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blue kept in our eyes

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Crashing through the underbrush, Stiles isn’t sure why he agreed to this—there isn’t a chance in hell Derek would agree to do something so uncomfortable and frustrating to help him, so there was no reason for Stiles to allow himself to be shanghaied into stumbling around the woods in the dead of night looking for some weed he’s never going to recognise anyway, even if it will save the world or whatever.

He doesn’t care: lately he’s been saving the world every day and twice on Sundays, and anyway, it’s only Jackson’s life that’s at stake, nothing that couldn’t have waited until daylight or at least until Stiles had changed out of his dress pants.

He should have wrangled things so Danny had to come; he’s Jackson’s best friend, and it’s sort of Stiles’ job as his ex-boyfriend to pawn off the difficult jobs on him. But oh, no, he had to stand vigil by Jackson’s bedside, and that wasn’t suspiciously convenient at all, getting him out of this.

He bends down to check his hems for mud again, and his torch catches the colour of a flower on the way back up. Derek did say blue, right? Stiles thought Derek had said the weed they were looking for didn’t have leaves, but it’s the only blue flower Stiles has seen, so it must be right.

Stiles uproots it with some difficulty, eventually emerging victorious from battle, petals and roots intact as instructed. He looks around to share his triumph before he remembers he’s alone in the middle of the woods.

Crap. He looks around to get his bearings, but he’s in the woods in the dark, there’s no way to do that, so he turns around and starts back the way he came.

He’ll be fine. He’ll find the car no problem, and if he can’t, he can just yell for Derek. Derek will totally come to get him once he hears Stiles has what they were looking for—unless he’s found it himself in the meantime and left already. He would totally do that to Stiles too, fuck.

“Derek!” Stiles yells. “I have it, come and see!”

It takes a couple minutes, and Stiles grows increasingly agitated while he waits, but eventually there’s a soft noise to his side and Derek is there with his sudden loom, scaring the shit out of him.

“Christ,” Stiles says, thrusting his handful of muck and plant into Derek’s face. “Take it, come on.”

Derek sneezes, and Stiles blinks at him, amused by the display of vulnerability. “Are you allergic?” he asks. “I suppose I can carry it.”

“I’m not allergic,” Derek says. “I said no leaves.”

“Are you allergic to leaves?”

“No,” Derek says. “But that is not what I wanted you to find.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, looking at it in dismay. He doesn’t think Jackson actually has until morning; he wouldn’t be here if he did. “Should we—“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Derek cuts it off with his tongue, shoving it deep into Stiles’ mouth and crowding close, containing Stiles’ surprised jerk and holding him still.

“Hey,” Stiles says when he manages to detach himself for a second, but Derek growls at him and bites at his mouth in response, pressing closer still, crushing Stiles’ flower between their bodies.

Stiles lets it fall, lifting his head to Derek’s rough kisses, putting awkward hands on him, on his arms, tentatively touching his chest, but that’s all he has time to do because that’s all the encouragement Derek needs, hooking a foot around Stiles’ leg and dropping them both to the forest floor.

Stiles yelps with the impact, but Derek’s mouth is on his again, so he writhes under Derek in reaction instead, aching from the fall and not quite sure whether he’s attempting to get closer or dislodge Derek.

Either way, Derek doesn’t move away, grabbing Stiles halfway through an undulation and keeping him there, holding him aloft, body firm against his.

“Derek,” Stiles wavers, but Derek is kissing him again, eating up his protests, and Stiles can’t say anything else, doesn’t want to until Derek drops him back to the ground so that he can get at Stiles’ pants, and Stiles reaches down to help him get them unfastened because he’s afraid his fly won’t survive Derek’s handling if he doesn’t.

Derek reaches inside Stiles’ wide-open pants to touch him, and Stiles bites back a curse, a plea, says, “Derek, what are you doing?” because he hadn’t thought they were going to do this.

Derek slithers down Stiles’ body to sniff at his straining cock, lick at the head where it’s weeping, and just when Stiles thinks he might damn his reservations and get on board with wherever this is going Derek flips him onto his stomach and starts tugging roughly at his pants.

Stiles works them frantically down for him, praying he hasn’t already torn them, and he says, “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Derek says, and bites his shoulder hard.

Stiles jerks against the hold of his teeth, gasping, but it’s okay, it’s okay, he hasn’t broken the skin, he’s just—fuck. Stiles’ body loses all tension abruptly, and he sinks to splay against the floor of the forest, the broken ground, roots of trees emerging from the earth to poke his flesh, leaves under his cheek.

Derek’s body follows his, shoving him down, rocking against him. Derek is still biting at Stiles’ shoulders through his shirt, working at his collar to get at his bare neck.

Stiles can’t help making a sound when Derek reaches underneath him to touch his cock again, and Derek lifts off his body in response.

“Hey,” Stiles protests, and then Derek is spitting into his hand and dragging it over his dick. “Hey,” Stiles says urgently, frozen with sudden fear, because he’s done this before and he knows it hurts anyway, and he doesn’t want it like this. “Hey, don’t. Don’t.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls in frustration, but when Stiles starts to struggle under his hands he shoves Stiles’ legs together instead, leaving a wet palmprint on his thigh.

“Fuck,” Stiles bites out when Derek shoves his cock between Stiles’ thighs and starts fucking into them hard enough to rock Stiles against the hand that’s still on his cock, to shift the wet leaves under his cheek. “Fuck.”

Derek pulls away and lifts Stiles onto his knees, starts stripping Stiles' cock while he fucks back between his thighs, harder like this. He shoves Stiles’ face back to the ground.

Stiles can see his flower from here, in the light of his dropped torch; he can see the colours beyond it. “Hey,” he says, “Derek,” but Derek is beyond listening, and then Stiles is beyond speaking as Derek stops thrusting, puts a hand on Stiles’ ass to hold it open, and then pulls at his own cock, grunting, until he comes all over Stiles’ hole.

“Fuck,” Stiles sighs, and he thinks it’s over, though he’s still rock-hard and desperate, until Derek flips him onto his back and pulls roughly at his cock until he’s spilling all over his ruined shirt.

Derek is on his feet again almost immediately, pulling up his jeans, pulling Stiles off the ground and doing what he can with his clothes, though that isn’t much, covered with come and mud as they are. His dad is going to flip.

“What was—“ Stiles says, stepping forward to grab his torch on shaky feet, but he sees blue again in the beam, and keeps the light there until Derek grabs the weed.

It comes up easily for him.

“Fucker,” Stiles says, because there’s mud under his nails as well as all over his utterly destroyed suit.

“Not yet,” Derek says, and keeps Stiles close and secure while he rushes them back to the car.