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Synaesthesia

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Derek wishes Stiles would look at him the way he always gazes at Lydia Martin. The glances are longing, lingering. Full of want and love. Derek knows it probably won't ever happen. Has accepted that fact. Willingly, mostly.

That should probably stop him from climbing into Stiles' room. It really should prevent him from cradling Stiles' cheek like he's precious – the way he always has been to Derek – and it should definitely not find him meshing their mouths together.

He does it all anyway.

Stiles' voice is making sounds – probably actual words – but they aren't things Derek can find himself listening to. The smell of sadness and hurt on the teen seems to roar in the werewolf's ears, and Derek thinks that maybe he'd remember what that phenomenon is called if the taste of Stiles' tongue in his mouth isn't music in his ears, sweet and tantalising.

Derek means to pull back – he really does – wants to retreat, never come back. But somehow Stiles has him by his lapels, backed up against a wall without Derek even registering any movement. It fires off warning bells in Derek's brain, makes him ponder how he could have lost himself so willingly, so completely. But then Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat that stutters Derek's heart with the way it tastes and smells.

They kiss again and again and Stiles' breathless “finally” feels like a gust of wind against bones that are bared even though Derek still wears his skin and tissue like walls to protect himself from ash, soot, and fire. The word somehow colours the world in blues and greens, pushes ruthlessly at the grey and red and orange and yellow until the flames are nothing but vague shapes in his periphery.

They're somehow down to their underwear, and Derek gasps at the music Stiles' skin against his inexplicably makes as it drowns out any other sound and becomes the most important thing in the universe.

Derek thinks he can see Stiles' mouth – god that fucking mouth – move, and he tries to listen to the words that are probably forming there, but the smell of arousal, theirs individually and mingling, is a tornado of shouting in his ears.

He wants this to last for eternity as well for it to be over in a heartbeat because physical touch, taste, and scent shouldn't register as sounds, sounds shouldn't be processed as scent or taste, sight shouldn't feel like caresses, and Derek's senses have been scrambled past recognition.

He wants to get his bearings back, to be able to cradle Stiles to the warmth of his body and breathe him in and murmur about how they belong to and with each other.

Any declarations have to wait because they have somehow gotten tangled up on the bed and Derek should try to pay attention. Problem is that the moans that come out of Stiles' mouth settles turquoise on Derek's tongue and tastes of longing and want. His chest and fingers against Derek's skin scream in his ear in a way that demands attention it prevents him from giving.

Their kisses taste like loving sweeps across his skin and Derek thinks he's finally gone completely mad.

All of it comes to a stop when Derek hears himself grit out a desperate “fuck me” on a whine. Stiles stills and Derek's senses ceases to work altogether. It feels as though the entire world has stopped and there's no wind to carry sounds or smells, and his ability to feel his physical self has wholly abandoned him.

“Please. Claim me,” he sobs, and his senses zero in on slick fingers nudging against his hole.

“I've never – “ Stiles face and voice comes into focus because Derek wills his eyes and ears to work the way they should, only Derek hears Stiles' flushed skin sing, and his words are somehow green and beautiful in the air between them.

“All I know about this comes from porn,” appear in spirals from Stiles' mouth, and the redness of his cheeks whisper sweet nothings to Derek.

“I have no idea whatsoever, except what goes where,” he replies, and Stiles' laugh pushes away any grey patches of ash from Derek's line of sight, and something loosens in his chest because at least Stiles doesn't find his inexperience off-putting. At least they're utterly equal in this.

The entrance of a long finger into his body has Derek's ears buzzing with excitement. He doesn't know if the sound of the touch is because every other bout of physical contact has been audible or if it's the way his body reacts to penetration.

If he ever gets his bearings, if his senses ever do what's expected of them again, he swears to figure it out.

The roar of stimulation has his undivided attention, and he thinks he might be making sounds, whatever they may be, but the howling of Stiles pulling his fingers out has rendered Derek deaf.

He idly wonders if he should have tasted what noises he made, but maybe he's beyond repair and can only feel Stiles' sounds in sweet relief on his tongue now.

All thoughts vanish with the way Stiles' blunt cock lines up and pushes against him with what feels like a sound with a frequency too high to hear. It seems to do nothing but push at his ear drums and drown out the world.

Derek has no idea what he's doing, or how they even ended up where they are now. He isn't even sure he knows who he is himself. All he's aware of is the way Stiles bottoms out with a moan that smells sharp and spicy, and the way he feels inside Derek is a high pitched sound, and the flush to his face and chest feels like fingers mapping out Derek's muscles even though the physical connection they have aren't there at this moment.

He thinks Stiles thrusts into him a few times, but he's too overwhelmed with the way Stiles' scent changes to whisper arousal, love, longing, want, and happiness into Derek's mouth. It feels like everything has decided to narrow down onto Stiles, but did it too fast. In the confusion his senses somehow got jobs of cataloguing in ways they weren't meant to.

They operate in a jumbled, perplexed mess, and suddenly the feeling of Stiles gripping him sobs in his ears in desperation and he comes so hard, fast, unexpected that he almost misses how the pulse of Stiles' release inside Derek – deep within, claiming him – laughs melodically to the sight of fire finally disappearing from his brain.

Stiles doesn't pull out right away, and Derek likes to think it's a voluntary decision to stay inside him, to keep his sperm coating Derek in his scent. Marking him. Stiles looks at Derek in a way he never thought possible, and it smells of things Derek only thought Lydia would be at the end of.

Stiles lays his body on top of Derek and the mess of his orgasm, almost as if he knows it will make him smell like Derek for weeks even if he showers.

At least that's what Derek tells himself.

After a few quiet moments Derek means to jokingly say “I'm yours, you claimed me.”

What comes out without his permission is “I love you, please don't leave me,” and the sound of it smells sour in the way the phrases aren't alike in words at all, but are in meaning, and the way he means them so much they hurt.

Stiles' wide eyes sound like sneering in Derek's ears until a kiss drowns it out with desperate whines.

“Fuck, I love you,” feels like raindrops on his uncomfortably heated skin, and blues and greens swirl with the words from Stiles' lips to clear Derek's life from ashes, soot, and fire forever.