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summertime: part v

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It's July and the sun is blazing down on them, unforgiving even in the shade of the porch. Derek takes the time to damn every God he knows of for making him a walking space heater. Summer sucks.

"It's so hot," groans Stiles for the billionth time from his position on the decking, stating the glaringly obvious.

His head is lolling over the edge of the steps, arms and legs spread wide, shorts riding high on his thighs, as if any limbs in contact will make him spontaneously combust. His chest is bare and flushed, sparkling with a light sheen of sweat. If Derek is actually panting well he can just blame the heat. But it's more likely that it's sensory overload. Stiles looks and smells and tastes and feels like Heaven right now.

Even if he is being annoying.

And, almost as if sensing Derek's entranced, glazed over eyes raking his body, Stiles props himself up on his elbows and stares him down, mouth hanging open a little in mirror of Derek's.

It seems to Derek as if he is puffing out his chest, tensing his stomach, enticing. He shakes the thought from his head, aware of the seven other heartbeats inside the house.

Stiles, meanwhile, is nudging his shin with a toe, a grin taking over his entire face even as a bead of sweat rolls down over his cheek from his hairline. "Hey Der?" he says, sitting up straighter now, and waiting for Derek to be paying attention. But it's so hard. What with the heat and everything. "Hey Derek?" And since when was Stiles standing?

But he is. The entirety of his pale body presented before Derek, pink and damp in the heat, skin taut over his limber frame. His shoulders are rising and falling slowly, despite his heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

Derek realises he hasn't answered when Stiles raises his eyebrows.

But he's so beyond words. The heat is turning him into a puddle of horny goop.

"Mhm?" he says to the bruises on Stiles' hips, barely capable of anything else.

Then he's looking up at the sudden change in smell, and Stiles' grin is taking over his entire face as he strides toward Derek, leans into his ear. It's hot, so hot, and Derek's skin tingles at the proximity. He feels lightheaded as all the blood in his entire body rushes to where Stiles hand is now hovering. Spoiler alert: it's his dick. Stiles is horny too, apparently. Stiles' fingers dip below Derek's waistline for all of a second: a tease, a promise. And Derek is so far gone for him that the words "Chase me." don't even register until the ice cube in his teeshirt has made its way down to the waistband of his cutoffs.

Derek flashes his eyes, growls in warning at Stiles' retreating figure.

He's halfway into the tree line already but Derek knows he hears it. He counts down from three before springing to his feet and sprinting after him, deckchair thrown on its side in Derek's haste, Stiles' laughter echoing all around as he peals through the forest.

Three minutes in, and Derek can only faintly smell him. Either he got further than Derek thought, or he's getting really good at masking his scent. And Derek, versed in anything and everything Stiles Stilinski, is willing to bet it's the latter. Every time Derek underestimates him, Stiles shows him why he shouldn't.

This is definitely one of those times.

He's leaning heavily against a tree, heat slowly sapping his energy, when the ears of his wolf prick up. A voice. Stiles' voice, right behind him. He spins around, startled that he didn't hear him approach, and is met with nothing. Trees and more trees, but no Stiles.

So the little shit is practicing his projecting. Fuck, he's making it hard today.

Still, to do it successfully he'd have to be able to see him, wouldn't he? For the second time in seven minutes Derek fears he is underestimating Stiles' abilities.

He begins stalking, nose in the air, trying to catch a scent. But the air is so still, hot, it's harder. Until a cool breeze ruffles his teeshirt, bringing with it an essence of him. "This way." sing-songs the projection, the voice in the wind eerie and formless, but definitely Stiles.

Derek is on it in a flash, crashing through brush and bramble, the voice luring him closer, leaping over logs and fallen branches, teeshirt and bare calves catching on stray thorns until he stumbles gracelessly into a clearing.

And his body immediately goes stock still at the sight. His jaw hits the floor.

Stiles, framed by the clearing, willows and water lilies in the background, is standing on the shore of the lake.

He's completely naked; smudges of dirt on his cheek, his ribs and thighs, forearms and calves caked in it like he stood in the muddy river bed and just went to town. The skin that is visible (sinful pink lips and pale mole dotted face, broad shoulders and chest, right thigh and hip, cock) is glistening.

Derek stalks toward him, divesting himself of his clothes as he does, not even caring where they land as he watches Stiles slink back into the water.

By the time Derek reaches the shoreline, Stiles is submerged up to his hips. Derek barely gives him time to blink before he is splashing toward him, visions of ravishing him right here bouncing round erratically in his head.

Stiles' cool facade cracks a little as he snorts at Derek's enthusiasm, and it continues to stutter and fail when Derek gets his hands on him, but then in a millisecond he regains it.

He's walking backwards again, Derek's hands firm on his hips, his own hands on Derek's forearms. He only stops when the water is just below his nipples. He takes a shuddery breath, steps closer and leans his head into Derek's chest. "You found me." He whispers, only his lips don't move and it sounds like it's coming from inside his own head. Projecting. The little shit is getting awesome at it.

"Always," he replies, then, "you're getting really good." He feels more than sees the small, shy smirk, before Stiles is lifting his head, locking their eyes.

Derek brings his hand out of the water to trace the smear of dirt on his cheekbone, the other wrapping around and tightening his grip on Stiles' hips. Stiles' hands go to his hair, wetting it, tangling in the dark strands as he pulls him down, making their lips meet. And suddenly lights blast behind Derek's eyelids and their surroundings explode into nothingness and it is just the two of them; the cool water lapping at his chest, the moss covered rocks beneath his feet, and StilesStilesStiles. Stiles' hips. Stiles' chest. Stiles' hands. His ass, pert and round and plump, his feet, skating up and down Derek's shin, ankles knocking as he struggles to stay still, his cock brushing against Derek's thigh, his lips.

And God, it's not just this particular kiss. But every. Damn. Time.

It drives Derek insane to think that anything could be this bewildering, this earth shattering, this good. But it is. And it's here and it's his.

Always.

Later, when the sun begins to set, they will walk hand in hand to the shore. And Derek will ravish Stiles right there in the mud, just like he pictured hours ago.

And again Derek will find something bewildering and earth shattering and good. And he will tell Stiles so, only to be met with a shy giggle and maybe a punch to the shoulder and some stupid rant about how he's being so sappy which will be immediately be cut off by an extremely efficient snap of Derek's hips and a loud, drawn out groan.

Later still, Laura will find them clothed again, lazing in the grass, mud drying in their hair and whisper "Dorks," to which Derek will just smirk in reply.

Okay so maybe Summer doesn't suck.