A/N: I'm not proud of this.
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf, not the characters. I own nothing and get not profit from this whatsoever.

Stiles was never one to back down from a challenge, but when you're standing toe-to-toe with an Alpha werewolf, you should probably concede defeat and move on. Obviously, backing down was a concept Stiles was entirely unfamiliar with.

"Why can't you just TRUST me this once, Derek?" Stiles is angry, and his voice his unnecessarily loud, considering how close they are to one another.

Derek, however, still looks unaffected. They've been arguing for the past half hour over how best to take on the latest threat to the Hale Pack, a coven of freshly-turned Vampires. His regular scowl is on his face, accompanied by arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrow twitching.

"Because you're wrong, Stiles." Derek grunts out a reply, turning and walking away before the sentence is even finished. He's done with Stiles' whining and he's tired after trailing the coven for the majority of the day. He's nearly out the window when he hears Stiles' muttered reply of "don't come crying to me when you're half-dead, Asshole."

Derek can hear the footsteps pacing back and forth, the mutterings and the occasional swear, but he doesn't care. He continues walking to his Camaro and decides that if Stiles doesn't like Derek's decision then he can go fuck himself because Derek knows what he's doing, okay? He can take on a couple of new vampires easily. He's the Alpha of course he can.

With that in mind, he sets off to where he knows the vampires are hiding out.

Stiles is worried. He's really worried. Derek's been gone for hours and he knows it shouldn't have taken that long to kill a few vampires. He's probably hurt, he thinks to himself, maybe even dead. This thought brings a new wave of panic until Stiles can't see in front of him and his vision starts getting black and clouded around the edges. He's shaking and he falls back against the wall, bringing his hands up to run through his buzzed hair, clenching them into fists. He tries to breathe, to calm down, but he can't. He drops his head between his thighs and squeezes his eyes shut; he's trying to recount his day.

I went shopping for groceries; we needed eggs and cheese for dinner.

Scott and I practiced for Lacrosse; I think I'm getting better.

cantbreathecantbreathedereksdeadhesgonecantbreathe,

Scott met with Allison,

helpcantbreathe,

helpcant-

Everything stops and he loses consciousness.

Derek can't breathe; he's leaning against a wall of the abandoned warehouse-turned-vampire-den, with a hand pressed to the gaping hole in his side, a parting-gift from the coven leader. He can't stop the bleeding and he's not healing quickly enough. He slowly peels his ruined jacket off; his breath hitching when he aggravates his other cuts, and rolls it up, pressing that against the wound. He takes a few experimental steps away from the wall, nearly collapsing because of the pain. Steadying himself takes longer than it should, and Derek has to look around to make sure there are no passers-by before continuing his way to his, thankfully undamaged, car.

Opening the door is a feat and a half, and Derek's exhausted by the time he is in the driver's seat. He leans back in the chair with a heavy sigh, his legs stretching out as far as they can in the confined space. Closing his eyes, he tells himself not to fall asleep. He's trying, he is, but the pain and the lack of energy after fighting four vampires by himself are making it increasingly difficult to listen to his brain. Should have listened to Stiles... The voice sounds suspiciously like Laura's; the patronizing tone the last thing he hears before promptly passing out.

Stiles is thrown back into consciousness with a jolt. His head hurts like a bitch and the rest of his body won't cooperate with him. Opening his eyes is difficult and when he finally manages to the light streaming through his open window blinds him. He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut, turning away quickly. It's then that he realizes he's lying on his bed; and not the floor where he last remembered being. Stiles' eyes fly open and he scans his room; it's empty save for himself.

Mustering up the strength to push himself up onto his elbows, Stiles groans when his back pops and cracks in protest. He's tired, disoriented and very confused. Getting up and out of the bed is a lot more difficult than Stiles anticipated.

Footsteps outside his room startle him into stumbling quickly towards his door. He rests his hand on the handle, pulling it down just as there's a knock on the wood.

"Stiles, you awake, kiddo?" His dad's voice is loud enough to travel through the door, worry laced in his tone. Pulling the door open he's faced with his dad's face; worry and tiredness spread across his features.

"Dad, hi! I'm awake! Wow, I must have been really tired, just… Fell asleep on my floor, huh?" Stiles tries to joke. He plasters a fake grin on his face and leans against the side of his door, convincing himself a lot less than he knows he's convincing his dad. He doesn't want to worry his dad, he's fine, really, it's happened before. This wasn't even the worst of it. Think of his heart, what worrying does to him, I'm hurting him.

"Really, Stiles; what happened? I found you on the floor in the middle of your room, practically dead to the world? Are you sick?" His dad reaches forward to brush a hand against his forehead. Stiles leans into it slightly, closing his eyes and letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"No, really! I fell asleep, too much studying not enough sleep, right?" He tries not to sound too guilty, coughing when the lie catches in his throat. Stiles reopens his eyes to see his dad looking at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly not believing the lie and getting more annoyed at the fact he's being lied to.

"I'm not the Sheriff for nothing, Son. Tell me what happened." The tone makes him feel worse, so he cracks and tells his dad about the panic attack, promising it was a small one and that it wasn't that bad. That he'd had worse. His dad only looks at him like he's disappointed Stiles would hide something like this from him.

Stiles can only think; If only you know what else I was hiding from you.

Derek comes into consciousness slowly and then all at once. He's focused and alert immediately, glancing around to see if there is anyone nearby; there isn't. He adjusts himself in the seat, pushing himself into a more upright position, pulling at the skin of his hip. He groans and falls back into the chair, lifting his wife beater to see how much he's healed. It looks a lot better than it did –He checks the time on his mobile- two hours ago; the skin now a deep red with a large scar spreading from his side to the middle of his stomach.

He waits a few moments to gather his wits about him and shoves the key in the ignition, starting the car with a flick of his wrist. The engine purrs into life and in no time he's back on the road.

Derek doesn't quite know where to go, he can't go back to the Hale house, the pack will ask questions, but Stiles told him not to go running to him. He tells himself he's not running to Stiles if he won the fight with minimal damage to his person; or so Stiles will at least think –he hopes.

Without second guessing he makes the turn for Stiles' house and parks a few houses down the street. Derek can't see the Sheriff's car parked in the driveway but he doesn't want to be seen with torn clothes and covered in blood. He sits in his car for a few minutes, breathing evenly as he feels his skin continue to knit together and heal quicker than it was before.

He can hear Stiles in his room, his foot tapping against the floor as he types on his laptop. It's almost calming, hearing the rhythmic beats of his heart in contrast to the sporadic tap of his foot. Derek chuckles quietly to himself and shakes his head, chasing the obscure thought away almost as quickly as it appeared.

Without realizing it he's outside Stiles' window, the teen having not noticed him yet. He silently curses his werewolf speed, and his temporary loss of focus. He could have easily have been ambushed. In the middle of the street. In broad daylight. Easily.

Annoyed with how much Stiles has influenced him mentally, he knocks on the window, pleased with Stiles' reaction of falling out his chair in shock. He's still got it.

Pushing himself up from the floor, Stiles rubs his elbow and moves to the window open it, an automatic response to a werewolf knocking on the window which really should be a warning sign that he's far too used to werewolves coming in and out of his room.

"Thanks for that, Asshole! I could have fucking brained myself on my desk! Where the fuck were…" Stiles' angry rant is cut off when he sees the blood covering Derek's torso. He dashes forward, his hands hovering over where the gash on his side is, like he doesn't exactly know what to do. He settles for tugging at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up to reveal the scars that have yet to heal.

"What the fuck? Why hasn't this healed? You've been gone for hours, Derek! How… How bad was it?" Stiles asks.

Derek sighs; of course Stiles would catch on, he was stupid to think otherwise. He grunts and tries to step around the teenager, not responding. He wants to just lie down for a while, recover, and then head back to his house. Stiles, however, doesn't let up. His grip on Derek's wife beater tightens and he tugs, stopping Derek from getting too far away.

"Derek, please, what happened?" Stiles tugs the material again, getting Derek to face him. He needs to know how badly Derek was hurt; he's not sure if it's to rub it in his face that Stiles was right, or just because he had to know.

Derek's the goddamn Alpha; he shouldn't have to answer to Stiles, or anyone, yet he finds himself sighing and telling the teenager everything.

Derek found the coven, he managed to get the jump on them and beheaded on right away. He was prepared for the next two that jumped out from the shadows, they took a lot more to kill, but he managed it. The leader, however, managed to surprise him. He dodged and blocked almost every one of Derek's attacks, dealing many blows to Derek in between. The leader had managed to corner Derek, and he's seriously thought he was done for until the vampire was distracted by a ray of sun filtering through the warehouse roof. That's all it had taken for Derek to kill it, not without nearly dying himself from blood loss, of course. Derek had dragged himself back to his car, cuts and bruises healing slower than usual.

"There, happy? I got hurt. You were right, is that what you wanted to hear Stiles? Just… Let me rest here, okay?" Derek manages to spit out through clenched teeth. He slinks over to Stiles' unmade bed and faceplants into the pillow, not caring about what he looked like anymore. Sighing, Derek rolls over onto his uninjured side, facing away from Stiles.

Stiles is speechless for once, and falls back into his computer chair. He didn't expect Derek to be so angry at him, for practically no reason. Sure, Stiles told him this would happen, but he wasn't happy he was right, especially because it meant that Derek got hurt. Derek got hurt, and he thinks that's what I wanted.

"Derek you asshole, you're going to get blood all over my sheets." Stiles walks towards Derek, prodding his shoulder until he rolls onto his back. A small grin stretches across his mouth, and he mimes taking his shirt off to Derek, who looks at him like he's an idiot Oh, wait, he does that all the time.

"Take your shirt off; in fact you should take a shower. You reek of blood; and if I can smell it, it must be even worse for you, c'mon." Stiles once again takes a hold of the bottom of Derek's wife beater and pushes upward, getting further this time before there's a hand on his wrist stopping him.

"I can take my own clothes off, Stiles. I'm not an invalid." Derek sits up quickly, swinging his legs round the side of the bed and standing up swiftly. Making his way towards Stiles' dresser, he removes the shirt as he goes; the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting and flexing.

Stiles can't help but stare; he knows he's being obvious about it but Derek's not looking so he's safe for now, he guesses. He doesn't comment on the fact that Derek's stealing one of his shirts even though he distinctly remembers the 'These… No fit!' fiascofrom before. He especially doesn't comment on the fact that Derek has picked out the one shirt that would actually fit him because it's-

"Is this my shirt?"

Because it's actually Derek's shirt.

"Uh… No?" His answer is as eloquent and thought out as it can be with Derek looking at him like he is, his eyebrow raised inquisitively and his muscles flexing gloriously as they grip the fabric of the shit tight, shoulders tensing as-

"You're a pathetic liar, Stiles. I didn't even need to hear your heartbeat to know that was a lie" Derek turns around completely now, facing Stiles. He can hear the accelerated heartbeat that has nothing to do with lying and smirks at the boy in front of him. He slowly walks forward, holding the shirt down at his side, the shirt Stiles took from him, the shirt that covered Stiles with Derek's scent.

Stiles is so lost in his own thoughts that when he finally snaps back to reality he notices holyshitDerekissoclose and backs into his chair as much as he can without toppling it over because Derek is so close close enough to touch and he can probably hear his heartbeat close enough to kiss and Stiles needs to get out of there as quick as possible because he can't be accountable for his actions if this goes on for very much longer.

It's Derek who breaks the whateverthehellthatwas and announces he's going to shower. He walks off, with a clean shirt and hey, when did he take my underwear?!, into the bathroom, the turning of the lock sounding loud in the silence of Stiles' bedroom.

Stiles can hear the shower turn on, the way the sound of the water changes when Derek steps into it. He freaks himself out with how much he's listening, and tries to distract himself from thoughts of Derek naked in the shower, in his shower, and puts on some music to drown the sound out.

The distraction works for all of point one of a second and then his thoughts are drifting to will he use my shampoo, my body wash, will he smell like me when he gets out, he'll have to run his hands over that body, those muscles, God…

Before he knows it, he's popping the button of his jeans and sliding the zipper down slowly over his already half-hard cock, his wrist brushing over the tent in his boxers. He knows he should stop, zip his pants back up and pretend he wasn't about to touch himself thinking about Derek freaking Hale but he can't. He can picture so clearly every individual muscle in Derek's body, what the water would look like running down his body, how his hair would fall flat against his head instead of up styled.

He shifts in his chair, sliding down slightly and spreading his legs, his jeans slipping down to mid-thigh. He settles one hand on the arm of his chair, the other pulling up his shirt, fingertips trailing feather light up his abdomen to his chest. Stiles lets his head fall against the back of the chair and he imagines it's Derek's hand instead of his own that presses against his chest, fingers pinching at a nipple, tugging gently. Stiles arches his back, pushing his chest towards the hand, fingers tightening their grip and tugging harder. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from making any embarrassing or loud noises, Derek with the super-hearing is right next door.

Stiles removes his hand from his chest, slipping a couple of his fingers into his mouth and coating them with saliva. He imagines Derek would get bored with just playing with his nipples, wants to taste instead. His wet fingers circle a rosy bud just as he imagines Derek is sucking it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it rapidly. Stiles whimpers quietly and shifts again, the hand not on his chest gripping the arm of his chair tightly.

Unconsciously spreading his legs wider apart, Stiles trails his hand down his chest, past his abdomen, skimming across his happy trail to rest at the waistband of his boxers. He shifts restlessly as he imagines Derek would draw it out, force him to wait and smirk like the asshole he is because he still isn't touching where Stiles needs him to! Stiles can picture it clearly, the looming form of the werewolf as he presses soft fleeting kisses on Stiles' shoulders, down his chest and stomach, across each of his hips and back up again; not once moving his hand from its place at the waistband of his boxers.

He gets frustrated with not-Derek and a whine erupts from the back of his throat. Slowly, he pushes his hand beneath the waistband and takes a firm hold of his dick. Stiles sighs in relief and slowly pumps his hand up and down, at a torturously slow pace. He bucks his hips up into the circle of his fist but doesn't get very much friction. It's to dry and he whines again; pressing his head back against the chair.

It takes too long, in his opinion, to shove his boxers down to his ankles, along with his jeans. He sits back and licks the palm of his hand, slicking it up. Derek would pause, his mouth hovering and his breath ghosting over the head of Stiles' cock. Stiles would thrust his hips up to no avail, and Derek would place an arm across Stiles' hips to hold him down. Only then would Derek finally take the head of his dick into his mouth, sucking gently. Stiles' fist closes over himself and he pumps, once again, slowly. The added slickness is so much better. His fist is warm and slick and he gradually speeds up the pace. He can't help the deep groan that escapes him this time.

On the upstroke Stiles flicks his thumb over the slit, gathering precum to further lubricate his strokes. He moans loudly as he drags his nail along the vein on the underside, giving up on the thought of his imaginary-Derek's arm holding his waist down, he thrust his hips upward into his fist, pumping himself quickly.

He's close, he can feel it low in his stomach and his muscles start clenching. He can't hold back his moans now, a mix of Derek's name and random vowels. Stiles lasts a few more strokes and then he's coming hot and hard into his fist, mumbles of Derek's name still falling from his lips.

Stiles relaxes completely into his chair, exhaustion settling into his muscles. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, trying to find the energy to get up and clean himself up. He pushes himself up and out of the chair, reaching for the box of tissues he so handily keeps nearby for this specific reason and wipes the come from his hand and from his stomach where a few stray drops landed. He lazily pulls his underwear and pants back up and shuffles towards his bed, falling onto the covers.

Stiles is nearly asleep when he hears it; the sound of the bathroom lock clicking and the door opening.

Well, shit.