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out of my head and into your arms

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out of my head and into your arms

 

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s brilliant.” Scott corrects, fumbling with his phone to pull up the camera app.

“It’s a dumb idea and I’m going to get murdered.”

“No, you won’t.”

“My dad is going to show up and arrest me probably.”

Scott snorts. “Yeah. The Beacon Hills sheriff is going to fly across the country to New York to arrest you. Okay, Stiles.”

“That’s not the point! I’m going to get clocked in the head by a dumbbell. Or two.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Dramatic?” Stiles’s voice goes a little high. “Why don’t you do it then?”

His best friend—no, Scott will need a new identity after this because a best friend would not do this to him—scoffs, “Because, if you recall, I was the one who won our last bet.”

“That means nothing,” Stiles glowers, hand clenching around his water bottle so hard that droplets spill out from over the lip. “The only reason why we beat Jackson and Danny on that one because of my amazing idea. You were just like…my minion.”

Scott’s eyes flash red at the jibe, but he just grins. “And now you’re my minion. So, come on, let’s go.”

Stiles stares at Scott for a long moment. This is probably all his own fault anyway, for challenging Jackson. What had started out as an innocent arm-wrestling contest between Scott and Jackson had turned out to be a nightmarish back-and-forth competition on which duo—Scott and Stiles or Jackson and Danny—is the strongest, in body and mind. Somehow, it had cumulated into petty and ridiculous dares like this one.

Stiles has no idea what this challenge has to do with anything, but he knows one thing for sure: he’d rather die than see the smug look of victory on Jackson’s face. Stiles takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes. He wants to savor the sweet taste of life before he ends up six feet under.

“Fine.”

Scott pumps his fist excitedly. “Yes!”

Stiles sighs, resigned to his fate, and turns around to survey the gym’s occupants.

“So? Who am I supposed to kiss, then?”

It’s a weekend so the place is fairly busy, every other machine occupied. Stiles cannot believe that Scott wants to do this here, of all places, a veritable lair for bodybuilders and athletes and why couldn’t they have done this at like, a library or something where there are plenty of fellow nerds and escape routes. Stiles is…well, Stiles. He’s been body-slammed by Jackson more times than he can count.

There are two teenage girls doing stretches on yoga mats in the corner of the gym, both on their phones and looking rather bored. On the other end of the gym, a lean, Asian man snarls with effort, fangs protruding, as he does pull-ups, feet hooked under a barbell. Damn. Stiles could never. An attractive, middle-aged man bobs his head to the beat of his music as he cycles; there’s a woman next to him sneaking unsubtle, admiring looks. Cute.

Stiles glances back at Scott, narrowing his eyes at the triumphant look on his face. So he’s found someone then. His friend sniffs the air once and then points.

“That one.”

Stiles’s gaze follows the direction of Scott’s finger, cruising past the treadmills and ellipticals to where the long wall of mirrors is. In front of it is the weights section. There aren’t that many people there right now, so he can see exactly who Scott is pointing at and-

And Stiles is so going to get crushed by a dumbbell.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

No. Stiles would like to keep all his limbs attached to his body. And Little Stiles is definitely not looking to get crushed or ripped off today.

Because Scott is pointing at a beast of a man. The guy has to be at least six feet tall, with dark hair and an angry set of eyebrows. He’s wearing a black tank top, and on his back, peeking out from the top of the shirt is some sort of circular tattoo. The tank top does nothing to conceal the outline of his body as he performs biceps curls with the largest dumbbells Stiles has ever seen. He’s clad in a pair of designer gym shorts and expensive sneakers that probably cost more than Stiles’s apartment.

He’s also…insanely attractive and just exactly Stiles’s type, with sinfully handsome features and piercing eyes. This is someone he could see himself creating a ten-year plan for. Stiles would honestly not be surprised if the guy turned out to be some sort of male model or something. Because those muscles, all defined and rippling, moving smoothly with every flex of the man’s limbs.  

There’s a secretive smile playing around the corners of Scott’s mouth as his friend gauges his reaction. That’s never good. Stiles stiffens. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Scott’s eyes flash red again and he waggles his eyebrows, grinning toothily.

It takes a moment for Stiles to comprehend what he’s hinting at.

No.” Stiles says, horrified. No, he is not going to kiss a man built like that, much less a werewolf built like that. “Did I do something to you? You actually want me to get eviscerated, to die a bloody death. He’s a- ”—Stiles lowers his voice to a hiss, afraid that the man might be able to hear—“a were?”

“Oh yeah.”

Oh no. No, no, no.

Stiles takes quick, shallow breaths, trying to get his panic under control. “You realize that if he has a mate, they’ll probably hunt me for the rest of my life, right?”

“Don’t be stupid, he doesn’t have a mate.” Scott lifts his hand, rotating his finger in a small circle and pointing at the side of his own neck, where the bite from Allison rests. The crescent shaped marks are from blunt human teeth, unlike the matching one on Allison’s neck that has deeper indents from Scott’s fangs. “No bond.”

“He’s going to rip my throat out with his teeth.” Stiles says morbidly as he watches the werewolf move to the bench press and- oh god, how many fucking kilograms is that?

“There’s not going to be enough left of me remaining to identify my body with.”

“Hey,” Scott claps a hand down on his shoulder and for a second, Stiles thinks that maybe the other man has changed his mind. But then he remembers that this is Scott and there’s a reason why he’s friends with him. Namely, that they’re both a little fucking crazy. “Don’t worry, I’ll be able to give a witness statement.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Love you too. Now go. Jackson is so going down, no one can top this.” Scott presses record and numbers start blinking. “And remember, you can’t warn him in any way.”

“You owe me so many fucking curly fries after this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on. Shoo.”

Well. Alright then. Stiles sets his water bottle down and straightens, moving his head from side to side and jumping up and down to calm his nerves. If this is the end for him, he supposes that it wouldn’t be too bad to go out valiantly at the hands of such a fine male specimen. If he does make it out of here though, he is totally going to rewatch the video over and over again because hello, he has eyes and this is probably the closest he’s ever going to get to someone this hot.

Stiles reluctantly trudges over to where the man is lifting, muscles flexing and extending with every movement he makes. Fuck, he’s strong. Stiles is going to get flattened like a pancake.

He comes to a stop in front of the man and stands there for a solid moment, fidgeting nervously, trying to decide what to say to ease the blowback but also without letting the guy know that he’s going to be planting one on him.

The werewolf must sense him shifting from foot to foot because with a low grunt, he lifts the barbell and all its attached weights, and drops it back on the stand. He sits up, wiping away some sweat with his tank top and wow, those abs. Stiles’s mouth waters a little. God, he’s even more beautiful up close, with cheekbones that can cut glass and those eyes- Stiles isn’t even sure what color they are because they’re green but also ringed with other colors and-

His gaze snaps away when the shirt falls back in place and the werewolf braces his elbows on his knees, glancing up at Stiles with a grumpy and expectant expression. He already looks annoyed. Great.

“What.”

“Wow.” Stiles blinks. “Did that hurt to say? There was, like, absolutely no inflection there, I’m almost impressed.”

That...probably just made things ten times worse. Way to go, Stilinski.

The man’s face spasms like he just ate something bad, but then strangely enough, instead of chewing Stiles out, he pauses to tilt his head and sniff the air. Stiles swallows.

Okay.

The expression on his face morphs into one of mild confusion and his eyebrows furrow adorably as he looks at Stiles.

Okay, I can do this.

“Who—”

It’s go time.

“Please don’t throw a dumbbell at my head.”

And Stiles leans down, sliding his hands along the werewolf’s cheeks to tilt the other man’s head up. He shakes away the brief thought of how nice the scruff feels under his fingers before he just fucking goes for it, slotting his lips against the werewolf’s gently in a kiss.

There’s a lull in conversation all around them and a stillness in the air, like everyone had paused mid-workout to watch the stupid human sign his own death sentence.

The other man goes completely still, and Stiles can see his eyes widening before he shuts his own, because he really doesn’t want to see hostility and rage fill those gorgeous eyes. Stiles is a little frozen himself, and an uncomfortable awkwardness starts to settle in his bones.

But then he remembers that Scott is recording and Jackson will be watching this- Jackson, who never fails to take shots at Stiles’s complete lack of sex appeal.

Fuck Jackson.

Stiles can do appealing.

He tilts his head further, coaxing the paralyzed werewolf’s mouth open, and traces a surprisingly soft lip with his tongue before diving into the other man’s mouth. He doesn’t really know why he hasn’t been thrown out a window yet, but he’ll take what he can get. Stiles is the only one moving his lips. Maybe he’s broken the werewolf, which wouldn’t be too bad because it would give him plenty of time to run. His fingers twitch a little, aching to comb through the man’s dark hair, but he settles for smoothing his hand along the guy’s cheek instead, making sure to avoid touching the werewolf’s neck because that would be certain suicide.

Someone whoops in the background. Probably Scott.

There’s a single, nervous and confused giggle from across the room.

A strange sort of warmth settles in his stomach, and the feeling is kind of...right? Comfortable? He files this information away for later.

When he finally pulls away after a good fifteen seconds, just for good measure, he catches the other man’s lower lip between his teeth, giving it a teasing tug.

Straightening, Stiles slowly cracks one eye open, steeling himself to block any bodily injury the werewolf is about to inflict upon him.

But the man is still just sitting there, staring at him- has he blinked at all?

Stiles opens both eyes and chews on his lip, glancing at Scott, who’s still recording and sniggering madly now. Bastard.

He looks back at the werewolf, who blinks once.

Then twice.

And then the man’s eyes flare gold and his hand shoots out so quickly, latching onto the front of his shirt and roughly yanking him forward, that Stiles has no time to react.

“Oh sh—" Stiles can hear Scott shout, and his friend lurches forward in an effort to save him, because Stiles is about to…

Get dragged into the werewolf’s lap apparently?

He lands on thick thighs, his own bracketing the man’s hips as he now straddles him on the bench press. The arm that loops around Stiles’s waist is firm; he has a feeling that if he tried to escape, he wouldn’t be able to.

The guy cocks his head and a heated, curious look fills those golden eyes.

Stiles doesn’t have any time to analyze that expression though because lips are crashing against his and this time it’s aggressive, bruising, claiming.

He gasps into the kiss, arms flying up to wind around the werewolf’s neck, back arching so both their chests are touching. Something’s different; it’s like…it’s like there’s a heat under Stiles’s skin, simmering, expanding, swelling, and then all at once, it snaps.

It unleashes something inside of him.

Stiles whimpers, tightening his grip and squeezing his thighs against the man’s hips, and kisses back with vigor, licking into the werewolf’s mouth desperately. The other man must feel something too, because there’s a low growl rumbling from his chest, and one large hand slides down from where it’s resting on Stiles’s lower back to his ass instead.

“Woah, hey now—" Scott’s voice is closer now but he needs to go away because this feels so good, so right; Stiles grinds his hips down, searching for friction. Is that…? Does he hear clapping and whistling in the distance?

Someone shouts something that sounds like, “Congratulations!”

Everyone just needs to go away because this man is his, only his, Stiles wants him, needs him.

“This is great and all and I’m happy for you, but I’m pretty sure the challenge wasn’t to record porn. Stiles. Stiles. Okay, you’re not listening.”

“Hey man,” a deeper, amused voice off to the side says, “let them ride it out. It’ll pass.”

“Ride it- that’s not something I needed to hear about my best friend.”

“Not literally, of course,” the disembodied voice laughs, “…though I imagine they’ll get there in the future.”

“Please no.”

Something pricks his skin and Stiles’s eyes fly open in astonishment when he realizes that the werewolf’s fangs have unsheathed. The growl grows in volume, and the stranger breaks away from Stiles’s lips, shoving his nose into Stiles’s neck instead, taking deep lungfuls of air. The hot breath is ticklish. Stiles digs his fingers into the short hairs at the back of the man’s neck, taking trembling breaths because that had been one hell of a kiss.

The burning in Stiles’s stomach eventually dies down, and he feels the stranger’s breaths subside. The guy finally pulls back, untangling them but not removing Stiles from his lap.

Stiles glances up.

And another form of warmth floods him now and he flushes with embarrassment when he drinks in their position, Scott standing beside them (still recording because of course he would) next to the Asian man from before, and the rest of the gym collectively grinning, whistling, or awww-ing at them.

Hands move to his hips and squeeze lightly, demanding Stiles’s attention again. He coughs nervously and looks back at the werewolf, who still seems adorably confused, but something akin to slow realization starts to seep into his eyes.

“I’m Derek.”

Stiles grins sheepishly. “I’m Stiles.”

“I think…” there’s a slightly awed look in Derek’s eyes, as gold fades back into green, “I think you’re mine. My mate, I mean.”

Stiles leans in to press a feather-light kiss on the tip of Derek’s nose—high-pitched coos come from the corner of the gym where the teenage girls are—and he can’t help the elated smile that spreads across his face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all yours.”

Fuck Jackson.

Stiles totally won this challenge.