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Griffins Don't Care About Mutual Feelings

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"Ugh." Stiles shifts on the lumpy, too small mattress, crossing his arms and trying not to shiver. There's a blanket, but it's thin and scratchy and currently being used as a makeshift barrier between him and Derek. "Why are we doing this, again?"

Derek sighs. "This was your idea."

Stiles twists around to scowl at him, but he can't see much in the dark room. "Spending the night in a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere with only one bed and no heat just so you could sniff out some weird scent that went through Beacon Hills for like, two seconds, was not my idea."

"Yes, it was.

"No it fucking wasn't!"

"You told Scott, and I quote: send Derek after it, he's good at tracking."

"That was a compliment! I was complimenting you, and you thank me by dragging me along and making me freeze my balls off. Thanks so much for that, by the way. Please remind me to never do it again."

There's a glint of white in the dark and Stiles thinks Derek is probably baring his fangs at him.

"Go to sleep."

"I can't." Stiles shifts around, curling further into himself. "I'm too fucking cold."

Derek grabs the blanket from between them, throwing it over Stiles. "There. Now will you shut up and go to sleep?"

"I hate you so much."

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual."

Stiles grits his teeth together, closing his eyes and trying his best to fall asleep. The blanket is so thin it doesn't do much to keep the cold out, and now there's no barrier – however flimsy it was – between him and Derek. He silently begs his dick to please fucking behave, for fuck's sake.

After another ten minutes of clenching his teeth so they don't chatter, Derek sighs and rolls over, wrapping one arm around Stiles' waist and pulling him back into the curve of his body. Stiles lets out a shocked, indignant noise, flailing slightly and dislodging the blanket.

"What the fuck, Derek?"

"Shut. Up."

Derek lets go long enough to cover them both with the blanket, and then slides his arm back around Stiles, holding him tightly.

"Um."

"Just go to sleep, Stiles."

Stiles swallows and closes his eyes again. Derek is nothing but heat and hard lines along his back, and for a long moment he struggles with what he should do. Sleep comfortably and probably wake up with an epic hard on and the mortification of Derek rejecting him, or sleep cold and avoid the humiliation?

He drifts off before he can decide.

*

Stiles wakes up on his stomach, the warm, heavy weight of Derek over him. His hard dick is pressed against the mattress, and he spares a grateful thought that it isn't against any part of Derek. Soft, even breaths brush over the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him that has nothing to do with the chilly air.

Stiles shifts, and feels the unmistakable hardness of an erection against his hip. His heart takes off and he loses his breath, causing Derek to wake with a startled grunt.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Stiles squeaks, and clears his throat. "Nothing, just. You're heavy."

Derek freezes. "Oh," he says, and eases back. "Sorry."

Stiles sits up, making sure to keep the blanket bunched over his lap. "It's fine."

Derek won't meet his eye, both the tips of his ears and his cheeks a bright pink. Stiles wonders if he should try to play off the situation or just ignore it completely, but the phantom feel of Derek's hard dick against his hip makes his own give a sudden twitch. Derek's nostrils flare and he looks over at Stiles in surprise.

He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but then his head snaps toward the door and he freezes. "I heard something."

Stiles blinks. "Something as in the other people in this crappy motel, or something as in the thing we're tracking?"

"Pretty sure people don't make a noise like I just heard."

"Okay, well, what is it?"

"How the hell should I know? I couldn't recognize the scent, what makes you think I can recognize the sound?"

"Jesus Christ, Derek. Can you at least describe it? I know you have a hard time with words sometimes, but –"

"Shut up," Derek snaps, holding one hand up and tilting his head.

Stiles hears it this time too, a faint but distinct screeching-slash-roar sound that sends a chill through him.

"Get dressed." Derek climbs off the bed, moving to grab his duffel bag. "And bring your knife."

*

"What the fuck is that?"

"A griffin," Derek says, staring at the creature in the middle of the clearing. It's about waist high, and looks like it can barely stand on its own.

Stiles looks from the creature to Derek and back again. "That's a griffin?"

"A baby one, actually, which means –"

An earsplitting, screeching roar echoes through the clearing, and Stiles looks up to see another griffin about ten times bigger diving towards them. Stiles only has a moment to think that he's probably going to die – for about the thousandth time, what is his life – before Derek tackles him from the side, taking them both down in a tangle of limbs.

The gust of wind from the griffin's wings sends Stiles' hair in every direction, and he swears, pushing Derek off and climbing to his feet. The griffin circles back around, and Stiles reaches for his magic, throws it at the creature, and watches as the huge being crashes to the ground beside its baby.

"What did you do?" Derek asks, though he doesn't come any closer. He knows Stiles needs space when he's using his magic.

"Bound its wings," Stiles says, pulling his rune-carved knife from the back waistband of his jeans and using the sharp end to draw a large circle around the two creatures. He moves fast; the adult griffin is already climbing to its feet, watching him with a murderous eye.

As soon as the two ends of the circle connect Stiles makes a small cut on his arm, letting the blood drop down onto the line. The circle glows bright purple for a moment before settling down into a softer lavender. The griffin charges, screech roaring at him, but it hits the invisible barrier and stumbles back, shaking its head.

"Yeah, you fucker," Stiles says, tucking his knife back into his jeans. "I know what I'm doing."

Derek steps up beside him, scowling at the two creatures. "We're going to need to call Scott."

"He's probably going to want to bring Argent in."

Derek grimaces. "I know. Look, Stiles, about earlier –"

Stiles hums, and steps into Derek's space, pressing their mouths together before Derek can let him down gently or whatever the fuck he was going to say. Derek makes a wounded noise, and after a moment he presses back, licking tentatively at Stiles' lips.

It gets messy and uncoordinated after that, and Stiles' hard on returns with a vengeance. When they finally pull apart, Derek's cheeks are the same endearing pink from before, and Stiles grins.

"I didn't think –" Derek starts, and Stiles cuts him off with another brief kiss.

"We're going to go back to the motel and call Scott," Stiles says, settling his hands on Derek's waist. "And when this –" he gestures to the two trapped griffins, "– is taken care of, you're going to take me home and fuck my brains out. And then we're going to do it again and again and again, for the rest of our stupid, danger-filled lives."

Derek stares at him. "Okay," he finally says.

"Good." Stiles grins and tangles their fingers together, tugging Derek toward the edge of the clearing. "Because we have years of sexual tension to make up for."