Out Of Milk

22

Stiles threw another punch, hitting the bag suspended from the celling with a solid smack that vibrated up his arm. He was already soaked with sweat, his old lacrosse shorts sticking to his skin. No one else was awake – he'd managed to slip out of bed and leave the slumbering wolves undisturbed. This was his best time, first thing in the morning, before the rest of the world woke up.

His arms were tingling, that familiar feel of muscle repairing and healing as he pushed himself harder, throwing punches left and right until his lungs started to burn. Pausing for air, Stiles reached for the shake he'd made in the large kitchen and looked around as he fought the urge to gag. Some herbs should never be mixed – unfortunately, it was the best way of healing, no matter how disgusting it tasted.

Around him, the basement was brightly lit, a massive amount of floor space housed a sparring ring, free weights, punch bags, thick ropes suspended from the ceiling and you could tell by the smell in the air – a pool.

This was the wolves area, Stiles had never really used anything here before – he'd normally sit on the side watching as Derek put his Betas through training and sparring lessons. Three months made a lot of difference, he felt confident enough to use the space as an equal.

Sweat and blood rushing to his muscles had given his skin a pink glow, the only time it was possible to see the tattoos covering his upper body. Most of the other 'pupils' that Runningwolf taught had opted for the heavy black lines, Runes scrawled over their bodies giving them a tribal look, but Stiles (aware that his dad might have a seizure if he came back covered in 'goth' tattoos) had asked for the almost invisible cream coloured ink.

He no longer needed to scrawl biro over his body to protect himself – although he still kept a pen in his back pocket in case. Old habits die hard.

The movement of air behind him alerted to another person, but Stiles knew that in this space, in this house, no one could harm him – he could see the faint blue glow of Runes over the floor, his magic appearing only to him.

"What is this?" Derek asked, touching his back with a soft hand. He ran a finger over the markings Stiles knew he could see clearly now.

"Protection." Stiles said, turning around. He put the empty glass down beside his training shoes – he was too hot to wear anything but his shorts, even with the pool keeping the air crisp. "Simple stuff, but that's the best kind." He smiled, Derek looked sleep tousled and heartbreakingly gentle – he hadn't yet shaved, or showered, he still had that 'back to bed' ease in his body that suggested he could easily fall back to sleep if Stiles suggested it. "I need to shower." He said, "Sorry, I must stink."

Derek laughed – one of the few times Stiles had actually heard a genuine laugh from his sourwolf – and pulled Stiles closer. "You have no idea." He grinned, running his hand down Stiles damp back. "It woke me up."

Stiles wrinkled his nose – gross! He smelled so bad that he'd actually woken up Derek? – but the wolf didn't seem to think it was a bad smell, not the way he was pulling Stiles closer, pupils blown large and the tell-tale red tinge around the edges.

When he kissed Stiles, it was slow – warm and lazy, nothing like their previous make-out sessions. Stiles smiled, arms wrapping around Derek's waist and loving the feel of the Alphas bare skin pressed against his. Derek's hands were pressed firmly against his back, but not as tight or desperate as normal, just a comfortable pressure that was, Stiles realised, the closest thing to a real hug Derek had ever given him. It was nice, familiar and comforting; Stiles found himself smiling under Derek's lips, the slight itch of the wolf's stubble on his chin. He wasn't expecting Derek to slide his hands lower, running down the dip in his back and under the elasticated waist of his lacrosse shorts to rest on his ass. Stiles felt hot, sweat still forming on his skin, as Derek flexed his hands, gently massaging. He deepened the kiss, changing it from a comforting warmth to something much darker. Stiles gripped Derek's back tighter, loving the defined feel of muscle and strength under his palms. Derek used his grip on his ass to rock Stiles hips forward at the same time the Alpha ground his hips forward. Stiles was surprised to feel Derek was already fully hard – normally the wolf would take a little longer to get himself to his full size – making Stiles feel like his own cock was on a hair trigger. Derek moaned something into his mouth, his hot breath filling Stiles lungs as he spoke. Stiles pulled his head back. "Use your words." He grinned, his own hands slipping under Derek's cotton sleep shorts, clutching at the firm muscles of the Alpha's backside. Damn – the dude was made of rock and steal. Derek groaned, crushing his mouth against Stiles again, his words lost in the action. All Stiles could make out that it might have been a question – and hell, he wasn't about to agree to something if he wasn't damn sure what it was.