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On the first day of his senior year, Stiles is running late to Calculus when he crashes into a whole herd of people clustered behind the trophy case.

"Uh, sorry," he says, trying to sound as snotty as possible while he gathers up the notebook pages that have popped out of his binder on impact.

It's a wasted effort, because they're all too engrossed in their weird, intense whispering to even notice him struggling at their feet. "Oh sweet baby Jesus, look at that," one of them breathes, so loudly that the others furiously shush her. "Come on, he can't hear us. He's busy."

"Mmmmm," says a whole chorus of dreamy, hungry-sounding voices, and okay, what?!

"Take me to church," another one moans, and Stiles scoffs and pops up to his feet so he can see who's causing a fifteen-student pileup in the main foyer.

"Huh," he murmurs, frowning. No hot new exchange students are in evidence, no visiting football teams, not even a sexy too-young Spanish teacher like that time in ninth grade when everyone suddenly discovered their desire to be bilingual—just Derek, his shirt riding up a little bit above the waistband of his jeans, straining up to hang a giant poster for orchestra tryouts. He's holding a roll of masking tape in his teeth, which are still a little bunny-shaped even after he got the braces taken off early that summer. It's super cute. Stiles like to run his tongue over them, and Derek likes to pretend he doesn't like it.

"Where's this new guy, huh?" Stiles says, thwapping the nearest person's shoulder with the back of his hand. "What, is he behind Derek?"

The whole mob goes silent and turns to look at him, moving as one eerily-focused entity.

"You know his name?" A leanly-muscled girl in a color guard uniform grabs Stiles' arm like he's her only chance at survival. "You've spoken to him?"

"Um, yes, Maria, so have you," Stiles reminds her. "Derek helped arrange the boyband medley for your competition routine."

Her face is completely blank.

"Bye Bye Bye?" Stiles tries, eyebrows climbing. "True to Your Heart? Come on, the drumline solo in Quit Playing Games With My Heart got you guys a standing ovation, don't tell me—"

"Derek Hale?!" squeals Maria, and the whole mob starts furiously whispering again. "Derek Hale, the viola player? Your Derek?"

"Yeeeeah," Stiles agrees, drawing the word out. "My Derek, so what?"

"But he's huge!" bursts out one of the younger guys on the basketball team, flailing toward Derek as he bends down to get more posters from a stack on the floor. "He's got... abs! And triceps! Where are his glasses?"

"Oh, dude, I know," Stiles sighs sadly. "I tried to get him to keep wearing them, but he says contacts are easier when the weather gets colder. What a fuckin' nerd, right?"

"Don't you talk about him that way," hisses Maria, and Stiles is forced to make a tactical retreat before the collected wrath of color guard is brought down upon him.

"Those arms," he hears a reverent voice say just before he makes it around the corner. "I bet he could just hoist you up and fuck you against a wall."

Stiles drops his binder again.


"Do you think you could fuck me against a wall?" Stiles says without preamble, strolling into Derek's room later that day.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Derek says, rubbing his hand over the thickening stubble on his jaw that he can't seem to keep smooth, even though he claims to shave every morning, now. "I just gotta finish this problem set first, hold on."

Stiles sputters. "I didn't mean would you, like, right now! I meant—"

"Mmm?" Derek says, looking up at him with a warm little smile. He's got his pencil resting against his mouth; he must have already taken his contacts out, because his glasses are slipping down his nose as he gazes at Stiles over the tops of them.

"Okay, yeah, maybe," Stiles says, going hot all over.

"My parents aren't home," Derek says, lowering his notebook and rising to his feet. Suddenly he looks graceful, dangerous. Prowling. "The kids are at our grandparents' house for another two hours. Laura's home for the weekend, but she'd blast some music if I asked her to."

"What happened to when you were all circumspect and cute about this stuff—holy shit." Derek reaches him and sweeps him right off his feet in one motion—with one arm, even—and basically throws Stiles on top of his desk.

"You don't think I'm cute anymore?" Derek says, straight-faced, smoothing a strong, sure palm up under the bottom of Stiles' shirt.

"Nnngh, take me to church," Stiles moans, his head thunking back against Derek's meticulously-organized pinboard.

Derek's eyebrows scrunch up. "What?"



Luckily, they've had more than a year to get used to Laura blasting Mumford & Sons when they want to get down. Stiles used to think it was a bit of a mood killer, but these days if he's totally honest the sound of frenzied banjos sort of gets him going.

Not that he needs any help, right now.

"You gettin' tired?" Stiles pants, smiling at the way his voice bounces along with his body. He's got one arm looped around Derek's neck, clinging desperately; the other one is winding into his own hair, tugging, grounding himself so he doesn't fly apart all over Derek's nice clean room, jeez.

"I could do this... all day," Derek says, voice low and rough where it's pressed against Stiles' throat. He's got Stiles by the thighs, fingers digging in with bruising, comforting strength, and he's fucking up into him with little rocking thrusts that keep punching rhythmic, humiliating sounds past Stiles' throat.

"Babe, oh fuck, hey, D, look at me?" Derek pulls his face out of Stiles' neck, flutters his eyes open to regard him with dazed, drunk-looking concern, and Stiles' heart swells so full of love that he cannot stand it. "Your glasses are all fogged up, Dumas," he says, laying one hand against Derek's reddened face.

"I can do this," Derek says, pouting at him while Stiles tenderly lifts his glasses off his face and tosses them onto the nearby desk. "If you want it, I'll—"

"Oh, mon cheri, you are the biggest dumbass," Stiles says, dropping a kiss onto Derek's bicep as it trembles with effort. "I seriously love you so much. Take me to bed, I'm gonna ride you until you're jello."

"Oh thank god," Derek sighs, and stumbles back a few steps so he can fall across his quilt, arms stretched out on either side as he struggles to regain his breath.

"I can't believe you didn't even pull out before you tried that," Stiles chuckles, sliding his hands down over Derek's shoulders and arms until he can link both their hands together. "That was super dangerous, man. I would have been out for the first game of the season with a sex injury."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't love that," Derek points out, pulling one of Stiles' hands up so he can kiss the inside of his wrist. "Getting to brag to the whole team that you, unngh, that you had sex so dangerous it put you in the hospital."

"Yeah." Stiles grins, unable to hold it in, and rolls his hips until Derek's beautiful eyelashes are fluttering. "Doesn't matter, whole team already knows I've got you, all the time, any way I want you, right?"

"Stiles." Derek releases his hands, grabs him around the middle to haul their chests together, and Stiles bites his neck so hard he squeaks.

"They all see you now, you know? They want you, and it's so fucking weird because you've been like mind-numbingly hot forever, what's their problem—"

"You maybe wanna focus," Derek pants, dragging his nails down the bend of Stiles' waist just the way he likes, and Stiles wants to laugh or cry or—something, fuck.

"I have never," Stiles grits out, "been more focused on anything in my entire life, Hale. Touch me, do it, do it, please—"

Derek does, closes one of his big hands around Stiles' cock and squeezes lovingly, and Stiles comes everywhere.

"Heh, there's come in your beard," Stiles says several moments later, thighs still shaking around Derek's hips. "Leave it there, yeah? Wear it to school. Lemme write my name on your face. Tell everyone else to back off, I fuckin' saw you first."

"You are so impossibly weird," Derek groans. He starts coming in long, shivery pulses as soon as Stiles leans down to lick the mess out of his stubble, though, so it's safe to say neither one of them is entirely normal.


A few days later, Stiles is walking up to Derek's locker just in time to hear him say "Oh, no, thank you. I'm going to Homecoming with my boyfriend. You know, Stiles?"

"Oh, so... you and Stiles. That's still a thing, huh?" Derek's attempted suitor says—and it's the basketball player from the other day, his muscles all glistening and on display from afternoon practice. "I hope he appreciates how, uhm... all the work you've been doing. You look good this year, Hale."

"Well." Derek ducks his head. "I really wanted to try for the swim team this month. He doesn't mind the muscles, I think? But he actually kind of liked the braces. I think he misses them."

"It's easier to kiss you without, though," Stiles interrupts, swooping in between them to do just that, slow and claiming. "Hi, baby."

"Hey," Derek says, and his voice sounds just as dopey and dreamy as the very first time Stiles kissed him in this hallway a year ago. Sweaty Basketball Player makes a little gagging noise, but it's like Derek has completely forgotten that he even exists.

Maybe Stiles doesn't need to write his name on Derek's face after all.

(Though, he supposes it couldn't hurt to have his varsity jacket tailored to fit Derek's new shoulders. Just in case.)