinks fleetingly of
Alex (who he has yet to end things with,) and realizes that this is the second
time in as many relationships where he’s ended up in bed with Derek.  The guilt
doesn’t overwhelm him, this time.  Maybe he’s getting used to thinking of
himself as a selfish person.  Maybe he’s just too tired to care.
Stiles’ voice is cracked and raw when he turns his head into the crook of
Derek’s shoulder and asks, “Why now?”
Derek doesn’t answer, but for the rest of the night he holds Stiles like it’s
the only thing keeping him grounded.
In the morning, he’s gone.  Stiles never gets to say goodbye.
                                     -oOo-
Scott and Stiles take to college life like they were born for it.  UW-Madison
is the sort of campus that welcomes gregarious jocks and quirky intellectuals
in equal measure, and the two of them manage to carve out a place for
themselves within weeks of moving there.  It turns out that Wisconsin has a
fairly large werewolf population, and Scott manages to round up a few of the
younger omegas.  His pack is five members strong by the time they hit mid-
terms.
Everything is sort of perfect, really.
Except when things get quiet, and Stiles finds himself alone with images and
sense-memories of Derek that he can’t seem to chase away.  He and Alex try the
long-distance thing for about a month before Alex finally breaks up with him. 
Afterward, Stiles feels both sad and relieved, but relief fades quickly into
loneliness.  He has a couple of tipsy hook-ups that he sort of regrets (and
sort of doesn’t,) but doesn’t have much luck with dating – mostly because he
can’t seem to muster any real investment.
One night he gets drunk and calls Derek on his cell.
“I need to yell at you,” Stiles mutters uselessly.
“So yell at me,” Derek says with a tired sigh.
“I hate you.  I hate you so… fucking much.”
“…I’m sorry.”  Derek’s voice sounds bitter and resigned.
“You’re an asshole and I hate you and I really just… wanna fuck you right now.”
Silence.
“Derek?”
“…You’re drunk.”
“Obviously.”
“Goodbye, Stiles.”
“Wait!”  Stiles’ voice goes high and reedy and a little desperate, but the
line’s already dead.
                                     -oOo-
He meets Sarah at Freakfest a week later, wedged amidst a churning sea of
costumed bodies on State Street.  Stiles is dressed as Peter Parker, which
basically means that he’s dressed as himself but with a pair of thick-rimmed
glasses and a busted old camera hanging around his neck.  Sarah is short and
brunette and also dressed as Peter Parker.
Naturally they hit it off.
Later, Stiles learns that Sarah is a sophomore in the theatre department, and
that she’s studying to be a set designer.  She introduces Stiles to fried
cheese curds, which is legitimately the best thing he’s ever eaten, and takes
him to see her family over Thanksgiving.
He tells her that he loves her, and thinks for the first time that he actually
means it.
It ought to be enough to push the memory of Derek completely out of his head;
to replace Derek’s sea-green eyes and broad shoulders and salty-musk scent with
Sarah’s wry smile and soft hands – but it turns out that Stiles’ head has room
for both.
Still, he doesn’t think about Derek so much, when Sarah’s there – and things
get easier.
Except, of course, for finals week – which kicks his ass to hell and back.
Then it’s winter break.  And Christmas happens so suddenly that Stiles scarcely
has time to buy everyone presents before he’s back home in Beacon Hills with
his dad, trying (as they’ve done every Christmas since Stiles was twelve) not
to acknowledge how much the holiday reminds them of Stiles’ mom, and of
everything that’s lonely and wrong and fucked-up in both of their lives.
Stiles wishes that Sarah was there to help fill the silence.  He wonders, with
a tired ache, if Derek feels the same way about Christmas that he does.  Given
the fact that he’s never seen Derek celebrate it – even remembers Erica, one
time, lamenting the fact that Derek tends to disappear around the holidays –
Stiles suspects that he might feel a whole lot worse.
He drives out to Derek’s newly remodeled house late that afternoon.  The air in
the woods is crisp and still; the sky above blanketed gray and heavy with the
threat of cold December rain.  The property lies empty and silent, but for the
faint scuttle of some animal in the leaves.
Derek isn’t home.  Stiles thinks of waiting; calls Derek’s name on the off-
chance that he’s nearby.  In the end, he leaves the bottle of Knob Creek he’d
brought with him on the porch, along with a note that takes him three drafts
and about half an hour to write.
So I’m having kind of a shit day.  I’m guessing you are too.
-Stiles
                                     -oOo-
He doesn’t see Derek until New Year’s Eve, when everyone meets up at the Hale
property.  The pack is there, of course.  Lydia is sadly absent, since she
decided to spend the holidays in New York with her new boyfriend, but Jackson
is there with Danny and some girl whose name Stiles doesn’t catch.  Against the
odds, Erica and Boyd are still going strong, but Isaac is back to being single
so he spends most of the evening talking to Scott and Allison.  This leaves
Stiles to mingle awkwardly amongst Boyd and Erica’s friends, a few of whom turn
out to be pretty okay.
Derek is conspicuously absent for the first hour of the party.  When he finally
shows up, two other werewolves come sauntering after him.  Stiles knows they’re
werewolves from the way Scott and Jackson look at them with pointed suspicion,
but the atmosphere relaxes (slightly) when Isaac mentions that the two are
friends of Derek’s from a few towns over.
One of them – a tall, olive-skinned woman in her late 20’s – makes herself
comfortable with a beer in one of the living room chairs and insinuates herself
easily into conversation with Allison and Danny.  The other, whose dark skin
and pale eyes give him a distinctly striking appearance, follows Derek into the
kitchen with barely a glance spared to the assembled group.
When Erica catches Stiles’ gaze lingering in Derek’s wake, she falls in at
Stiles’ side with a conspiratorial smirk.  “His name’s Luke.  They’ve been
hooking up for a couple of months now.”
Stiles looks at her with a startled expression.  Realistically, he shouldn’t be
surprised at Derek for having a sex life, and he isn’t – not really.  But
somehow he never expected to be confronted with it.  Derek had always been an
exceptionally private person, and he wasn’t given to forming romantic
attachments (at least, Stiles had never seen or heard of him actually dating
anyone.)  After a pause he says, “Here I was starting to think he’d taken a vow
of celibacy.”
At this, Erica gives a snort of laughter.  “Hardly.”
Stiles swallows against an uncomfortable dryness at the back of his throat and
changes the subject.  When Erica becomes distracted by another conversation, he
takes the opportunity to slip away and head for the kitchen.
In the back of his mind, Stiles knows it’s not a very good idea, but he does it
anyway.
When he rounds the corner, he sees Luke and Derek standing by the sink, drinks
in hand, talking in low, familiar tones.  Their conversation stalls when Stiles
appears, and Luke looks at him with a detached, measured interest.  Derek
affords Stiles a brief glance before taking a swig of his beer.
“Hey,” Stiles says awkwardly.
 “Do you need something?” Derek asks.  There’s a sheen of residue on his lips. 
Luke looks at Derek’s mouth like he’s thinking of licking it off.
“Actually I was just… looking for Boyd,” Stiles lies.
“He’s in the rec room.”
“Right.  Thanks.”
It takes considerable effort for Stiles to walk away at a normal gait.  He
doesn’t go to the rec room.  Instead, he winds his way through the crowded
living room and makes his way out the back door.  He doesn’t think to bring his
jacket, and outside the cold wind bites unforgivingly through the fabric of his
red button-down.
When he reaches the edge of the woods, he starts to run.  After everything he’s
been through, nothing about the wilderness should feel safe, but the lonely
anonymity of the shadows builds a buffer between his rapidly beating heart and
the fractured, suffocating complication of his life.
Eventually his foot catches on a log beneath the leaves and he pitches onto the
ground.  He lands hard on one hip, but manages to avoid face-planting in the
dirt.  When Stiles gets to his feet, he wipes streaks of black earth onto the
sides of his already dirtied jeans.  He doesn’t notice the tear in the sleeve
of his expensive shirt, or the long red line of a scratch that rises up on his
neck.  His hands are numb and bruised; the muscles in his chest vice-tight.  He
can’t seem to catch his breath.
“Stiles…” 
Derek’s carefully guarded voice drags Stiles back to reality.  When he turns
around, he sees the older man’s shoulders rising in a quick breath and realizes
numbly that Derek must have sprinted to catch up with him.  He’s not sure if it
makes him feel better or worse. 
“Why the hell did you follow me?” Stiles snaps angrily.
Derek takes a breath and exhales roughly through his nose, aggravation evident
in the tense set of his jaw.  “To make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
“Really, asshole?  That’s what you’re going to go with?”  Stiles turns away in
a fit of frustration and scrapes short-bitten nails over the soft buzz of his
hair, releasing a rough, visceral shout into the echoing darkness.  “This is so
fucked,” he chokes out, feeling the wild energy drain from his voice.
There’s a long bout of silence between them.  Finally Derek says, with more
gentleness than Stiles expects, “…Thanks for the bourbon.”
Stiles looks up through the branches and laughs softly.  “I thought I
remembered you liking it.”
“I do.”
When Stiles turns around, he catches an edge of wariness in Derek’s gaze.  Not
for the first time, he wonders what it is about himself that always seems to
put the other man on the defensive.  “You should get back before this starts to
look suspicious.”
“It already looks suspicious.”
“Yeah, well.  It’s gonna look a whole lot worse in a minute.”
Derek lifts his eyebrows.  “Why?”
Stiles takes three steps forward and locks his gaze on Derek’s eyes, lips
parting softly.  “Why did you really follow me?”
Derek is silent a moment.  “Because you were upset.”
“Like you give a shit.”
“I wouldn’t be out here if I didn’t.  Stop acting like a wounded teenager.”
“Like I said,” Stiles repeats coldly.  “You’re free to go.”
Derek’s voice takes a demanding edge.  “Answer the question.”
Part of Stiles wants to look away; to turn and run from the inexorably
destructive trajectory his heart and body pull him toward.  But Stiles has
never been the kind of person to run from things that frighten him, so he wets
his lips and says, “Because not touching you… is physically painful.”
Derek’s eyes dart to Stiles’ mouth.  He pulls in an unsteady breath.  Stiles
takes another step forward.  He can feel the hum of tension in his hands as he
stops himself from reaching out.  Distant, half-formed images of Sarah flicker
through his thoughts, and for a moment he stops breathing.  The worst part of
it is that he knows he should feel uncertain; that the gnawing guilt in his
chest is a warning that’s meant to give him pause.  But he doesn’t feel
uncertain at all. 
What he feels is fractured and a little heart-broken, and when he finally
closes the distance between himself and Derek, he makes a sharp, vulnerable
sound and closes his eyes against the well of emotion that threatens to spill
over.  He kisses Derek in a swift motion, catching Derek’s lip in a pull of
suction as he knots his fingers into the thick, dark hair at the back of
Derek’s head.  And just like that, gravity closes and they lock together. 
Stiles presses forward, half expecting Derek to put up some resistance at being
manhandled, but Derek falls back willingly, allowing Stiles to herd him into
the trunk of a nearby tree.  Stiles has his hands all over Derek, tracing the
rough edge of Derek’s recently-shaven jaw and the curve of his throat; grasping
at narrow hips; hiking up the edge of Derek’s form-tight Henley until he feels
the firm, velvet heat of Derek’s abdominal muscles.  Derek wraps his arms
around Stiles’ shoulders and drags his fingernails down the lean slope of
Stiles’ back.
They kiss like two people trying to steal each other’s breath away.  It isn’t
graceful or controlled.  Stiles rubs his skin raw on the friction of Derek’s
stubble.  Derek bites Stiles’ lip too hard and leaves it aching and swollen. 
There’s an almost feral desperation to it, and they cling together roughly in
the dim moonlight, kissing and clawing and gasping for breath.
Stiles doesn’t feel cold anymore.  He can hear the hard beat of his pulse
pounding like a drum behind his ears and taste the heavy fog of arousal in the
air.  But when he grinds his denim-clad erection into Derek’s hip, Derek sucks
in a breath and presses a palm to Stiles’ chest to push him away.  Derek licks
his reddened lips and blinks, as though coming down from a high. 
“Stiles, stop,” he says in a thick voice.  “We can’t.  They’ll smell it.”
“I don’t care,” Stiles all-but snaps, pushing back against Derek’s hand.  When
he looks at Derek he stills, voice dipping softly.  “I want him to smell me on
you.”
Derek’s expression goes unreadable. 
“…What are you thinking?” Stiles asks, suddenly uncertain. 
Derek leans back and closes his eyes.  His lashes are a soft dust of shadow
against his cheeks.  When he drops his hand, he catches Stiles’ wrist and draws
it back to the warmth of his stomach – then lower, to the hard outline of his
trapped cock.  “I’m not.”
Stiles’ eyes go wide and dark as his breath catches in his throat.  A moment
later he has Derek’s Henley on the ground, and Derek pops about half the
buttons on Stiles’ shirt in his rush to pull it open.  Stiles runs his hands
down the contour of Derek’s back and over his ass, grasping the back of Derek’s
thigh to bring his leg up as Stiles slots their hips together and thrusts
against Derek’s weight.  The pressure it puts on Stiles’ cock is both perfect
and painful, and Stiles makes a grab for a knot in the tree to keep himself
steady as the warm ache between his legs threatens to overwhelm him.  Derek
lifts an arm above his head and grasps the base of a low-hanging branch.  His
pale muscles shift and flex beautifully in the low light, and Stiles groans as
he rolls into him.  “Derek, god…”
Derek kisses him roughly, biting at Stiles’ lower lip.  He latches onto the
curve of Stiles’ ass with his free hand and makes a low sound in his throat. 
“Fuck, you’re hard.”
“Your fault,” Stiles breaths, scraping teeth over Derek’s jaw.  “Always your
fault.”
“Always…” Derek laughs, the sound laced with bitter irony.  It’s enough to make
Stiles go still for a moment and place a kiss beneath the corner of Derek’s
jaw.
“When it’s like this, yeah.”  He slides his tongue up the curve of Derek’s ear
and bites down lightly on the cartilage.  “You do that, you know.  You’re like
a storm.  Light me up and tear me apart.”  A line of tension runs through
Derek’s body in a controlled shudder.  Stiles arcs into it with a hard thrust. 
“I always think about you when I jerk off.  The sounds you make.  The way your
lips go red…” 
Derek tips his head back and moans, and Stiles nearly forgets himself in a wash
of dizzy lust.  On impulse, he pulls back and grabs Derek by the waist,
slipping between him and the tree.  Derek shifts to make room for Stiles,
dropping his arm back to his side.  There’s an edge of a chill on Derek’s back,
but his skin warms quickly when it presses into Stiles’ exposed chest.  Stiles
snakes his arms around Derek’s torso and slides his hands down the smooth lines
of his stomach.  He kisses the curve of Derek’s jugular while he unlocks the
clasp of his belt.  When he gets Derek’s jeans open, Stiles looks down at the
straining shape of Derek’s cotton-enmeshed erection and works his hands beneath
the fabric to touch him. 
Derek’s cock is velvet-soft and burning to the touch, its head and foreskin
slicked with pre-cum.  Stiles runs his fingers over it wonderingly, unable to
help the instinctive flex of his hips.  “I want to watch you come.” 
Derek closes his eyes and leans back, rolling his head into the crook of
Stiles’ shoulder.  Stiles props himself against the tree for support, pressing
one foot against the trunk.  He pushes Derek’s underwear low enough to work
Derek’s cock free and wrap his fist around it.  Stiles can feel his own heart
beating wildly behind his ribs and wonders, idly, if Derek is listening to it.
Derek’s breath shudders unevenly and his cock gives a reflexive pulse when
Stiles tightens his grip around the base.  Stiles bites his lip and pulls Derek
flush against his own straining erection, clawing the tips of his fingers into
Derek’s hip.  He pumps his fist slowly over the length of Derek’s cock and
looks down over the beautiful display of sex and soft skin and toned, shifting
muscles and can’t help the lurid moan that rises in his throat.  “Fuck, Derek…
you’re so…”  Derek gives a slow roll of his hips, fucking up into Stiles’ hand
with a needy groan.  Stiles yanks him back and grinds his trapped cock against
the curve of Derek’s ass. 
Derek bites the side of Stiles’ neck hard enough to leave a mark.  Stiles lets
out a strangled cry and tightens his grip on Derek’s length, fisting the
rounded head between the tight circle of his fingers.  The skin there is hot
and wet, and Stiles slides Derek’s foreskin over the sensitive nerve-cluster at
the base of the flared hood.  At this, Derek gives a low, throaty whine and
goes slightly limp.  Stiles thinks, distantly, that he should draw things out –
that he doesn’t know when he’ll have another chance to be with Derek.  That it
might be… months.  Years.  But that thought – that they might yet walk away
from this, wash the combined scent from their skin and clothes, and go on with
their lives – makes him all the more desperate to touch Derek.  To feel him
break apart.  For a few minutes, for an hour… for however long the world allows
it.
So Stiles doesn’t slow down.  He wrings shallow, rapid gasps from Derek’s lungs
with the quick, focused motion of his fist and rests his hand over Derek’s
heart.  Beneath Stiles’ palm, the violent drum of Derek’s pulse belies any
semblance of control.
“Are you close?” Stiles whispers.  Derek leans his face against Stiles’ cheek
and nods faintly.  One of his hands reaches back to clutch at Stiles’ hip as
though to anchor himself.  Stiles grinds against Derek with frustrated abandon
as he jerks him off, and when he feels Derek’s cock swell iron-hard in his grip
he dips his head and sinks his teeth into the crook of Derek’s neck.  The bite
is hard and claiming – harder even than Derek had bitten him.  Hard enough to
leave a deep bruise that Stiles knows will heal the moment he pulls away.
“Ah!”  Derek’s voice gives a sudden, high, unguarded shout.  Then he comes with
a shuddering jerk of his hips, cock pulsing thick white shots of fluid over his
chest and stomach.  The sight of it nearly tips Stiles over the edge with him.
“Oh my god, Derek…”  Stiles breathes against Derek’s neck and kisses the fading
marks left by his teeth.  Derek closes his eyes and pulls in a couple of slow,
deep breaths.  When Stiles drops his grip, Derek curves back and nips
delicately at Stiles’ chin, giving a low hum of approval.  A moment later he
lifts away and tucks himself back into his jeans.  He doesn’t bother fixing his
belt, and turns suddenly to catch hold of Stiles’ shoulders and pin him to the
tree.  Stiles sucks in a surprised breath as the two lock eyes.  Slowly, he
brings his hand to his mouth and licks a stripe of Derek’s cum from between his
fingers.  Then he swipes a long trail down the side of his neck and over his
chest.
For a moment, the moonlight catches Derek’s eyes and they glint red.
Stiles gives an impatient moan when Derek’s hands find the front of his jeans. 
Derek swallows the sound with the press of an open-mouthed kiss and pulls
Stiles’ overheated cock into the stark chill of the night air.  Goosebumps
prickle along Stiles’ exposed skin as he works the waistline of his pants and
underwear low on his hips, pushing the fabric out of Derek’s way.  Derek breaks
the kiss long enough to lick a line of running spit over his palm, then he
wraps his hand around Stiles’ hard-on and smears the combined wetness of pre-
cum and saliva over the sensitive head.  Stiles feels his cock jerk lightly in
Derek’s grip, and he makes a thick sound in the back of his throat as he
catches Derek’s lower lip between his teeth.  Derek kisses him roughly, then
pulls back and locks a hand on Stiles’ chest to keep him in place (as if there
was any chance he’d move.)  Stiles lets his eyes slide shut with a blissful
flutter until Derek whispers, “Look at me.”
When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek’s face is a scant few inches from his own,
watching him with a chillingly beautiful, surprisingly nuanced expression. 
It’s difficult to keep his gaze focused – he’s so close to losing it already
that he can barely remember his own name – but he does, and Derek stares him
down as he touches him, pressing a thumb against the thick vein that runs the
length of Stiles’ cock.  Derek drags his hand up slowly, swirls the pad of his
thumb over the head and wraps his fingers tightly around it.  Stiles makes a
high, needy sound and brings a hand to cup Derek’s jaw.  He gasps when Derek
begins to jack him in earnest.  Derek’s hand is warm and tight, his skin
slightly rough.  It catches a little as Derek’s spit dries, but Stiles only
notices this distantly.  Mostly, there’s just the overwhelming relief of much-
needed friction.  And Derek.
“Say something…” Stiles moans softly.
Derek doesn’t, at first.  Then he parts his lips and says, “You’re beautiful
like this.”  He pauses.  Takes a breath.  “I want to remember this.  I want to
see your face when I close my eyes.”  Finally he leans forward and breaks their
prolonged eye-contact to lick the curve of Stiles’ throat with a low, soft
sound.  “You smell like me.”
Stiles inhales a long breath and goes very still, his body coiled with
tension.  When he comes, the air leaves his lungs in a shuddering rush.  He
claws at Derek’s shoulders to keep himself from falling and releases a litany
of unintelligible sounds.
Eventually he relaxes, releasing his grip on Derek to lean back against the
tree.  Dreamily, he lets his gaze wander down Derek’s chest and gives a soft
laugh.  “Guess now you smell like me too.”
Derek licks the fluid off his hand and meets Stiles’ gaze carefully.  “Thought
that was what you wanted?”
Stiles swallows dryly.  In the absence of Derek’s warmth, the air feels much
colder.  He pulls his clothes haphazardly back into place, zipping his jeans
and re-fitting the intact buttons on his shirt.  “It is,” he says quietly.
Derek picks his shirt off the ground and shakes the leaves from it.  When he
pauses to glance down the length of his torso, his lips give a slight twitch.
“You look like you just came off a porn set,” Stiles observes.  Derek gives a
snort.
“You don’t look much better.” 
“Think they’ll figure it out?” Stiles teases tiredly.
“…Yeah,” Derek responds, dead-pan.  With a sigh, he uses his shirt to wipe the
drying streaks of cum from his chest. 
“I should feel worse,” Stiles says softly, looking off into the distance.  “I
should feel…”
“Like you just cheated on your girlfriend.”
The words sound so hard and final, the way Derek says them.  Stiles doesn’t
respond for a long moment.  Then he says, “You know, the strange thing is, I
always sort of felt like I was cheating on you with her.”
Derek looks up.  Around the edges of his carefully schooled expression, hints
of uncertainty become visible.  “I doubt she’ll see it that way.”
“Of course not…”  Stiles’ voice goes quiet as he gazes into the distance,
feeling as though something inside of him just fractured.  Suddenly, he falls
back against the tree and slumps to the ground, wetness stinging his eyes. 
“Shit…”
“Stiles?”  Derek drops his shirt and crouches next to him in the leaves,
hovering a foot away.  His voice and body language feel awkwardly hesitant –
still too unused to the idea that he could be anyone’s source of comfort (let
alone that he might want to be.)
“I don’t want to hurt her,” Stiles says bitterly.  “She doesn’t deserve it.” 
Derek reaches a hand for his shoulder, but Stiles shoves it away.  “I’m not a
good person, Derek.”
Derek breathes out softly.  “Neither am I.” 
Stiles looks at him with a sad expression.  Slowly, the arc of his spine
relaxes and he leans forward to drape his arms over his knees.  Derek doesn’t
make any further move to touch him, so Stiles takes Derek’s hand and knots
their fingers together. 
They don’t talk anymore, after that.  Until the cold becomes unbearable and the
two of them stand up and make their way back to the house.
                                     -oOo-
The third time Stiles has sex with Derek, everyone finds out.  Luke takes one
look at Derek and leaves.  Scott is more upset than Stiles expects him to be –
though Stiles thinks, in hindsight, that he shouldn’t be surprised. 
Sarah doesn’t talk to Stiles again for a long time.
But Stiles stays the night with Derek, and both are still there the next
morning.
And the next.  And the next.
And when Stiles leaves to go back to school, neither of them say goodbye –
because it isn’t one.
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